21st Birthday

by James Patterson

  Lucas yelled back, telling her she was crazy, that he had nothing to do with this fucking tragedy. To get the hell away from him or she would be sorry.

  I was still a car’s length away from her when she kneed her son-in-law hard in the groin.

  He howled, grabbed himself while yowling in pain. But Kathleen wasn’t finished. She pulled back her arm and socked him hard in the face.

  There was so much ambient sound coming from the lot—talking, shouting, sirens—I didn’t hear the impact of her fist connecting with Burke’s nose. But I saw it.

  Burke cupped his face with his hands and screamed “Get away from me, you maniac!” even as Kathleen pulled her fist back, teeing up to punch him again.

  I yelled, “Hey, hey,” got between them, and at the same time a pair of uniforms pulled Kathleen away. This time it took both strong cops to hold her.

  I said to the closest officer, “Drive Ms. Wyatt to her home and sit on her until further notice.”

  Chapter 19

  The two uniforms muscled Kathleen Wyatt toward the rear seat of a cruiser, but she was manic, struggling and even biting, until the larger of the two cops said firmly, “Ms. Wyatt. Stop this crap right now or I’m going to cuff you. You’re not going to like that.”

  Those were the magic words. Kathleen sagged and allowed herself to be folded into the back of the car.

  Lucas Burke, the “injured party,” was pacing, head down, blowing his nose onto the asphalt, blood and tears dripping onto his shirt. I put my hand on his shoulder so that he would look at me.

  I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Burke. The victim is a child who matches Lorrie’s description.”

  He groaned and covered his face with both hands.

  “This can’t be true,” he said. He sobbed that he didn’t believe it, that Tara would never let anything happen to Lorrie.

  “There’s nothing you can do here, Lucas. Come with me. I can answer some of your questions and you can help us, too.” I looked at him appraisingly. “Is your nose broken? Do you want to go to the emergency room?”

  “No. No.”

  I suggested taking his car back to the Hall. I would drive. He would sit in the passenger seat.

  But again, my brilliant plan fell apart.

  The show was over. The tourists were getting into their vehicles. A cop was directing them out of the lot onto Bowley Street, but a traffic jam had formed both inside the lot and beyond, where vehicles had slowed to get a look.

  Part of the logjam was caused by a sound truck marked “WKOR.” Not even two hours had passed since we got the call. Topside, I saw the press leaving their cars and trucks double-parked and at odd angles, making the road impassable as they stampeded toward the crime-scene tape.

  I recognized several of the reporters; they were the A team. The standout of course was Cindy Thomas, tape recorder in her hand, pointing it at Lucas Burke.

  It was up to me whether to let the reporters surround Lucas. I let them.

  Burke bit.

  He stepped up to the barrier tape separating the parking lot from the road.

  “I haven’t seen her,” Lucas was saying to Cindy and the mob in general, “but I’ve been told that my baby girl is dead. Tell my wife—she has to come home.”

  It was too much for him. He turned, searched for me among the reporters, and together we pushed our way out to the road.

  “Keys?”

  He handed them over and got into the passenger seat. If Burke was innocent, if he had truly believed that Lorrie was fine and that he would see her and Tara again soon, he was shocked and horrified and deep in some hell seeing images too awful to bear.

  But if he’d actually killed his child, killed her, then he was an extraordinary actor. Which some killers are. I needed time with him to figure out which one he was. I needed time to chip away at his story, nail down a timeline. I would need Conklin to befriend him, coax out Lucas’s story if I felt my own rage taking over.

  I was outside the driver’s side of Burke’s Audi, on the phone with Conklin, when Lieutenant Brady walked to the tape and addressed the press.

  “A child was found dead in the water at six fifteen this morning. Y’all have heard this before. We have no comment on ongoing investigations. Chief Clapper will call a press conference when he has something to tell y’all. Please help us by moving your vehicles out of the road. That’s it. Thank you.”

  Brady ducked under the tape and cleared the lane. We took off toward the Hall.

