Be Mine

by Rick Mofina

  Such thoughts, brought on by his visit to Hooper’s grave near Lodi, were making his head hurt. He tried to shrug it off, reaching in the seat next to him for his bottle of headache pills, downing ten tablets.

  As night descended he thought, It’s funny how everyone wears a mask. To hide who we really are. So we can bear our little buckets of pain. Over time, he had perfected his mask. No one knew that Bleeder was behind it, studying them. His mask allowed him to get close to Molly Wilson. Like Amy, she had stirred his desires. But he needed to get closer still to reveal the truth, reveal what he’d come to know. That he possessed a deeper understanding of her. More than anyone could know. That they shared something more profound than any two souls could ever experience.

  Soon she would see.

  The Bay Area and San Francisco’s skyline glittered as he crossed the Bay Bridge into the city. Bleeder needed to work harder to make certain she would know the truth.

  They belonged together.

  It was a shame about Hooper. But she’d been getting too close to him. Bleeder couldn’t accept that. It was dangerous. It wasn’t right. Action was unavoidable. At first Bleeder fought off his urge to act, hoping she would choose the right course. But she didn’t. So Bleeder took charge.

  What was done was done. And he was stronger for it. His mask could barely conceal what was seething beneath the surface of his skin. He was supercharged. Forget the past. Forget everything. All that had happened up until this point. Bleeder was alive. Bleeder was in control.

  In San Francisco, he wheeled through the hilly streets to the edge of Russian Hill, then North Beach where he resumed his vigil of her neighborhood and building.

  God, how he loved to watch her and dream of when they would be together forever.

  FOURTEEN

  Molly tried to shove Frank Yarrow from her mind. Why did he have to show up at Cliff’s funeral?

  Molly’s apartment came into view as she turned the corner on the last leg of her morning jog. Anger had fueled her run.

  Of all the places and times to appear. He emerged like a specter. Molly was paralyzed. His appearance had left her speechless. She hadn’t told a soul about him. Grief had overtaken her at the service, she’d explained later.

  She dropped her keys and the morning paper on the kitchen table, then collected fruit from the refrigerator and counter. She sliced bananas, oranges, and strawberries into small heaps, dumping them with low-fat milk into the blender. The whine of the mixing blades suited her rage. She had ignored Frank at the service and was relieved not to see him afterward.

  In the gathering following the funeral, Molly had made it clear to her friends and coworkers that she wanted to be alone for a while. God, would this hurting ever stop? she wondered, just as her phone rang. She’d let the machine get it. But the caller didn’t leave a message. After a few moments, it rang again.

  Molly stared at the ceiling. It was likely a reporter. The calls followed the same pattern. Then a third call came. Unable to stand it, she seized the phone.

  “What is it?”

  “Hello, Molly, it’s me, Frank.”

  Ice shot up her spine and her scalp tingled. She didn’t know what to say. Hang up now, she told herself.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  Her emotions swirled and she sat down. “I’d really like to talk. Please.”

  “This is a horrible time,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. If you’d just give me a moment.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you. What you did, showing up the way you did at the funeral, was stupid. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I read about it all in the papers. I tried calling you but couldn’t get through. I had to be there.”

  “You didn’t have to be there. Your timing stinks. Let me make myself clear. I am not interested. Leave me alone.”

  “Molly, please. I have to talk to you. I’ve changed.”

  “Stop it.”

  “So much has changed.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “I’m leaving town soon and I’d really like to see you before I go.”

  She slammed the phone down. She didn’t need this. Not him. Not now.

  It rang again.

  Damn it. She seized the receiver. “I thought I told you--”

  “Molly, are you all right?” Her father said.

  “Dad. Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  His strong voice pulled her back to Texas, to his strong arms and his plaid shirts that smelled of fresh soap and his pipe.

  “No. Not really.”

  “You said you didn’t need me to fly out there before. How about now?”

  “No. Thanks, Dad.”

  “You’re sure? I know you. You keep a lot bottled up, like me.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s okay to lean on someone every now and then. Hell knows I should’ve done that when your mother passed on.”

  “I’ve got a lot of friends here, Dad. I’ll be okay.”

  “How you been getting on, really? A lot of people here have been asking after you. And a lot of reporters been calling me, asking about you.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them all what I could. I saw no harm. I figure it’s like a professional courtesy, seeing how you’re in the business. Our family has nothing to hide.”

  “Right.” God, her father was so naive when it came to the media!

  “Well, I’ll let you go. Now you call me if you change your mind about me coming out, and I’ll be on the next plane.”

  “I will, Dad. Thanks.”

  Molly was exhausted. She took a hot shower.

  Steam clouds rose around her, carrying her back through her life to when she was seventeen and so scared. She remembered the smell of diesel, the rush of air brakes when the Greyhound stopped in Houston. The clinic wasn’t far from the depot. A crumbling stone building without windows. It smelled bad. Like strong medicine. Like the vet’s office when they put down Jangles, her cat. The soulful cries of sick puppies in their wire cages now harmonized with the gentle sobbing of young girls in trouble.

