Olsen rose from the chair and switched off the camera. Although he had planned a five-minute video presentation, he ended up speaking for nearly fifteen. He needed the extra time to ensure the public understood his reasons for killing the women and boy instead of those who were guilty—the doctors, lawyers, and Sinclair. Samantha and Jane were innocent, after all, and he had carried the pain of their deaths for what felt like an eternity. Sinclair and the others responsible would come to feel the same pain as their days, months, and years dragged on. It was as simple and as horrible as that.
He pulled the Beretta from his waistband and set it on the bed table.
He remembered how furious he became when he had learned that Samantha had been raped, and Sinclair would get to experience that same rage.
Olsen was glad the GHB he added to Liz’s water was acting as the dealer had promised. Finding heroin in the Bay Area was easy compared to finding Rohypnol. After striking out in Oakland and Berkeley, he had eventually found a bouncer at a strip club on Broadway in San Francisco who
explained that most of what is sold as roofie is not Rohypnol at all but usually a mixture of various drugs that might do anything from making the person agitated to causing a massive seizure. The best substance to “make a girl pliable,” in the bouncer’s words, was GHB, known as Liquid E. He said it was primarily taken by people to promote libido and lower their inhibitions but acknowledged that some might use it for drug-facilitated sexual assaults, not that he would ever provide it to someone for that purpose, the bouncer told Olsen with a wink. Olsen bought four doses for forty dollars.
Liz tried to sit up in bed but fell back down. “What’s going on?” she slurred.
Her eyes bounced around the room without focusing on anything and then rolled upward. Her eyes looked at him confused.
“Just pretend I’m your drunken cop boyfriend.”
“No,” she moaned.
“I’ll be quick,” he said, as he slipped the open-toed heels off her feet and ran his hands up her bare calves.
“Eric, stop—”
She kicked at him, but Olsen grabbed her ankles and held them until she stopped. Her head, eyes glazed over, rolled to the side as she slipped in and out of consciousness. He hiked her skirt above her waist, grabbed her black thong with both index fingers, and slid it down her legs and over her feet. She didn’t move. He put his hands on the inside of her thighs and pushed her legs apart.
He crawled onto the bed and cupped her face in his hands, trying to see if she was conscious, although at this point, it wasn’t going to change anything. Her eyes shot open.
“No,” she groaned.
He clasped his hand over her mouth. “Quiet,” he ordered, then felt a sharp pain in his left hand.
He pulled a bloody hand from her mouth. “Bitch,” he yelled.
Liz grabbed the lamp from the nightstand and swung it toward his head, as if her body got a jolt of adrenaline for one last fight. He grabbed it and flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall. She clawed at his face. He pinned her hand to her chest and smacked her across the face. The crack of his open hand against her cheek sounded like a gunshot in the small room. Blood from his hand and her busted lip ran down her chin. She collapsed on the bed and looked up at him. Her last bit of fight evaporated. He kicked off his shoes and reached down to undo his belt buckle.
Sinclair made a U-turn on Fifty-Fifth Street and pulled to the curb just north of the motel, while Braddock got on the radio to report their location and tell responding units to approach without lights and sirens from the north. The district sergeant, 2L72, came on the air to order all units to stage behind the homicide car and wait for her before they moved in. The dispatcher said she’d notify the watch commander and have the dispatcher on the main channel send additional units to the scene and to include patrol rifle officers and a canine unit.
Sinclair grabbed the portable radio as he exited the car and closed the door quietly. He headed toward the motel. When he didn’t see Braddock at his side, he turned and saw her standing by the trunk.
“Vests,” she whispered.
He paused for several beats and then realized she was right and jogged back to the car and popped the trunk. He yanked off his suit coat, dropped it in the trunk, pulled the dark blue Kevlar vest over his head, and slapped the Velcro straps in place. He rapped his fist solidly on Braddock’s chest, connecting with the solid metal trauma plate.
She punched him back in his vest and smiled. “Let’s do this.”
They drew their handguns and crept around the corner of the building. Sinclair counted four cars in the lot in addition to the news van. Ten rooms on the ground floor faced the parking lot. Two metal stairways led to ten more rooms that overlooked the parking lot. They slipped into the office at the corner of the building, and while Sinclair stepped up to the window with his gun at his side, Braddock stayed in the doorway and watched the parking lot.
An Indian man with jet-black hair appeared at the window.
“Hello, Officer, how may I help you?”
“That Channel Six truck—a man and a woman drove up in it. Where’d they go?”
He stared out the window as if he didn’t know what Sinclair was talking about.
“Look,” said Sinclair. “I don’t have time to fuck around.”
The desk clerk lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Officer. I always cooperate with police. The man is a registered guest in room five. With him is a reporter lady I see on TV. Very pretty.”
“Key,” said Sinclair.
The clerk pulled a brass key attached to a blue plastic tag from a row of boxes alongside the counter and slid it through the window slot.
“More police will be here in a moment. Don’t even think about calling the room.”
“No, sir, Officer.”
Sinclair stepped behind Braddock and keyed the radio mike. “Thirteen-Adam-Five, they’re in room five. The
door and a window face the parking lot on the south side of the building. No windows at the back.”
Sinclair handed the radio to Braddock, wrapped his left hand around his gun hand, raised his pistol to a low ready position, and crept down the walkway.
He stopped at the door to room five and listened. No sounds inside.
Beyond the door was a large window, but the drapes were drawn, and he dared not step in front of the window to look for a slit in the drapes for fear of announcing their presence. His tender feet burned, and his sweat-soaked dress shirt stuck to his chest like a second skin under the ballistic vest. He heard Braddock’s ragged breathing and glanced over his shoulder to see her flushed face a foot away, beads of sweat forming on her forehead.
