Blood of Others

by Rick Mofina

  Who was this woman? Why her? Why here? Why this gown? The most expensive order? Because it fit? Why that dress? The Carruthers order? Turgeon had reached Maggie Carruthers. She was alive. Very.

  “Yes, it’s tragic, Inspector, but what about me? You tell Veronica she better get me another gown, or I am going to sue.”

  Earlier Lieutenant Gonzales sent down more people to canvas the area. He was in court all day, stepping out to call for updates on the case, which one Bay Area radio station was calling “Who Killed the Bride?”

  Sydowski and Turgeon searched the store several times. Basement, main floor, office, work area, storage rooms, attic, roof. They’d requested a search of dumpsters and trash cans within a few blocks for a weapon, the victim’s clothing. Anything that might have been tossed.

  Access to the rear alley was sealed. A traffic cop had moved Turgeon’s Caprice there and Sydowski sat in it, alone, reviewing his notes. At this stage, they had nothing. No wallet, no identification, no weapon, no clothing, no signs of a struggle, no missing cash or merchandise. Nothing.

  Clarice Hay, the night manager, had left at eight. Veronica Chan had completed the gown at nine, activated the security system, and left. Julie Zegler had been alerted to the body by the first officer who was flagged by the retired jeweler and his wife.

  Chan swore to Sydowski she had activated the security system. Zegler confirmed that she had to disarm it. No forced entry. But no outside sharing of the key code. How did he get in? The security cameras were on a recorded loop. But they had recorded nothing. It was strange. Nothing.

  How does he get her in a gown that was here and displayed without signs of a struggle. How did he do it? Drugs? Persuasion? A sex game or dare, a fantasy rider? At the threat of a weapon? He has control. He’s out of control. Brazen. She knows him? Jealousy? Envy? Revenge. Wound tracks around the heart? Someone’s heart was broken. The face? God, her face. Maybe he’s scarred. Maybe he thought she was two-faced? Or it’s rage for a lie? Maybe she jilted him. Humiliated him? Left him at the altar? This is payback? So he manipulates her corpse, poses her for the world to know, then takes her face.

  Barney Tighe tapped on Sydowski’s window after helping canvas neighboring businesses. “Nothing yet, Walt. Went through some security camera recordings for the front and rear. Nothing. Woke up a few night watchmen from the office buildings. Nothing again.”

  “We’re going to pull district patrol logs, talk to the guys on duty last night, and hit the private firms, you know the drill.”

  “So how bad is it?”

  “Bad.”

  “You thinkin’ he brought her here, or done her here?”

  “Not thinking anything right now. Seaver’s going to give me a heads-up from the coroner’s crew before they finish and move her.” Sydowski checked his watch. “Should be any time now.”

  Tighe nodded.

  “Hey, Barn, you remember Reggie?”

  “Reggie Pope? Sure. Where’s he at now?”

  “Downtown somewhere. Whatever happened to his partner?”

  “That mope? Ben Wyatt?”

  “Yeah. Now I remember him. What happened with him?”

  “He got a rough ride. Took stress leave, then bounced between districts. Taraval, Ingleside. Why?”

  “I saw Reggie the other day. It got me thinking.”

  “How’s he doin?”

  “Don’t know. We didn’t talk much.”

  Turgeon emerged from the shop. “Seaver’s done.”

  Turgeon and Sydowski met him in the back of the boutique, amid the brushstrokes of the fingerprint investigator.

  “We’ll get her prints and an odontologist, to help with identification,” Seaver sighed, going to his notes. “None of this is confirmed, Inspectors. But I’d put time of death within last six to eight hours.”

  “Cause?”

  “Likely multiple stab wounds. Easily forty, almost all to the heart. All deep. This is overkill. A frenzied attack.”

  “Sexually assaulted?”

  “Appears not.”

  “Location.”

  “It appears she died here. In the window.”

  Turgeon was puzzled. “But how did he get her in the dress without a sign of a struggle, no blood tracks?”