  There was no police radio in the car to distract from the sound of Lucas Burke crying.

  God help me, I felt sorry for him.

  Chapter 20

  Two hours after leaving Baker Beach, Cindy and art director Jonathan Samuels met with publisher and editor in chief Henry Tyler in his office.

  Samuels was a good videographer for a print guy. He had shot and cut the chaotic parking lot melee with Cindy’s stand-up Lucas Burke interview into a neat three-minute spot that could be picked up by the media with credit to the Chronicle.

  Tyler sat behind his desk facing the laptop. Samuels stood behind him, leaning in to bring up the light, push in on Burke or on Cindy at Tyler’s direction.

  The video would shortly be on the air. Maybe there’d be a miracle. Maybe Tara Burke would see it and step forward.

  Cindy sat in the side chair across from them, her elbows on Henry’s desk, her chin in her hands. She was aggrieved about the baby, but glad that she and Samuels had scooped other media. She didn’t need to see the video again. She could picture it, knew it by heart.

  The video began with their arrival at Baker Beach.

  The camera was focused on a couple dozen members of the press charging across the road to the parking lot on the bluff overlooking the crime scene.

  Cindy had fast-walked beside Samuels, recording her voice-over. “We’ve just learned that the body of a small child washed up on Baker Beach about an hour ago. Sources tell the Chronicle that it is suspected to be that of Lorrie Burke, age one year and four months, last seen alive with her twenty-year-old mother, Tara Burke, forty-eight hours ago.

  “I believe the man just beyond the police tape wearing the herringbone jacket is Lucas Burke, Lorrie’s father,” Cindy said.

  The crush of media bumped into Samuels, repeatedly jostling the camera lens. When it steadied, the angle was on Cindy’s profile as she called out to Lucas Burke, who was visibly injured. Broken nose?

  “Mr. Burke, Cindy Thomas, the Chronicle. Has the identity of the child—”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Lucas replied.

  Samuels had zoomed in on Burke, capturing the bloodied nose, the cheeks slick with tears. And he got the background sounds: police ordering the gathering crowd to stand clear of the tape; competing car horns; the squawking of seabirds protesting the intrusion. Sirens wailing as more law-enforcement vehicles streamed up the road, braked outside the tape, and were then admitted to the parking area.

  Cindy heard Howard Bronfman from the Examiner shout, “Who found the child?”

  “Someone taking a walk,” Burke said. “That’s all I know.”

  The background sounds continued as Lieutenant Brady, the senior officer at the scene, appeared. Samuels had closed in on Brady. He’d been scowling, authoritative, but his slight southern drawl softened his speech. He gave the predictable “no comment at this time” statement, then told all bystanders to clear the road.

  Samuels said to Tyler, “I was getting ready to shut down the camera, but Cindy saw Sergeant Boxer walk Burke to this car over here.” He pointed to the figures at the top right of the screen. “So, I got this closing shot.”

  On the video, Burke got into the passenger side door of a late model Audi sedan. Boxer went around to the driver’s side, stood outside the door, speaking into her phone with her head down. She tipped her chin up in greeting to Cindy, then disappeared into the car, which headed north on Beach Road.

  “Nice,” Tyler said.

  He watched the last se
ction of the video. Cindy stood in a secluded spot with the ocean and the silhouette of the bridge at her back. She brought the viewers up-to-date on the story as she knew it, adding, “Tara Burke has not been seen or heard from since Monday morning when her husband left for work. If anyone has seen Tara Burke or knows of her whereabouts, please contact this paper and the SFPD hotline.

  “All calls will be kept confidential.”

  Phone numbers appeared on a black screen and then faded out.

  Tyler said to Cindy and Samuels, “Well done, both of you. Cindy, write it up and we’ll get it on the front page. Samuels, I want to see two or three compelling images to accompany the story. I’ll choose one. Upload the video to our YouTube channel and have promo send it to the network affiliates.”

  “Can and will do,” said Samuels. “Give me ten minutes.”

  He left in a hurry.

