by Rick Mofina
“Like some sort of what?”
“Like some sort of goddamned coward, standing there frozen letting a freaked-out cokehead shoot me up. That is what I saw.”
“I had my gun drawn, my finger was on the trigger, but she pulled the kid. I swear there was a kid.”
“I believe what I saw. You stay the hell away from me, Wyatt.”
He never saw Reggie Pope again.
After parking, Wyatt took the stairs to his apartment on the edge of the Mission, near some old Section Eight housing. He moved here after his fiancée moved out on him from the trendy loft they had shared in North Beach. Opening the refrigerator to finish a half-eaten can of cold beans, he glanced at the calendar taped to the door, catching the upcoming Saturday she had highlighted almost a year ago. It was going to be their wedding day.
Old wounds. He knew he should have tossed the thing long ago but he could not bring himself to get a new calendar.
She had been a nurse at San Francisco General and had tried to help him after the shooting. But her friends were married to officers and in no time at all their suspicion had worked its way to her, bubbling to the surface one night at home a month after the shooting.
“Ben, are you certain there was a boy?”
His eyes were fixed to the TV.
“Because I talked to some of the shrinks at the hospital about post-traumatic stress and compensating for guilty feelings.”
He stood up. Looked at her. “You don’t believe me either.”
“Ben, I was talking with some people at work and --”
“If you don’t believe me, we have nothing.”
“Ben.” Tears filled her eyes.
“Nothing.”
And that was it.
He had left for a long drive and refused to speak to her for days. A few weeks later she had decided he needed space to sort himself out, then moved in with a girlfriend. He refused to take her calls. Not long after that, she took a new job at a hospital in Los Angeles. Her engagement ring came back to him in the mail, taped to a tear-stained note: I was only trying to help, Ben, but you shut me out. I’ll remember the good times. Good luck with your life.
For weeks, even months after the shooting, Wyatt returned to the scene obsessed with finding the boy. It got around and it became a joke, on the street and in the force. Now he just drove the streets alone at night, a haunted man searching for some way to make sense of the few seconds that had cost him everything.
The spoon clinked as he tossed it into the empty tin can.
Would he ever be able to crawl out of this hole of misery? Was there anyone out there who would believe him, help him find his way back to the land of the living?
Sometimes for no reason, he saw the face of the shooter and would seethe with rage.
One more chance.
That was all he wanted.
One more chance to make it right.
His phone rang.
“Wyatt?”
“Yes.”
“Samuels.”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“This is short notice but you’re being detailed to assist on a homicide effective tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Report to Gonzales. Sydowski’s the primary.”
TEN
Less than twenty-four hours after Iris Wood had dared to step beyond her world, her naked corpse lay on a stainless-steel tray in the autopsy room of the San Francisco medical examiner’s office in the Hall of Justice.
Female. White. Five-feet-four inches. One hundred twenty-two pounds. Thirty-two years old.
Sydowski looked upon her as Seaver conducted his work. A life taken with such wrath, such brazenness. There was the wedding dress, blood-drenched and shredded. Seaver and his assistant had taken care removing it, correlating the pierced fabric with the stab wounds, photographing it, examining it, recording their findings. The six- thousand dollar hand-crafted gown designed to be the centerpiece of a wedding, now evidence. They had attempted without success to develop latents from her skin. She had been dead for too long. Then Seaver and his assistant washed the body while Sydowski grappled with the questions gnawing at him.
Why such savagery and arrogant display? And how had he gotten her to the shop and into the dress, posed? The hows and whys. Don’t go down that road. Not yet. It will divert you. Look at what’s real. What you know. Stick to the facts, the irrefutable facts. Use them as blocks to build the case. The autopsy could provide another block.
But Sydowski didn’t care for this part of the job, which seemed to have become harder after his wife had passed away. The coldness of the autopsy room, the smells of formaldehyde, ammonia, the egg-like odor of organs, their meaty shades of pink and red, the popping sound when the calvarium is removed, opening the skull to reveal the brain and dura, or seeing the primary Y incision across the chest, as the pathologist works through the identification, the external and internal examination of the body.
Years ago, when one of Sydowski’s daughters was researching a school term paper on philosophy, she’d asked him a question that remained with him to this day. “Did you ever see a person’s soul in an autopsy, Dad?” Now, in his old age, Sydowski was still searching in the presence of the dead, hoping to solve the riddles of life, and it was this secret quest that enabled him to endure each case.
Earlier in the procedure, Seaver’s rubber-gloved right hand pointed a finger at the left upper neck area, drawing Sydowski and Turgeon’s attention to a series of small paired reddened dots. The dots of each set were about two inches apart, as if someone had taken a pen and drew vampire bites. Turgeon exchanged glances with Sydowski and Seaver.
“Stun gun?” Sydowski had said.
Seaver had nodded.
When the autopsy was completed they met in Seaver’s office. It had a flourishing Boston fern and a small bubbling aquarium with tiny, gliding angel fish. Living things, Sydowski thought.
“Iris Wood died where she was found sometime between ten P.M. and four A.M.” Seaver’s chair creaked.