  “I’m speculating but it looks like the killer or killers planned it. Very organized. Ritualistic. Like it has some meaning,” Seaver said.

  Sydowski made notes. “What about her face?”

  “It appears he took it with him.”

  Turgeon shook her head. “Jesus.”

  “But why?” Sydowski said as his cell phone rang. It was his lieutenant.

  “Walt, anything more?”

  “Just a bad feeling that’s getting worse.”

  “The merchants want the street opened up.”

  “Bless them for caring.”

  “What’s the read on it so far?”

  “He brings her here, gets her in a gown that was here, then does her. Stabbing. Displays her.”

  “Got a name yet?”

  “Working on it.”

  “What’s next?”

  “We’re going to head back to the Hall soon. Interview the staff, see if they remember anything unusual. Go through client and staff lists. Check with records. See if anybody lights up. Any histories, court-orders, threats, assaults. It’s a start, until we get a name. Or a break.”

  “Walt, I want to put a small team on this. It’s your file, but I’ve got a green light to pull in some investigators from General Works. To help with anything. I’ve set a case status meeting for tomorrow morning.”

  “Fine. I’ve got a lot of other areas to cover.”

  “What’s your gut tell you, Walt?”

  “That I should have held the onions on my omelet this morning, Leo.” Sydowski munched on a Tums, studying the white gowns, remembering his wife, their daughters’ weddings and happy times.

  “Tell me, Walt.”

  Sydowski saw the coroner’s deputies carefully placing the victim into a body bag.

  “I don’t think this is a one-time deal, Leo.”

  SEVEN

  Reed’s mother-in-law lived in Berkeley, in a two-story house with a wrap-around porch. Good thing she was home to take Zach. After calling her, Reed figured he had time to leave the scene and return. He had no choice. He couldn’t keep Zach with him on this story.

  “Ann could be back tonight. We’ll call.”

  “It’s not a problem, Tom.”

  Reed thanked her and headed back to the Bay Bridge, reflecting on this murder. Victim in a wedding gown posed in a display window. He had no name on her. No success reaching the owner, or any staff. The Star’s fashion writers were supposed to call with contacts. Reed didn’t know who in homicide had caught this case. Some of the old humps in the detail hated him and would shut him out. With others he had a mutual respect, forged from battles they had endured together.

  Reed’s phone rang while he was leaving the bridge.

  “It’s Brader. Where are you?”

  “On the job.”

  “Tell me what you’ve got. I’m heading into the first story meeting.”

  “A Jane Doe, murdered. Found in a wedding gown in the display of a bridal shop.”

  “That’s it? TV’s got that. Who is she?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Why was she displayed like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Motive? Any suspects, yet?”

  “I think it’s a little early.”

  “A good reporter would know this stuff, Reed. You’ve got to do better. Show me something, big shot.”

  Reed tossed his phone onto the passenger seat of his car and cursed at San Francisco’s skyline.

  After returning to Forever & Ever, he learned nothing new. He buttonholed a grizzled tight-lipped homicide veteran, who was canvassing the area.

  “No, it’s not my case, Reed. Sydowski’s the lead on this. Just went back to the detail.”

 
Reed left the scene for the Hall of Justice on Bryant.

  In the polished stone lobby, waiting to pass through the metal detector, he spotted a uniformed female officer heading to the elevator with two civilian women. The older one was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Reed overheard parts of their conversation.

  “…they better cover it, Julie, it was a six-thousand-dollar gown.”

  “I don’t know if our insurance covers it.”

  The doors opened. They stepped into the car.

  “Is that all you can think about right now, Veronica? That poor woman. This is monstrous.”

  The elevator doors closed.

  Julie. Veronica. Reed went to the water fountain. Those women had to be from the bridal shop. A fashion editor had called Reed at the scene, telling him Forever & Ever was an exclusive boutique owned by Julie Zegler and Veronica Chan. His elevator stopped at the fourth floor. He had to catch them here before they left, but if he was going to get a jump on this story, he really needed Sydowski.