  “So what do you think happened?” Henry Tyler asked Cindy. “Did the mother do this? Or was it the father? Or some random maniac who didn’t even know them?”

  Cindy had a strong feeling that the death of Lorrie Burke was going to be a big story, whoever had killed her. She remembered awful crimes that appeared to be like this one, unjustified killings of small children by one parent who’d snapped. Or worse, had made plans to kill the child or children because of mental illness, psychopathy, desire to send the child to God, where the precious one would be safe from earthly harm. Or just because being a parent was too damned much trouble.

  “God willing,” she replied to Tyler, “whoever did this will be caught, tried, and locked up in a cell the size of a walnut shell for life.”

  Chapter 21

  I have a clear view from my desk of everything in the bullpen, including Brady’s office and the front entrance.

  Brady and Clapper stood together just outside the doorway, speaking too softly for me to hear.

  Something had happened. I was sure of it.

  I heard Clapper say, “You’ll take care of it?”

  After Brady nodded, the chief headed upstairs to what I still thought of as Jacobi’s office. Brady came through the gate, stopped at Brenda’s desk, picked up Wednesday-morning messages and mail, then came over to me.

  “Got a minute?” he asked.

  I nodded and directed his attention to the TV on the wall overhead. “You’re on the tube.”

  Brady sat down in Conklin’s chair, swiveled it, and tilted it back so he could see the TV on the wall overhead. He punched up the sound, watched himself telling the media gaggle that he had no information for them at this time.

  “I look awful,” he said.

  He did. There were sweat stains under his arms, sleep in the corners of his eyes, and his hair was mussed, not throwing off its customary platinum sheen. But mostly, he looked depressed. Brady picked up the remote, muted the sound, and asked me where Conklin was.

  “Burke had to clean himself up. Conklin’s getting him a clean T-shirt.”

  Brady picked up Conklin’s desk phone and called Brenda.

  “Brenda, when you see Conklin, call me,” Brady said.

  To me he said, “Come on back to the executive suite.”

  “Sure.”

  I followed Brady along the center aisle of the empty bullpen to the lieutenant’s glass-walled bread box of an office at the bullpen’s rear corner with its dingy view of the elevated freeway. This office used to be mine, but I’d been glad to give it up and everything that came with it. I’ve never regretted that decision.

  Brady opened a desk drawer and slid a pile of yellow legal pads off the desktop into the drawer. He inserted a flash drive into his computer, no doubt photos of the crime scene, then folded his hands on his desk.

  What had I done now? We had Burke in custody. Claire was doing her workup on the victim. Parisi was getting warrants so we could search Burke’s house and car and grab his computer while we were at it. I’d started writing up our reports, and I’d spoken with Lieutenant Murry, who had expanded his search area and was still looking for Tara Burke, alive or dead.

  Conklin and I were on track so far.

  “Something wrong, lieu?”

  “Cookie?” he said. He offered me an open tin of sugar cookies, all different shapes. I picked a squiggly one with a jelly button in the center.

  Brady picked one with sprinkles.

  He shoved the whole thing into his mouth and washed it down with cold coffee. After he swallowed, he said, “I’m setting up a task force in the interest of finding Tara Burke. You and me, Boxer, we’re partners again, at least for a while until we solve this case. Or maybe longer.”

  “What? I mean, whatever you say, Brady, but what about Conklin?”

  I like and trust Brady, and we’d been partners for a short while years ago. But at that time, I was the senior partner. Now, Brady outranked me and would have the first and last word. I reported to him and he wasn’t asking for my opinion. But I didn’t like the way this new arrangement felt. A dark thought occurred to me.

  Was this Clapper’s idea of keeping me on a leash?

  Brady said, “We’re adding a new person to Homicide. Name is Sonia Alvarez and she’s coming here from Las Vegas PD. Clapper knows her, thinks highly of her, introduced her to Conklin by conference call, let them know they’re going to be partners.”

  “Yikes.”

