Blood of Others (17 page)

At the detail,
Sydowski launched a pre-emptive
strike at the question on Turgeon’s lips.

“I’m not going to talk about
Louise. Don’t waste your words, or our time. Let’s get to work.”

“Fine, Walt. But there’s not much
here.”

Sydowski removed his jacket and
rolled up his sleeves. As twilight brushed over the city, they worked alone in
the darkened homicide detail under the sixty-watt halos of gooseneck lamps.
Turgeon was in jeans and an old academy T-shirt, her hair clamped in a small
bun, wearing her new glasses, which reflected the pages as she studied her
portion of traffic-unit patrol logs, statements, reports on the insurance
company’s policyholders, employees, Iris Wood’s neighbors.

Sydowski sat across from her, his
tired eyes peering sadly through his bifocals, as he wet his forefinger and
worked through the summaries of all unsolved ritualistic California homicides
that might be related to this one. Some decapitations, some limb and finger
removal out of L.A., but all were suspected to be gang or drug related. The
other detectives in San Francisco’s homicide detail were kicking his case
around. Most of the city’s murders were shootings, stabbings, beatings, arson
murders, very few with ritualistic overtones like this case. It was
frustrating.

The only sounds in the room were
Turgeon’s annoying pen tapping and Sydowski’s crunching of a Tums to sooth his
heartburn from his dinner and flare-up with Louise.

“Walt, are you ever going to make
a full submission to VICAP?”

“Maybe. Go home if you’re bored.”

“Walt. I’ve talked with Dee, the
FBI VICAP coordinator at Golden Gate. She’s urging us to make a full submission
to Quantico. Have you read the latest item on VICAP in the Law Enforcement
Bulletin?”

Sydowski ignored her. Turgeon
rummaged around for the article, determined to bring him into this century. She
skimmed it again, reading parts aloud to Sydowski.

The Violent
Criminal Apprehension Program, known as VICAP, is the FBI’s national
computerized database which analyzes, collates, and searches for links in
murders and serious violent offences of cases submitted to it. The brainchild
of Pierce Brooks, an LAPD detective who, in the 1950s, had a case of a killer
who was placing ads in Los Angeles-area newspapers seeking women to model. The
killer would take their pictures, rape them, then hang them. Brooks suspected
his murders were linked to others beyond his jurisdiction so he went to the
public library to search for similar murders in out-of-town newspapers. Sure
enough, he found other cases with enough links and evidence to track and arrest
the killer. The FBI picked up on his idea and worked with him over the years to
develop a central computerized data system for police to quickly share
information on mobile suspects.

“Any of this sinking in, Walter?
He sought outside help.”

“I know all about VICAP.”
Sydowski’s attention was on his files. “I’d like to do a little more work on my
case, please.”

“We live in a new century,
old-timer.”

Turgeon kept reading.

VICAP requires
detectives to complete some 95 questions detailing every known aspect of the
victim, the suspect, the crime scene, including key facts or hold-back
evidence. Once a case is submitted, FBI analysts continually compare all
submitted files with others searching for matches, signatures, patterns. When
they get a hit, detectives are alerted but their hold-back evidence is never
revealed.

While using VICAP was not a legal
requirement, the article said more jurisdictions were making VICAP submissions
obligatory because more success stories were emerging. The downside, as Turgeon
knew, was that many detectives were pathologically opposed to giving up their
hold-back evidence to anyone. Sydowski was one of them. It did not matter how
many security assurances the FBI offered, Sydowski refused to give up his most
important evidence, or details connected to it.

“So, Walt. Are you ready to give
it a try?”

Sydowski kept his head in his
files, making notes to talk to the unit in State Parole on fugitive parolees,
or to check if those on the high-risk psychotic list reside near the Grove, or
Iris Wood’s apartment. Maybe some had impersonated police officers before. Then
there was the Special Services Unit. Could spread the word among their sources.

