by Kirk Russell
‘Taken when?’
‘I guess early 1970s.’
‘Is your family still in Hawaii?’
‘Some are. My father is. He’s old but he still drives. In Hawaii it is OK to drive when you are older. Everyone drives slower, not like some old crazy detective in San Francisco trying to catch a killer who is already dead.’ Lim turned. ‘What connects now to this killing?’
‘I don’t know yet but it ties to counterfeiting and a victim who once worked for the Secret Service and later possibly other US agencies.’
‘A spy?’
‘I haven’t learned much yet about what he was doing, but I think he was trying to penetrate counterfeiting rings.’
Raveneau and Lim came in the same year. Then, Lim was black-haired and smooth-faced, and ever-so-serious about crime lab techniques and cross contamination. He was much more easy-going now. He set the photo booth shot of Jim Frank trying to look like Robert Mitchum or James Dean in uniform off to the side. He picked up another black and white. He kept the banter going because it helped him think.
‘You need to sit down, rest your back?’ Lim asked. ‘You want to get your walker out of your car?’
‘No, I rode a bike out here. I exercise every couple of hours. I’ve got two marathons next weekend, both are on Saturday.’
‘That’s probably the only way to get blood to your brain now. Other agencies you say, maybe the CIA?’
‘The original inspectors actually thought it was possible, but I don’t have any reason to believe that.’
‘You don’t have any reason yet.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Very careful slow inspector and…’ Lim seemed to forget where he was going with that. He picked up one of the 4 x 6 photos and said, ‘Hapuna Beach.’
‘Where is that?’
‘On the Big Island and a very nice beach, a famous beach. Who is the woman with the man in the uniform?’
‘Allyson Candel. His name is or was Jim Frank. He was a pilot for United. I’m trying to locate him and hoping he’s still alive.’
‘You are, so maybe he is too.’
Raveneau smiled and let it be.
‘She was a stewardess and her son told me that photo was taken in the mid 1980s.’
‘Mid eighties is about right, I think.’
‘How do you tell?’
‘The type of paper.’
Lim turned the photo on edge and ticked his thumb along it. He flipped it over and showed Raveneau spots where the paper was yellowing. He flipped it back over, laid it down gently. In this shot Jim Frank had his arm around her. It looked as if they both had just gotten out of the water. Frank was dripping wet but wearing dry sunglasses and Allyson Candel was quietly beautiful.
‘What about the one you set aside?’ Raveneau asked, but you couldn’t rush Lim. No one could rush Lim. The chief of police wouldn’t get anywhere pushing him. Lim took the photo with him and came back a few minutes later.
‘Ben, come back here,’ he said, and then picked up the shot of Frank and Allyson Candel on the beach. A different photo was under a lens and magnified. Lim slid it out, replaced it with the beach shot. Now the beads of water on Frank’s face were more visible as was the unevenness of how he’d shaved that day. But the photo also became grainy. The look Raveneau caught in Allyson Candel’s eye was less resolved, became blotchy.
‘OK, now look here.’
Lim slipped the other photo, the landscape shot back under the lens. His voice was quieter as he asked, ‘What differences do you see?’
On the back of the photo written in pencil were the words, ‘the house.’ But the photo caught much more than a house built in a notch on a steep grassy slope. The day was quite clear and the line of the Kohala coast swept south with a white line of breakers. The corrugated roof of the house and the stand of trees below and the two-lane highway well below stood out sharply.
‘It’s nowhere near as grainy. The quality of detail is at a whole other level.’
‘Many levels up,’ Lim said. ‘This kind of resolution at that time was uncommon. This is very high quality. It could be a professional photographer who shoots this, someone who photographs landscapes for art or books. This is better than you would use then for magazines. Some military and government agencies were at this level, so maybe this Frank is a spy. Maybe he worked for the CIA.’ He smiled at Raveneau and added, ‘If I took your picture with this camera, even you would look good.’