  No one knew Molly had come to this place.

  A consultation, the nurse called it. You’re not too far along. You have options. Read the material. But does it hurt? Molly didn’t know if she could do this. Damn it, it was Frank Yarrow’s fault. No, it was her fault. How could she be so stupid? She had dreams.

  Damn it, Frank.

  Stop thinking about it, Molly ordered herself as she scoured her scalp.

  That part of your life ended in Texas. A lifetime ago.

  So why did he have to show up in San Francisco now? She supposed her name in the news had drawn him, but God, she just couldn’t take it. An absolute nightmare from her past on top of a nightmare in her present.

  FIFTEEN

  In the Star newsroom Tom pushed the story.

  He dialed the number of a very well placed police source.

  Come on. Be there. He checked the time. Less than an hour to deadline. His call was answered after the second ring.

  “Hey, it’s me, I need help,” Tom said.

  “Give me one minute, I’ll call you back from another phone.”

  He looked around the newsroom. Della Thompson was at a news conference. Nothing big expected. Simon Lepp had been dispatched to the Ingleside police district office to pursue some angle for Pepper. No one around to overhear him. He was clear to talk. His line rang and he took the call from his source.

  “What’s up, Reed?”

  “I need to know what’s going on inside the Hooper investigation.”

  His source said nothing for a long time.

  “It’s not good. Emotions are running high. Hell, Hooper was well liked and there’s a bad smell to this one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The brass wants this thing blitzed. Green-lighted the overtime, you know the drill.”

  “Sure.”

>   “And on big cases like this, Homicide’s pretty good at sharing with the other bodies brought in. I’m talking on a need-to-know basis, but they’re usually open, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But on this one it seems they ain’t sharing the time of day. It’s got everyone pissed off. Grief and anger are entangling everybody.”

  “Do you know why that’s happening?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Care to share it?”

  “If I give you anything, it could come back on me.”

  “Come on. I’m kinda jammed here.”

  “Look, it’s hot right now. Dangerous for anyone to leak anything.”

  “I’m really jammed. I’d owe you.”

  There was a long heavy silence. A promising silence. “All right, but you have to confirm this with other sources. You got this on the wind, understand?”

  “On the wind.”

  “We heard that Management Control and OCC paid Homicide a visit very early in the case. It got them all freaked out.”

  “Why? Isn’t that procedure, administratively speaking?”

  “Read it any way you like. But sparks flew. Hooper hadn’t even been autopsied and there they are ready to second-guess the investigation before it even started.”

  “But why? Was Hooper dirty? Or were they just playing politics?”

  “It suggests a toilet full of ugly things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything from an internal suspect to internal corruption. Who knows? It’s pissing people off and raises a lot of dark questions.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You did not get it from me.”

  Tom hung up and punched the number for the Office of Citizens’ Complaints, eyeing the clock as it rang. He requested an official comment for a story saying that within hours of Inspector Hooper’s murder OCC visited the homicide detail to talk specifically about Hooper’s case.

  “I’ll have to get someone to call you back, Mr. Reed.”

  “I need to talk to someone now.”

  “Yes, someone will call you right away.”

  Tom then called the Office of Management Control for the SFPD and was put through to Lieutenant Dan Taylor. After listening, Taylor said, “You know that we never comment on any ongoing investigation, whether we’re interested or not.”

  “Is that a denial?”

  “We never comment.”

  Tom tried a bluff.

  “I understand you were present at the meeting, Lieutenant?”

  The phone slammed down in Tom’s ear.

  Whoa. Tom grinned. He wrote down Taylor’s response, created a new file on his computer screen, and began drafting a new story. Then Nan Willoughby, spokeswoman for OCC, returned his call.

  Tom said, “I understand officials from OCC and Management Control visited the homicide detail after Inspector Hooper’s death.”

  “That’s correct.” Now he had confirmation.

  “And the nature of the visit was, I understand, to talk about the case?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot discuss the nature of the visit.”

  “Why were they there?”

  “I can’t discuss that.”

  “All right, Nan, let me try this: When OCC presented its most recent public report to the commission, it discussed the need to improve relations with the department.”

  “That’s public, yes.”

  “So, did the visit, which you’ve confirmed, have anything to do with the concerns the office raised in its recent public report?”

  “In part.”

  That stopped Tom cold. “What’s the other part?”

  “I can’t comment.”

  “Nan, OCC visited Homicide to improve relations and...?”

  Her silence screamed volumes.

  “I’m afraid I cannot discuss that, at this time.”

  Man, something’s going on.

  “Fine. Thanks.” Tom then flipped through his file cards for the cell phone number of a senior rep of the Police Officers Association and asked him to comment on what he had.

  “What do you think this means?” Tom asked.

  “I think it’s terrible for a million reasons.”

  “Give me one.”

  “It creates an impression that political agendas are attempting to push this case in the wrong direction. Rather than pursue a killer, they want to pursue a victim. A decorated officer. They’re suggesting Cliff Hooper deserved what he got. It appears they’re tainting him before the facts are known.”