“Walt? Are you listening to me?
You know they guard your hold-back. Cripes, you won’t even let me go over to
the VICAP terminal and let us make our own queries because you think somehow
your hold-back will leak out if I query northern California and all unsolved
murders of white females involving facial mutilation or stun guns, or anything
to give us a lead.”

“We’ve got a lead.”

“Not yet. The lab’s still
working.”

“Keep it down, Linda.”

“I just don’t get you. You refuse
to let Wyatt help us. He’s an expert on computers.”

“That guy is useless.”

Turgeon grabbed a file. “This old
fashioned manual files stuff is useless when we have computer programs designed
to do the same damned thing.”

Sydowski’s eyes burned into
Turgeon’s over his bifocals. “You know what Wyatt did when I walked in on him
at Iris Wood’s apartment the other day?”

Turgeon waited for his answer.

“He pulled his weapon on me.”

“What?”

“Pulls his gun on me. Sitting in
her apartment alone and draws down on me. This is the guy who freezes so Reggie
Pope can take a round in the back, then pulls his gun on me.
On me.
Walking into a room.” Sydowski jabbed his finger at Turgeon. “And you, of all
people, Don’s little girl, should fathom what that says about this man.”

Turgeon had been ten years old
when her dad, SFPD Officer Don Turgeon, was shot and killed on duty.

“Walt. Where is all this coming from?”

“I should write him up.”

“Walt, you’re not thinking about
the case.”

“And you want me to give that
walking, talking mistake the most precious pieces of solid, unchallengeable,
physical, golden evidence we have, so he can play computer games with it? So he
can take off into cyber-land asking if anybody’s got a lead on the killer. Talk
about a useless waste of time. He might as well light a candle and make shadow
puppets.”

“Walt, I know he is good.”

Sydowski yanked off his glasses.
“Good?
I’ll tell you what happened when he slipped one of his magic computer disks
into Iris Wood’s machine. It got fried. Zapped. FBI friend told me Wyatt’s
trying to keep it quiet, so he can figure out what went wrong.”

“Walt, just set your feelings
aside about Reggie and give Wyatt a chance. We need him.”

“I will not use Iris Wood’s
murder so that loser can make his life better.” Sydowski stopped and ran a hand
across his weary face.

“Then give up your evidence to
VICAP.”

“No.”

“It’s the only way we’ll find a
comparable case. You said it yourself, he’s likely got a history. Everyone
agrees. If he’s done it before let’s talk to people.”

“Christ, Linda, the case is just
unfolding. We have a thread, a thread of evidence. If it leaks out, if the
killer gets wind, we’ve lost him forever.”

“I think I’m going to call it a
night.”

Turgeon left.

Sydowski stayed for a long time
reading everything they had on Iris Wood’s case. It wasn’t much. Eventually he
locked it in a secure cabinet.

Driving home, he returned to the
Stern Grove. Again, he parked his car in the same spot she had halted hers for
her killer.

They had scoured city, county,
state, federal, and private security vehicles for the Bay Area, patrol logs,
dispatcher records, personnel schedules, motor pool, and maintenance lists.

Nothing had surfaced.

Reed’s tipster, the paroled
addict thief, was good, he gave them a time and his account fit with the shred
of evidence. But Sydowski was convinced the killer was not a cop but a guy who
posed as a cop. Dash cherries were easy to obtain.

Sydowski got out of his car and
carefully retraced Iris Wood’s last steps. Nobody at the Hall of Justice knew
that he had put in calls to the few homicide detectives across the country he
trusted with his life. They were secretly checking his file with similar
unsolveds in their yard. Apart from that, he was counting on the lab to come
through with more information on the trace they found here and in the bridal
shop.

That’s all I need. Just a
little more to give me a little more.

He stood there in the darkness,
Iris Wood’s picture in his breast pocket.

The most powerful
lab on earth lies about an
hour east of San Francisco, on Interstate 580, in valleys ringed by sunlit
hillsides, ranches and vineyards.