  “It’s too soon to say how it will work out,” Brady said. “So back to what I was saying. Task force. You and me, Conklin and Alvarez, and Missing Persons. If Murry’s team doesn’t turn up Tara Burke and fast, you and I will be point men for every other cop in the department. Any questions?”

  “Does Conklin know?”

  “I’m gonna tell him. You and I will interview Burke. Conklin will observe, and as soon as Alvarez gets here, we’ll start breaking her in.”

  It felt like I was supposed to salute.

  But I kept my wits about me and went back to my desk to wait for Conklin. I had just a few minutes to digest this sour news and get back to work.

  Tara Burke was still missing and suspect number one was in the house.

  Chapter 22

  Claire placed her hand on the dead child’s forehead.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry that this happened to you, little one.”

  She took another photo of the baby girl’s face and tucked the drape around her. Then, Claire shucked her gown, cap, and mask, dropped them into the laundry bin, stripped off her gloves and disposed of them in the trash.

  The autopsy suite was kept at fifty degrees, and Claire was cold inside and out. The unnatural and premature deaths of children made her sick. Even after all the decades in med school followed by work at Metro Hospital, followed by the time and bodies she’d autopsied as chief ME, she still couldn’t get used to it. If she were alone right now, she would cry.

  Bunny Ellis, Claire’s morgue tech, was dropping the instruments into the autoclave.

  “Doctor, ready for me to put the patient away?”

  “Only if you want five gold stars and lunch on me.”

  “Stars, yes. Lunch, maybe some other day.”

  “Gotcha,” said Claire. “Thanks, Bunny. I’ll be in my office.”

  Claire pushed open the swinging doors, and when she was outside in the corridor, she leaned against the wall for a moment to collect herself, then headed to her office. She sat in her swivel desk chair and called Lindsay’s cell.

  Lindsay picked up.

  “Claire. Can I call you back? This is a bad time.”

  “I need thirty seconds. Just give me that.”

  “Go.”

  Claire said, “Lorrie Annette Burke was a well-nourished Caucasian female about a year and a half old, twenty-two pounds. The manner of death is pending.

  “This part is not for dissemination. Lorrie Burke’s death appears to be consistent with homicide. There’s some bruising around the mouth, petechial hemorrhaging in and around the eyes. She was smothered, Lindsay. Looks like with a hand over her mouth and nose. There
are fingerprint bruises on her right upper arm as though she was jerked or possibly held down.

  “There was no water in her lungs. She was dead when she went into the ocean, and I can’t establish time of death with real accuracy due to the water temperature and bloating of the body, but I’m estimating thirty hours ago more or less. Enough time in the water for sea predators to nibble at her fingers. Her blood is going out to the lab now. She looks very much like her photo, but you may need to identify her by DNA.

  “How many seconds was that?”

  “Just the right number. And you’ve got me thinking that Lorrie was alive for about a day after going missing. Thanks, Butterfly.”

  After they ended the call, Claire went to the washroom and splashed water on her face.

  She was having some just discernable pain in her chest, which was to be expected after her recent surgery. She had been told not to exert herself by her surgeon, her husband, her best friends, and her oldest child, and here she was worn out before noon. She needed to take a nap.

  Back at her desk, Claire opened the intake folder and looked at the list. There were three patients needing her attention. None of them, thank God, were children.

  If she did one more post now and called in her backup pathologist, barring complications she could be home in bed in four hours.

  Yeah, right.

  Going by past experience, that would never happen.

  Chapter 23

  Brady and I were in Interview 1, sitting across the table from Lucas Burke.

  It’s a small room, ten by twelve with gray-painted cinder block walls, a camera in one corner of the ceiling, two chairs on each long side of the gray metal table, and a shelf under the one-way mirror inset into a wall. There’s a narrow observation room behind the glass.

  Richie Conklin was observing. I liked, trusted, and respected Brady and we had done many interrogations together. But I felt for Conklin. When Brady informed him about the task force and that he would be working with a new partner, he’d said okay, but he couldn’t have taken this news as anything but a demotion.