Sydowski and Turgeon took notes.
“In my opinion, her death was caused by one of the fifty-three stab wounds to her heart, which was literally carved into pieces. Ten of the wounds pierced her back. They caused massive internal bleeding. No defensive wounds. No significant bruising near her arms where she was bound. Her fingernails appear absent of foreign material.”
“How did he kill her without a struggle?” Turgeon said.
“The series of red markings on her neck are indicative of a stun gun, which can send a powerful jolt of electricity into the body, momentarily incapacitating the muscles and nervous system. I would say a stun gun was used.”
“Any other injuries?” Sydowski said.
“None that would have caused death, no blunt trauma, no gunshot, or indication of strangulation. Toxicology will take some time, of course.”
“But her face?”
“The gross mutilation.” Seaver cleared his throat.
“Why? Any theories?”
“Part of his fantasy, possibly. Or twisted logic. Maybe’s he was under the influence of a substance. Psychological profiling isn’t my field. But given the state of the incisions, I would say a scalpel was used but not by a person possessing professional surgical skills. He likely used the stun gun to immobilize her during the mutilation. It was ante mortem.”
“She was alive while he did this?”
“In and out of consciousness, but alive. Yes.”
Sydowski looked at the aquarium, watching an angel fish floating tranquilly to the surface, breaking it before darting happily away.
“Ever see a soul, Dad?”
Later at his desk in the homicide detail, Sydowski slid on his bifocals to stare at Iris Wood’s face. Plain. Fresh-scrubbed wholesome. Friendly. Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Warm eyes. What dreams did they hold? Did she have a good life? Why would someone take it with such vengeance? Did she know her killer?
Iris Wood offered no answers star
ing back from the clear color enlargement of her California driver’s license photograph. But facts were coming. Pieces of truth. Slowly. Before the autopsy, they’d had a few breaks. Like finding her abandoned car near Stern Grove. They learned it was registered to her. Records kicked out her driver’s license, which gave them her thumbprint. Seaver obtained prints from the body’s hands which SFPD Forensics compared with the DL records, which confirmed the identity of the corpse as that of Iris May Wood. On the car’s windshield, they found an employee parking decal for American Eagle Federated Insurance, downtown on Montgomery. Sydowski called the building’s night security guard. The parking permit was valid. The guard gave Sydowski the home number of American Eagle’s vice president.
“Of course I’ll help you right away, Inspector,” the vice president said, “but I don’t understand why you’re inquiring about one of our employees.”
“We have reason to believe she may have been harmed.”
“Good God. Where is she now?”
“I can’t confirm anything just yet. This is very serious. We’ll need that information from you as soon as possible, please.”
“Yes of course. My God. Let me make a few phone calls.”
That was before the autopsy. Now Sydowski rubbed his eyes, staring at Iris Wood, waiting to learn more from her employer. Should have heard back by now. Turgeon was on the phone at her desk, making calls. Crime Scene had the car and Iris Wood’s apartment.
It was an uphill one-bedroom in the Western Addition. Third floor of a Victorian mansion. The owner lived on the main floor. A soft-spoken man in his late sixties. Short with droopy eyes and a pencil-thin moustache matching his white wispy hair.
Sydowski and Turgeon had gone there directly from the spot where Iris Wood’s car was found to determine if she lived alone and take a quick look before passing it to Crime Scene. Showing their stars, telling the owner they needed to go inside her apartment to check on her welfare, studying his face as concern crept into it.
“She lives alone. This is a very quiet building and she’s a very quiet tenant,” he told them, his keys jingling as they ascended the stairs. No reply to his knocking, which drew meowing from the other side. His hands shaking slightly, the landlord sighed and opened the door. Sydowski and Turgeon pulled on rubber gloves. A short-haired tabby leaped into the landlord’s arms. “It’s okay, Jack.” He stroked its back as Sydowski and Turgeon walked through the apartment taking swift inventory when Turgeon spotted an SFSU brochure. The entry of an astronomy class was circled.
“Walt.”
Sydowski put on his bifocals, bent down to read it without touching it.
“Her first class was last night.” Turgeon took notes from the pamphlet.
The landlord was stroking the cat, blinking nervously, struggling to grasp a nightmare as Sydowski took down information from him, telling him the apartment would be locked. Turgeon used her cell phone to call for a uniform as Sydowski told the landlord police would now be guarding the apartment.
“We’ll be back,” he said.
Sydowski smelled fresh coffee. Turgeon placed an SFPD mug on his desk, rolled a chair next to him.
“Ran her prints through AFIS, NCIC, RCMP. Nothing. Still waiting on Interpol. No outstanding warrants. No traffic violations. Looks like she was a good girl, Walt.” Turgeon studied Iris Wood’s photograph. “Landlord tells us she seldom went out. Never brought dates home. What do you think?”
“We don’t know enough about her yet. We’ve got a lot of work to do. We can kick theories around at tomorrow’s meeting. I want to do another walk through the shop with Clarice Hay, to be certain nothing is missing or out of place.”