  The doors opened and there he was, calling to Turgeon down the hall, “Give me a minute. I’m just grabbing a sandwich from downstairs.” Then Sydowski stepped into Reed’s elevator and grimaced.

  “Just when my day was going so well.”

  “Hello, Walt.”

  The doors closed. They were alone

  “Go away, Reed. Please.”

  “Come on, it could be like old times.”

  “Whenever you get on my case, bad things happen.”

  “I heard it was brutal.”

  Sydowski turned to Reed, assessing him. Mid-thirties, about six feet, a firm build that had softened a bit since the last time he saw him; disheveled short brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, bloodshot blue eyes.

  “You look like crap, Reed. Stressed out like maybe things aren’t going so good. You need a break and you want me to help you?”

  “Sort of like that.”

  “Exactly like that.” Sydowski shook his head. “I’ve got nothing on my mind but your concern.”

  “Forget it, Walt.”

  “Listen. Trouble with you is you get so much wrong and it gets printed in your paper because you fail to heed my advice.”

  “I don’t get it wrong. Facts change on the way to the truth.”

  “That’s clever.”

  “It eats you up when I get close. Admit it, Walt.”

  “You get too close and you know what I’m talking about. You damned near cost us one case in particular. And it damned near cost you everything.”

  Reed swallowed hard. Sydowski was right about that. Sometimes he wondered if Ann could truly forgive him for the hell he’d put Zach through because he had pursued a story so hard, it turned on him and swallowed his family.

  The elevator stopped, they stepped out. Sydowski tapped his forefinger on Reed’s chest.

  “Here’s my advice. Shave before you go out in public. It makes a better impression. Now, go away.”

  “That’s the son of a barber talking.”

  They entered the cafeteria, grabbing the last of the packaged sandwiches. Sydowski took chicken salad on whole wheat, leaving Reed ham and cheese on white. Then Sydowski selected an orange, which informed Reed that his old friend had few leads on the case. When Sydowski was confident about a case, he ate pie. When he had nothing, he peeled oranges. It helped him think.

  “You’ve got nothing on this, right, Walt?” Reed bit into his sandwich on the way back to the elevator. “Nothing.”

  Sydowski arrived at the doors and a decision.

  “If I tell you one thing, will you leave me alone right now?”

  Reed nodded. Chewing.

  “Stay with this one, Tom. It’s a bad one.”

  “How bad? I mean you got to give me more.”

  Reed’s cell phone rang just as the doors opened. Turgeon rushed out clutching a sheet of paper, not even seeing Reed who had turned his back and stepped away to take the call.

  “Walt, we’ve got to go, traffic located an abandoned Ford Focus near Stern Grove. Seems good for our victim.”

  Reed lost what Turgeon was saying as his caller bleated into his ear. Turgeon was telling Sydowski something about a parking sticker, a woman not reporting to work, living alone in the Western Addition.

  “I called,” Turgeon said. “Just got her machine.”

  Shoulder pressing his cell phone to his ear, Reed struggled to jot details of what Turgeon was telling Sydowski; then Brader shouted on the phone.

  “Reed! I said have you got anything new?”

  Reed disconnected the call.

  EIGHT

  In keeping with Mrs. Caselli’s wish, Olivia closed the gift shop an hour early, then found herself near Union Square at the bridal shop. Alone on the sidewalk, sirens echoing in the city around her, standing transfixed in front of Forever & Ever.

  In the aftermath, the crowds and TV crews were finishing “live-from-the-scene reports” and packing up. A couple of patrol cars were guarding the storefront. The officers keeping a vigil chatted quietly at the yellow police tape; the tarpaulin still enshrouded the display window, like a bandage covering a wound. Olivia had come with a single white rose. She reached down, placing it near the door of the bridal shop.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you know anything about this case?” The officer was in his mid-forties. Nice smile. Polite.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “You work around here?”

  “Caselli’s Gift Shop on Maiden. I pass by here every day and, well, this is such a pretty boutique.”

  “I see.”