Behind the chain link fences, the
armed guard posts, the pan-tilt-zoom cameras, and the motion detectors, the
University of California and the U.S. Department of Energy operate the
Livermore lab.

Here, a variety of complexes
house an array of top-secret research critical to the planet’s security. Among
them: America’s nuclear and laser weapons systems, and the computer programs
operating and protecting them.

Randy Gricks was a computer
security director with Livermore’s highest level of security access. The lab’s
state-of-the-art security network stored his personal identification code,
biometrics data drawn from his voice, face, eyes, and hands. All encrypted.

On his way out today, his
decryption key was activated and he was gradually cleared to leave the facility
when he swiped his Livermore badge at successive remote-access panels. His
departure and license plate were video-recorded when he drove his new
lime-green VW Beetle from the gate a few miles away to a Taco Bell at an
interstate strip mall to meet Inspector Ben Wyatt of the SFPD.

Gricks was a son of California,
born in Mountain View. He had studied at Berkeley, Stanford, and MIT before he
was recruited from sophisticated spy satellite research projects into the
government’s ultra-secret computer security community to work at Los Alamos and
Livermore. At fifty-one he had a bit of a paunch stretching his Raiders
T-shirt. With his bushy silver-white beard, long curly hair, tattered jeans,
and sandals, Gricks looked bound for a Grateful Dead concert, Wyatt thought as
he watched him park his Beetle, then acknowledge him at the patio before going
inside to get a soda. Right on time.

Wyatt was anxious. Security
cameras near the bride shop were a washout. No one at the Hall knew he was
pulling this little end run for outside help on a homicide. To hell with it.
There was too much at stake. Besides, who would care or understand? Certainly
not Sydowski. Gricks arrived at the table.

“We never had this meeting, okay,
Randy?”

Gricks nodded slightly as Wyatt
told him about Iris Wood’s case and what had happened with his disk when he
tried it on Iris Wood’s system.

Gricks seemed bored, sucking on
his drink as he listened.

The two men had met a few months
earlier at a security seminar at the FBI San Francisco division’s Computer
Intrusion Squad in Hayward. Wyatt had saved his card, sincerely promising to
take Gricks up on his soft-spoken invitation to “call any time” he needed
confidential
help.

Now, after some twenty minutes of
listening to Wyatt and the hum of interstate traffic, Gricks sucked up the last
of his Taco Bell soda, indicating time was up. Wyatt slid him the small bubble
sleeve containing his damaged disk, properties and data from Iris Wood’s
computer, some details about the security breach at Forever & Ever, and his
business card.

“Randy, I need to know what the
hell happened, who set up such an attack. I need your help. Confidentially, of
course.”

Gricks nodded. Then he stood,
scratched his stomach, yawned, and stretched before waving good-bye to Wyatt,
his sandals making flopping sounds as he returned to his VW.

Wyatt shook his head, realizing
that Gricks had not uttered a single syllable the whole time. Must have something
to do with his being a cyber-super-genius spook. The guy had worked on CIA
computer programs, done troubleshooting on computer security and
cyber-counterterrorism for the NSA, Defence, and Justice departments. Now he
was a high priest at Livermore, where his job was defending the computers
controlling the nation’s nuclear weapons arsenal from cyber-attack.

For somebody like Gricks, a
request like Wyatt’s should be as easy as breathing.

Westbound on the San Mateo
Bridge, Wyatt counted six jets lined up for approach to San Francisco
International. Optimistic because Gricks was secretly helping him, Wyatt was
feeling upbeat. He reached for his cell phone and dialed.

“Caselli’s.”

“Hi, Olivia, it’s Ben Wyatt.”

“Hi, Ben.”

“I know this is short notice, but
I was wondering if you’re free for dinner tonight?”

“Well, it just so happens I’m
finishing work early today. What time did you have in mind?”

“Seven? I could pick you up at
your place?”

“Sure. Here’s my address….”

A date.