  Using the new information, background on the homicide, OCC, MC, and the police commission, Tom pulled together a new story. It was political rhetoric, but it was chilling.

  “This is dynamite,” Acker said after reading it on his monitor.

  Pepper held her tongue. Earlier in the day she’d dropped the Chronicle on Tom’s desk. It had lined a story saying police had videotaped Hooper’s funeral service, hoping to capture his killer. Tom told her it wasn’t news. It was procedure and that if she would be patient he would deliver an exclusive to eclipse anything the competition had.

  “Just dynamite,” Acker repeated, adding, “We should sell it to front.”

  Tom nodded, then started for home. He slipped on his jacket, cut across the newsroom.

  He never saw the messenger step off the elevator to the newsroom, carrying fresh roses for Molly Wilson. Exactly like the previous bouquet. There was a card, only this time it was in plain sight and read:

  Please, Molly, I’m still thinking of you.

  SIXTEEN

  The staff of the Star’s night shift worked with calm, quiet intensity against the deadline for getting the next day’s paper off the floor.

  No one was aware Simon Lepp was in the newsroom. Out of sight in his corner alcove hidden behind the fronds of spider plants and ferns, he was on the trail of a killer.

  And he loved it.

  In the soft light his glasses mirrored articles about old homicides investigated by Inspector Cliff Hooper. Gang shootings, sadistic sex-torture slayings, domestics, robbery-homicides, deadly drug deals, and hooker murders flowed across his screen. He absorbed every word, made note of every player, any unusual details.

  It was late but he was energized, jacked up on caffeine and the rush of being on the big story. Reporting on a cop murder was a far cry from writing the staid science beat. This was the story everybody in the Bay Area was talking about.

  The other day while in line at a coffee shop, Lepp overheard two office workers discussing it. And then he saw a taxi driver reading his story in the Star. It was wild. So dramatic. So much at stake. He was getting serious play and working with the paper’s top guns. Like Tom Reed.

  He was a genius.

  Tom’s idea to go to OCC at the outset of this case was brilliant. It worked beautifully. Lepp glanced at a copy of Tom’s article confirming that Internal Affairs people were studying Hooper’s murder, which raised questions about internal corruption.

  Now Lepp was doing his part, examining every case Hooper had handled to find the link. Earlier he’d chased a hunch from his research that it had originated out of Ingleside. Nothing. But it had to be here. The case that would fit with what OCC should be looking for. He wanted to break something on this story like Tom. He wanted to put investigators on the track of a killer. It had to be here. He could just feel it. One of these cases would point everyone to a killer.

  Lepp nudged his glasses, then cast a sad look at Molly’s empty desk. His heart went out to her. He remembered the few times she’d gone out with him. A movie. A Billy Crystal comedy. They’d gone out for a few dinners. One glorious night they walked along the Golden Gate Bridge. Neither of them had done that in a while. He told her little-known facts about its construction. She seemed to be fascinated. It was good. She was so different from any other woman he’d known.

  Then she told him she wasn’t ready for a relationship, that she was still dating other guys. “Let’s just be friends, okay?” She kiss
ed his cheek. And that was that.

  It hurt a bit but he got over it. Better to have loved and lost. A few months later, Molly started dating Hooper. Lepp was wondering if Cliff ever realized how lucky he was to have someone like her when his screen saver activated, distracting him from his thoughts.

  He clicked back to his archived stories and resumed searching for a while longer without much success. He hadn’t found the link yet. He looked at his watch. He’d been here long enough and he slipped on his jacket. As he passed Molly’s empty desk, he thought of her.

  He wished there was something he could do to ease her pain.

  Something to assure her that she had friends and there would be better days ahead.

  SEVENTEEN

  Molly placed a frozen chicken pasta dish in her microwave and set the timer. The oven droned as she sat alone at her kitchen table struggling with Cliff’s murder.

  As her entree revolved on the carousel, Molly’s head began to ache. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried kneading the pain from her brain. It was futile. The timer bell chimed.

  She picked at her food. Tension had turned her neck and shoulders to stone. She needed to clear her mind. She tossed her chicken pasta in the trash and changed into her running gear.

  The sun had dipped below the horizon. Faint light painted the sky.

  She would run until dark.

  She wanted to run forever. A distant cable car clanged. A siren wailed. She’d traveled several blocks. In the dying light she thought she saw a man in a car. Following her. Maybe not. Molly kicked up her speed, turned a corner, and charged uphill.

  The guy vanished and she ran hard for another twenty minutes.

  It was dark by the time she got back to her building. She stopped out front to cool down. It had been a fierce run. Breathing hard, she fished into her pocket for her key, keeping her head down as she approached her front steps, never seeing the man on the porch until he stepped from the shadows.

  “Hello, Molly.”

  She froze. The familiar voice pulled her back, rocketing across the fields of her memory, to a time when she lived in her parents’ home, a time of textbooks, chaotic hallways, the clang of steel lockers, of sweat-soaked passionate Texas nights in the cab of her boyfriend’s pickup. To the day her life had changed forever.