Turgeon stared at Iris Wood’s picture.
“Linda, it’s been a long day and it will be another long one tomorrow. Go home.”
“What are you waiting on?”
“Her employer is getting back to me. I’ll call Leo then call it a night.”
“I’ll wait. I’m too jazzed for sleep.”
Sydowski took a sip from his mug, leaned back in his chair. It felt good on his back. “All right then,” he said. “Since it’s been so long since you updated me on the soap opera that is your love life, tell me how things are going with the architect.”
“We’re definitely on again. He wants to get married. Wants babies.”
“He still want you to leave cop world?”
“No. He got over that.”
“But?”
“I just don’t know if I’m ready. I mean it scares me, Walt.”
“Scares you? You’re a homicide cop. What scares you?
“No. It’s hard to explain. We do what we do, we see what we see. Then to have a baby and love it so much knowing that monsters exist.”
“You can’t take this job personally. You’re tired and we’ve had some pretty rough cases recently. Now this fire-breather. Just take it easy. I need you.”
Sydowski’s phone rang. It was the vice-president of American Eagle Federated Insurance.
“Inspector, can you give me more information on what harm you think may have come to Iris Wood?”
“I’m sorry sir, I can’t at this time.”
“I see. Given that you’re a homicide investigator, I can only surmise where this is going.”
“Were you able to obtain the information?”
“We’re a large company. I don’t know her. Not many people do. She works in researching and editing our publications.”
“Any family listed in her personnel file?”
“None. I had someone access her policy. Every employee is entitled to a basic policy.”
“Death benefit?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How much was hers?”
“She’s dead, isn’t she? Someone killed her.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t confirm anything right now.”
“The policy has a graduated death payout depending on years with the company. Hers is eighty-six thousand, one-hundred. I checked in case she listed a relative as beneficiary.”
“Is there a beneficiary?”
“Yes.”
“A relative?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s her cat.”
“Her cat?”
The vice president explained that the benefit was to be paid to the cat in her possession at the time of her death by way of a donation in the animal’s name to a San Francisco animal shelter.
Sydowski made a few notes, absorbing that one.
“You said her job involves researching and editing publications.”
“That’s right.”
“What sort of publications?”
“Brochures, information packages.”
“On what subjects? Can you be more specific?”
“She wrote” -- the vice-president cleared his throat -- “she produced our main booklet and brochures that we provide to bereaved families, how to find comfort, solace when a loved one passes away.”
Sydowski removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, hearing his own caution coming up on him. Do not go looking for this to make sense.
“Inspector, is there anything more?”
“No.” He replaced his glasses. “We’ll be talking again tomorrow. Thank you.”
ELEVEN
The first meeting on the investigation into the homicide of Iris May Wood was in an empty admin room on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice.
By 7:30 A.M. it was filled with the heavy scent of cologne, the squeak of swivel chairs, and the smell of something suggesting coffee brewing in the anteroom as the dozen or so mostly male detectives and supervisors shuffled in. They slapped down notebooks, file folders, the morning editions of the Bay Area papers, draped jackets over their chairs, rolled up their sleeves, and bitched about police politics, overtime, support payments, ex-spouses and San Francisco’s performance in pro sports.
Ben Wyatt arrived. With recognition, smiles faded, eyes
strayed from conversations, catching his shoulder holster, his crisp shirt, knotted tie. Primed to work. He sat, opened his file to the two-page summary of the case, and began reading.
In no time at all, a large detective from Narcotics, huge chest straining his pin-striped shirt, glanced at the others, then at Wyatt, saying from behind his handlebar moustache, “That really you, Benjamin?” It was not a greeting but rather an alert to the group of his presence. “It is you. Ben Wyatt. Where the hell they been hiding you?”
Wyatt kept his face in his file. “Here and there.”
“Complete your video-game therapy there, all-star?”
Wyatt chewed on the remark. Sydowski entered, stopping in his tracks, his attention shooting to Wyatt. Conversations ended. A few chairs creaked as the room tensed. The coffee machine in the anteroom hissed.
“You’re Ben Wyatt?”
Wyatt looked at him.
“Reggie Pope’s former partner?”
Wyatt nodded.
“Why are you here?”
“I’ve just been detailed. My lieutenant assigned me last night.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this is my case and nobody told me.” The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted. “Let me ask you something, Wyatt.” Sydowski removed his jacket slowly. “How’s your partner doing? You see him lately? You keep in touch?”
Wyatt stared at his file. “Look, nobody understands.”
“I understand, Wyatt. I think we all understand.”
“Walt,” Sydowski’s boss, Leo Gonzales, stepped from the coffee room, gripping a full pot. “Got some fresh coffee here. I’d like to pour you some.”
Sydowski burned a departing stare into Wyatt before stepping into the anteroom. Gonzales reconsidered, then took Sydowski into the hallway, closing the door behind them.
“I want him out, Leo.”
“Not going to happen.”
“That guy is not a cop. He’s a waste of skin.”
“Walt. It’s out of our hands. He is assigned to this investigation. Period.”