‘Thanks, Howard.’
‘No problem, I’m here for you.’
He was chuckling as Raveneau shut the door.
SEVEN
Raveneau met with the captain and lieutenant before Goya showed up. He made his pitch for bringing Goya on for this case and the captain’s only response was to clear his throat. When Goya arrived Raveneau walked him around the office and showed him some of the changes, and then took him back to the Cold Case office and his desk. Goya lowered himself into the chair and Raveneau slid the CD in.
‘This is the digitized version. They do this down the hall now.’
And just like that Goya shifted from lunch to the case. He went quiet. He asked how it got here and what Raveneau had learned about it as Raveneau showed him how to freeze the action if he wanted. He hoped the video would trigger some memory in Goya. He played it four times before Goya was satisfied, Goya murmuring quietly to himself each time the shooting started. On the fourth run he figured out the freeze function and stopped the action.
‘This is not how the body was lying.’
‘What’s different?’
‘He was on his back and his left leg wasn’t crossed over.’
In the video he was on his side. In the video there was also an editing gap where whoever filmed it stopped some distance back and started again close to the body. He knew Goya was thinking about that as well, but they’d get to it later. It surprised Raveneau that Goya still remembered the body position, but he was correct. In the crime scene photos Krueger lay on his back, legs apart. Someone moved the body between the filming of the video and the crime scene photos.
‘Did you move him before you photographed him?’
‘No, but we checked his pockets. Remember, we didn’t have DNA in those days.’
He turned in the darkness toward Raveneau and asked for the files. As Goya compared the crime scene photos to the screen Raveneau said, ‘Maybe the Canadians moved him. Maybe they rolled him back to get at his wallet. You said they were honeymooning on the cheap. Could be they called the police but also stole money from his wallet?’
‘Could be,’ Goya said, and then asked, ‘Where was the person who made the video if the Canadians got there so fast?’
‘I’ve been wondering.’
‘With a mob hit no one hangs around to make a movie. They take a photo if they need proof.’
‘I don’t have an answer for you, Henry. I want answers from you. I want to know what you see and remember, though I do have one other piece of information you didn’t have. The one hundred dollar bills in his coat were counterfeit. I found that out yesterday.’
‘They weren’t counterfeit in 1989, but now they are?’
‘That’s right, and that’s kind of how I read it too. So what changed with the Secret Service between now and then and why do you think the bills in his coat were left behind and the wallet cleaned out?’
Goya had found the wallet with ALK in tiny red letters stitched into it. Goya picked it up and handled it and no fingerprints were recovered as a result, an unanswered mistake.
‘Are you wondering if the wallet had money in it when I picked it up?’
‘No, I’m asking about the Secret Service. Could Krueger have been at a meet, a buy of some sort with this shooter and the Secret Service was filming from a distance? Then someone pulled his wallet to make it look like a robbery so whatever operation was underway kept going. Let’s say the undercover operation was deemed so important there was a cover-up.’
‘The Secret Service agents I knew
never would have taken part in something like that. They were all good people, some of the best, and, Jesus, he was one of theirs for years. They were Feds so they were stiff, but they were still good people.’
‘Who did you deal with?’
‘I can’t remember his name. It started with a P; you can find it out easily enough.’
‘Tell me about finding the wallet.’
‘Did you bring me in to interview me or have lunch?’
‘I need your help, Henry.’
‘Well, we didn’t find one on him and we figured if robbery was the motive then the shooter might have stripped the money out and tossed the wallet. And sure enough, there it was and trash around it, you know, paper and crap that had blown up against the concrete pylon.’
‘Was the afternoon that windy that it could get covered that fast?’
‘Are you asking now if we were stupid? Sure it was windy and I wasn’t even sure it was a wallet.’
Goya frowned and stroked his beard then let his hand drop. He slowly stood up and as Raveneau popped the CD out he moved to the door and then out into the hallway ahead of Raveneau.