He had an honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned
dinner date. How long had it been since he’d gone on a date, he wondered as he
showered and shaved, then slipped on fresh pants, a navy pullover shirt, and a
matching jacket.

Olivia’s place was easy to find.
Her house impressed him so much he had to double-check the address he had
scrawled. Very nice. After ringing the doorbell, he stood there with his hands
in his pockets wishing he’d brought a gift, flowers, something. He was
certainly out of practice as far as dating went.

“Hi there. Come on in.” Olivia
smiled. She was wearing cream-colored slacks and a matching sleeveless
light-knit sweater. She looked good. They had lemonade on her rear porch where
they sat on cushioned wicker chairs, making small talk.

“Are you a bit nervous, Ben?”

“A little.”

“Me too. But we shouldn’t be.”

“Why’s that?” The ice clinked in
his glass.

“This is our fourth time
together.”

“You’ve been counting.”

“You came to the shop to check
our security. Then Colma where you had me under surveillance. The other day you
joined me for lunch at the Square and tonight. Four.” She patted his arm.
“We’re practically an old couple.”

“Well this old man’s getting
hungry.” He smiled. “Where would you like to eat?”

They found a place near the
marina with a view of the bay. Wyatt was comfortable being with her. Talking,
hearing about her day, enjoying her smile at his small jokes.

“It must be exciting being a
detective, catching criminals,” she said.

Wyatt shrugged. “At times, maybe.
Mostly, it isn’t.”

“But it can be pretty dangerous?”

He looked for an answer somewhere
on the bay.
Is this the time to tell her?
He didn’t know and heard
himself saying, “It can be dangerous. A friend of mine got hurt on the job.”

Olivia grew concerned, searching
his eyes for a moment. He changed the subject.

After dinner they walked along
the waterfront watching the sun set on the Golden Gate and the sailboats
clipping along the bay. They talked about growing up in San Francisco and other
things they had in common, like both being only children.

“My dad was a firefighter,” Wyatt
said. “Folks are retired. They moved to South Carolina. How about you?”

“Both passed away. Left me the
house.”

“It’s a lovely house. How long
have you been at the shop?”

“Since college. Mrs. Caselli is
going to sell it to me. It turns a nice profit and I plan to expand it, maybe
with outlets around the bay.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“Ben, this is kind of strange,”
Olivia said, remembering the advice from her Internet friends:
Be yourself.
Be honest with a guy and expect the same from him.
“I don’t know how to say
this, but at the restaurant, I got a feeling that maybe you had something on
your mind.”

“I guess you remember it all from
the news?”

“Remember what?”

“What happened with my partner a
while back. It was in the press.”

“No, I don’t know what you’re
talking about. Is this something to do with Iris Wood’s murder case?”

“No.”

They stopped walking.

“I like you very much,” he said.

“I like you too.”

“I’d like to keep seeing you.”

“I’d like that too, Ben.”

“Then before we go any further,
there’s something I need to tell you.”

They sat on a bench. As gulls
cried overhead and the lights of the Golden Gate lit the night, he told her how
Reggie Pope got shot and still refused to see him. He told her of his futile
search for the boy, how he was pulled from street duty, lost his fiancée, how
the SFPD never believed or forgave him, leaving him to endure their scorn, even
now as he tries to help them find Iris Wood’s killer.

“But there was a kid, I swear
Olivia,” he said. “That’s how it is with me. I wanted you to know. I would
understand if you wanted to end it here, before things move along or anyone
gets hurt. I would understand.”

Olivia was staring at the Golden
Gate Bridge, thinking of herself, Iris Wood, the people who come to the shop,
of what Ben just told her; realizing for the first time in her life that
everyone has some measure of pain hidden in a private corner of their heart,
and that she was no different. No. And this was a good thing for her to know.
It connected her to someone who was honest and had risked his heart. She began
shaking her head, saying, “No. No, Ben, I don’t want to end things with you at
all.”

“No?”

“No, because I believe you.”

Wyatt felt something awaken in a
long lost region of his soul and warm him as she took his hand.