  “Officer, do you know who she is, or why somebody would --”

  He was shaking his head. “Sorry, they don’t tell us anything.” The crackle of his portable police radio interrupted. “Ma’am, maybe you should just go home.”

  Olivia did not go home. She took a Powell Street cable car, its bell tolling as it climbed into Nob Hill. Olivia continued on through Russian Hill, bound for Ghirardelli Square where she walked along the waterfront amid the cry of gulls and the smells of Fisherman’s Wharf, alone among the tourists, stopping to take in San Francisco Bay and the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge, bathed in the light of the setting sun.

  She was hungry and found a restaurant with a small line. Olivia had come here before and enjoyed it. It would do, she thought.

  “Is someone joining you?” the hostess asked through her professional smile.

  “No. I’m alone.”

  Olivia followed the hostess to her table, not hearing her remarks on the way, asking her to repeat them.

  “I was saying, quality time alone is a nice thing, when you can get it,” the hostess said.

  Olivia’s table was in a quiet darkened corner from where she could see other diners, couples, laughing, sharing stories, toasting.

  She picked at her meal, a chicken pasta entrée, studying the flickering flame of her candle as it liquefied the wax. Over the soft music, restaurant conversations and clink of cutlery, her waiter was pouring her wine, mentioning something about a fine Napa white. She didn’t hear him, peering through her glass at her struggling candle.

  At one point she began a letter, but aborted the idea. Who would care? She was so tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of wishing for something that was never going to happen.

  It was time to pay the bill

  “Could you get a taxi for me out front, please?” she asked her waiter after signing her credit card slip, then changing her mind. “I’ll pay with cash.”

  She had come to a decision.

  Her driver had a toothpick sticking from his mouth and a book of T.S. Eliot’s poems opened on the seat beside him.

  “Where to, miss?”

  “Golden Gate Bridge.” Olivia got into the cab.

  Curls of snow-white hair peeked from the driver’s leather cap. He looked eastern European, late fifties, with kind eyes that found hers in the rear-view mirror. They drove much of the way in silence, Olivia gazing into the twilight.

  “Your f
irst time in San Francisco?”

  “I live here.”

  He nodded. “A glorious evening. Make you feel like an after-dinner walk by yourself on the bridge, miss?”

  Curious, how he put it. Olivia pulled herself from the scenery rolling by her window to meet his concern in the mirror. “Something like that.”

  After paying the fare at the bridge, Olivia began walking, choosing the sidewalk on the east side, traffic humming by in both directions.

  By the time the taxi driver had reached the Palace of Fine Arts, worry forced him to turn his cab around and return to the Golden Gate. He had a bad feeling about the woman he had dropped off at the bridge. He had to act on it. Hoping he wasn’t too late, he pulled up at the first clear lane, tires screeching to a stop at a booth, the toll taker frowning from the window.

  “I want to alert you to a fare, a woman I dropped off here about fifteen minutes ago. She looked very despondent for sure. Walked off alone on the east side.”

  The driver described Olivia.

  Picking up his phone to reach a public safety patrolman, the toll taker said, “Patrol shift ends about now.” He raised his voice to the driver over the traffic. “But I thought I just saw the scooter start its last patrol.”

  A cool wind kicked up from the bay as Olivia passed the South Tower, asking herself if this was the only answer.

  Yes.

  San Francisco’s skyline glittered like a distant dream that did not include her. Below, the black waters of the bay beckoned her to escape the prison of a lonely heart, enticing her to unshackle herself now. For she would never be free from the pain. It would only get worse.

  Would it? How could she be sure?

  Hadn’t she tried everything to overcome it, to conquer her low self-esteem, her fear of rejection, her shyness? Yes. And hadn’t she failed? Oh, how she admired, envied, the single women who did not need a partner, who had friends, children, careers, social networks, lives to share, something connecting them.

  They mattered.

  She mattered to no one.

  No friends. No family. No one, except a sick aunt in Chicago, who had come to her mother’s funeral years ago. Olivia had sat with her alone in the funeral home chapel near her mother’s oak casket for over an hour. They were strangers and hardly spoke.