When Raveneau caught up to him at the elevator, Goya said, ‘You think Ed and I made mistakes.’
‘Not at all, you’re misreading me, Henry.’
‘No, you’re wondering things.’
‘I’m doing what I have to. Let’s get some lunch.’
But Goya had withdrawn. He seemed disappointed and saddened as if his integrity had been questioned. When they got down to the street he said, ‘I’m going to pass on lunch.’
‘Henry, I wasn’t questioning you.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I remembered something I’ve got to do.’
Raveneau watched him limp across the street to his car, his pride hurt. He laid his cane across the passenger seat as he got in, and nearly got hit as he pulled away. He kept his head straight and never looked over as he drove away. Raveneau felt lousy as he climbed back up the steps to the Hall.
EIGHT
Later that afternoon the arrest report on Ryan Candel was faxed to Raveneau. He visualized as he read, Dr Leonard walking up California, Candel coming down, and according to a witness ‘running as if being chased’ when he slammed into the doctor.
Leonard’s head struck the bumper of a parked car. He broke his right wrist landing on the street and suffered a concussion that kept him under observation for forty-eight hours. According to responding officers, Candel was disoriented and confused. He was standing over the injured Leonard when they arrived. When he refused to follow commands, Officer Sanchez drew his gun. They believed him to be under the influence of drugs, though no evidence of that was found.
Raveneau called a friend in the District Attorney’s office who said, ‘I don’t have to look it up, Ben. I remember Candel. If you’re about to tell me he killed somebody, I’m not surprised. He got an ankle bracelet and picked up trash for six months, but should be in prison. He could have killed him. What’s he done now?’
‘Called us with a tip on a cold case.’
‘Then he’s probably fucking with you. He’s a self-serving manipulator.’
‘Sounds like this was your case, Gerald.’
‘It was and the doctor quit on us after Candel filed a malpractice suit. The doctor wouldn’t testify so the charges got downgraded. Then one of these blogger geniuses who specialize in shit disturbing got a story out about how Dr Leonard was out on a golf course with pharmaceutical reps as Candel’s mother was succumbing to an infection. Meanwhile Leonard determined he had already suffered enough and the collateral damage to his practice wasn’t worth it, so he friggin’ bailed. That’s how Candel ended up with trash patrol.’
‘He regrets it now.’
‘Oh, I bet he does. After all, he was inconvenienced briefly. This is a very emotionally immature young man who by the way doesn’t like police.’
‘A lot of people don’t.’
‘He was loud about it. I’d be very careful with him, but you’re defending him so obviously he’s got something you want.’
‘Ease down, Gerald, he responded to one of our ads and brought me some photos we’re using.’
When Gerald didn’t respond, Raveneau said, ‘Let’s get together for a drink soon. My girlfriend is opening a bar at the edge of the Mission. Or it’s mostly a bar. It’ll have some food. We can meet there after she has it up and running.’
‘OK, so drinks on you, she owns it? I’ll look forward to it. What’s the name going to be?’
‘Toasts.’
‘Cute.’
‘I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll talk to you later.’
Raveneau checked the number on his cell screen before answering, ‘This is Inspector Raveneau.’
‘Oh, hello, I’m Barbara Haney’s brother. The police here called me. What’s your interest in my sister?’
‘We have new evidence in a cold case and I’d like to re-interview her.’
‘You would.’
That was a statement not a question and Raveneau left it alone. He waited.
‘I’m going to be frank, Inspector. Barbara was quite put off by your department. She and Larry spent a lot of hours in San Francisco talking to police rather than honeymooning. They didn’t have any problem with any of that, eh, but one of the inspectors came to Calgary and threatened them. But that’s America, getting treated like criminals for trying to help.’
