The 9th Judgment

"A woman came into the Hall today," I said to Joe. "She told Jacobi that a man approached her outside the Ferry Building the night the Kinskis were killed. Said he was lost. He was wearing a billed cap and a blue-and-white baseball jacket."

"She was credible?"

"Jacobi said she was shaking and had half chewed her lip off. She told Jacobi the guy was creepy. She said she couldn't help him and walked away with her baby, and he shouted after her, 'I appreciate the fucking time of day!' She's seen the surveillance video and thinks it could be him."

"Good news, Linds. A witness, of sorts."

"It's something, but, you know, it could have been anyone wearing a baseball jacket. Joe, WCF, FWC. And now CWF. You're a puzzle addict. What do you get out of that?"

"West Coast Freak. Factory Workers' Coalition. Chief Wacko Freak. Want me to keep going?"

"No, you're right," I said. "It's gooseberries. The shooter is playing with us."

"Listen, before I forget to tell you-"

"There," I said, grabbing the clicker off the coffee table, amping up the volume as the familiar face of news anchor Andrea Costella talked above the "Breaking News" banner.

"We have news tonight about the Lipstick Killer, who was videotaped at a Union Square garage as he was leaving the scene of another horrific double homicide," she said.

The video came on the screen, about ten seconds of the shooter entering the elevator car, stabbing the button with a gloved hand, and standing in one place, eyes lowered, until the doors opened and he exited into thin air.

"An anonymous witness described the shooter to the police, who have made a sketch available to this station," Costella said. A drawing replaced the videotape on the screen.

"See?" I said to Joe. "Mr. Ordinary. No-color eyes, no-color hair. Regular features, regular nine mil slugs, no match to anything. But not mentioned to the viewers, he uses a suppressor, professional grade."

"Sounds like he's military. Special Ops. Or he's a military contractor. Got the suppressor on the black market or overseas."

"Yeah. The military angle makes sense. But there are, what, thousands and thousands of former military guys in the city? And half of them fit this guy's description. Hey, what's this?" I asked as another video came on the screen.

I watched with my mouth open as a handheld camera bumped along behind Claire. It was recording her leaving the morgue, heading to the parking lot just outside her office. Reporters fired questions about the victims and asked her if there was anything she could tell the people of San Francisco.

Claire turned her back to the cameras and got into her new Prius. She started it up, and I thought that was it- Get lost, you vultures -but she buzzed down the window, rested her elbow on the frame, and looked squarely at the cameras.

"Yes, I have something to tell the people of San Francisco, and I'm not speaking as the chief medical examiner. I'm speaking as a wife and a mother. Are we clear?"

There was a chorus of yeses.

"Moms, keep your eyes open," Claire said. "Don't trust anyone. Don't park in lonely places, and don't get near your car unless there are other people around. And, no kidding, get a license to carry a handgun. Then carry it."

Chapter 44

PETE GORDON SAT in the kitchen, laptop in front of him on the red Formica table, his back to the porch where Sherry was doing stupid puppet tricks for her brother. The stink bomb was shrieking with joy or fright, Pete really didn't know which, because it was all like having a screwdriver jabbed through his eardrum.

Pete yelled over his shoulder, "Keep it down, Sherry! In a minute, I'm going to take off my belt."

"We'll be quiet, Daddy."

Gordon returned to the letter he was composing, a kind of ransom note. Yeah. He liked thinking of it that way. He was a pretty good writer, but this had to be crystal clear and without any clues to his identity.

"An open letter to the citizens of San Francisco," he wrote. "I have something important to tell you."

He thought about the word "citizens," decided it was too stiff, and replaced it with "residents." Much better.

"An open letter to the residents of San Francisco." Then he changed the second line: "I have a proposition to make." Suddenly there was a shrill scream from the porch, and Sherry was shushing the stink bomb and then calling in through the window, "Daddy, I'm sorry, please don't get mad. Stevie didn't mean it."

The baby was crying on both the inhale and the exhale, un-fucking-relenting. Pete clenched his hands, thinking how much he hated them and everything about the life he lived now. Look at me, Ladies and Gentlemen, Captain Peter Gordon, former commando, currently Househusband First Class.

What a frickin' tragedy.