It went on another several minutes this way, the brother as gatekeeper, the brother venting about American arrogance abroad, Raveneau listening to how the world was turning away from the United States, and then repeating quietly that he had new evidence and was trying to solve the murder of a man who was gunned down. Finally, the brother gave him a phone for Barbara Haney’s daughter. The daughter, Cheryl, answered on the second ring.
‘Everyone in the family knows what happened when your inspector came to Calgary and that worries me because my mother has mental health issues. She suffers from depression but refuses to take anything for it. She’s fragile and I feel like I should be there when you question her, but I can’t travel right now. So I don’t think now is the right time.’
For the next twenty minutes Raveneau worked to convince her that this was the right time.
‘I’d also like to talk to your dad. Do you have a way I can get in touch with him?’
‘I don’t have much contact with my father.’
‘Do you know where he lives now?’
‘He’s in China.’
OK, that’s easy, Raveneau thought. I’ll just look for him in China. But in the end she gave him an email for her dad, and then gave him her mom’s phone number after he promised not to ask Barbara Haney to come to San Francisco.
‘I don’t want you to upset my mother.’
‘I’m sorry for whatever happened when our inspector interviewed her last, but your mother and father may be the only ones who can say whether our new lead is worth anything or not.’
‘First, I don’t really believe you.’
‘You can believe me, Cheryl.’
‘And secondly, it’s not my mother’s responsibility to evaluate something like that. I don’t want you to put pressure on her.’
‘The pressure is on me, not on your mom. I’ll make sure it stays that way.’
That got silence, then, ‘She lives in Truckee. Her husband is an American.’ She said that last in a way that suggested that was a life mistake her mother had made. ‘He’s an executive for a ski corporation based in Colorado so they live half the year in Colorado. Do you know where Truckee is?’
‘I do.’
He called Barbara Haney as soon as he got off the phone with the daughter. She must have known the call was coming because almost immediately she asked, ‘Can you bring Inspector Govich with you?’
‘I’m sure he’d like to come with me, but he’s retired.’
She laughed and Raveneau chuckled and guessed he was going to like her. He said, ‘I could drive t
o Truckee Monday morning.’
‘It’s that urgent?’
‘It’s the case I’m working.’
She was quiet before saying, ‘I knew this wasn’t over.’
NINE
Seven floors up at the FBI Field Office on Golden Gate Street Special Agent Mark Coe picked up the phone and called Ben Raveneau’s cell phone. He assumed Raveneau’s work day heading the Cold Case Unit was more orderly than when he was on-call and in the rotation. San Francisco was staring at a three hundred eighty million dollar deficit this year and he knew the police department was keeping close tabs on overtime. Raveneau was probably about done for the day. But then you couldn’t know with him. Raveneau would work with or without pay.
When Raveneau answered Coe said, ‘Raveneau, I’m back in your life and I’ve got information to share. It’s important enough to show you as soon as possible. Is there any chance of getting you to stop here early tomorrow morning?’
‘Not tomorrow.’
‘What about now?’
Raveneau took a right at the next light and called Celeste. This would disappoint her. She was ready to hire a cook with the title of chef, a New Orleans transplant named Bo Rutan, and had asked a week ago if he’d make the time to meet Rutan. That was supposed to be now. Rutan was there for a final interview.
Raveneau liked Mark Coe. He liked it that Coe never seemed serious about appearing serious, which was a pretty good trick when you worked for the Feds. Coe sounded serious now though. He looked it too. He stood patiently as Raveneau dug coins from his pockets to quiet the FBI metal detector. Coe was physically fit in a wiry way, four or five inches shorter than Raveneau, but probably one of those guys who could run up a mountain without panting. He carried the same sort of confidence at work without seeming full of himself.
‘Did Brooks tell you the counterfeit bills you’re chasing with your cold case may have a connection to a threat against the President?’
‘He didn’t tell me that part, but our victim was killed in 1989.’
‘Did he tell you Krueger was carrying the same series of counterfeit bills as were used to buy explosives last July?’