Sinclair heard officers announcing their ETA—two and three minutes—over the radio and was about to tell Braddock to turn down the volume when he heard Liz’s scream. His muscles tensed. He crouched lower to get his balance. A male voice yelled something. The only word he could make out was “bitch,” followed by the sound of something crashing inside the room.
Sinclair knew that containment and negotiation was normally the best strategy in a hostage situation. Making a dynamic entry against an armed offender carried risks even for a professionally trained and equipped SWAT team, but when a suspect was intent on killing, such as in an active shooter situation at a school, first responders couldn’t wait.
He glanced back at Braddock. Their eyes met, and she nodded. Without a word, they both knew what they had to do.
He returned his attention to the door as Braddock spoke into the radio. “Thirteen-Adam-Five, he’s preparing to kill her. We’re making entry.”
The radio squealed as ten officers tried to talk at once. Braddock turned down the volume.
Sinclair whispered, “I’ll go left, you go right. Stay on my ass—no hesitation.”
“Got it.”
Sinclair stuck the key in the lock and turned it. The metallic click was barely audible. Braddock tapped him on his back, indicating she was ready. He twisted the doorknob, shoved the door open, and followed it into the room.
During high-risk entries, officers must pass through what’s known as the fatal funnel. A gunman can guarantee hitting the officers making entry if he directs enough rounds into the doorway at the right time.
Like a running back carrying a football on fourth and goal, Sinclair crouched low and rushed across the doorway and into the room. He heard two shots but didn’t stop. Once out of the fatal funnel, he scanned for movement. He caught a blur of Olsen dragging Liz toward the back of the room, his handgun aimed at the doorway where Sinclair passed a split second ago.
Sinclair’s momentum carried him into the room off balance. With Olsen moving and holding Liz in front of him, Sinclair couldn’t take a shot. Sinclair fought to remain on his feet as he crashed into a light stand and chair. Behind him, he heard a guttural yelp.
Sinclair twisted to orient his body and gun toward Olsen, but his foot caught a power cord and sent him crashing face first to the floor. He slithered on his belly along the floor. Stopped behind a bed, out of Olsen’s line of fire. He
glanced back to see Braddock crumpled in the doorway, silhouetted by the blazing sun outside. She moaned and looked at Sinclair. He saw the pain etched in her distorted face and knew she’d been hit.
He motioned for her to get out of the doorway—to crawl out of the kill zone—but she didn’t move. He couldn’t get to her without putting himself in the line of fire. Although he was behind cover for the moment, he too was vulnerable. All Olsen had to do was walk around the bed to shoot him as he lay there helplessly on the floor. Before he could rescue Braddock, he needed to eliminate the threat.
Sinclair sprang up into a kneeling position and thrust his Sig toward the back of the room, immediately focusing the front sight on Olsen as his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the back of the room.
Olsen stood in the doorway to the bathroom, his left arm around Liz’s neck and his right hand holding a gun pressed to her head. The bathroom wall and doorjamb hid most of him, and Liz’s body shielded the rest. Liz’s head covered most of his, leaving only two inches exposed. Not enough for a shot.
Sinclair locked his eyes onto Olsen, trying to ignore Liz’s face, her cheeks streaked with blood and tears, her huge eyes pleading with him to do something—anything.
Sinclair took several deep breaths. His pulse slowed. His index finger barely touched the trigger. As long as Olsen kept the muzzle of his gun at Liz’s head, Sinclair’s only option was an incapacitating headshot, but he needed more of Olsen’s head exposed to do that.
“It doesn’t need to end this way,” said Sinclair. “Let her go and drop your gun.”
“There couldn’t be a better ending. You watching me kill your girlfriend right in front of you.”
“If you hurt her, I’ll—”
“You’ll what—kill me? Maybe you’ll get me before I shoot you. Maybe not, but either way, you’ll watch both of your women die. That’s what this is about, Sinclair, making sure you feel the same pain I’ve felt since mine were taken from me.”
Sinclair aimed his forty-five at Olsen’s right eye, just at the edge of Liz’s head. To take the shot, he needed Liz to move her head just two inches to the right or Olsen to move two inches to the left.
Two inches was all he needed.
“All that’s keeping you alive is the woman you’re hiding behind,” said Sinclair. “You shoot her and you’re dead.”
“And that’ll take you back to the bottle like it did the last time you killed a man. I know you better than you know yourself. You’re a killer just like me.” A smile crept across Olsen’s face. He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll shoot your partner first.”
Olsen moved his gun from Liz’s head and waggled it at the doorway where Braddock lay.
Without hesitation, Sinclair shifted his aim to the left and fired into the wall. He continued firing until he had shot eight rounds.
Both Olsen and Liz dropped out of his view. He pressed the magazine release. The empty magazine fell to the ground as his left hand slammed a fresh one into the gun’s butt in one smooth movement.
Once reloaded, he moved around the bed into the center of the room. Liz was crawling away from the bathroom. Sinclair crept forward until he saw Olsen lying on
the bathroom floor, splotches of red on his right shoulder, chest, and forearm growing larger. The gun still clenched in his hand.
Liz scooted into a corner and pulled her legs to her chest. Her skirt was bunched above her waist. She sobbed hysterically. Sinclair kept his focus on Olsen and pointed his gun at the center of his chest.
“It’s over,” said Sinclair. “Let go of the gun.”
“Go ahead and do it,” said Olsen, pink foam bubbling from his mouth. “I won’t go to prison.”
Sinclair heard the sirens closing in, some going silent as the cars arrived outside.
“It doesn’t work that way.”
Sinclair heard car doors slamming on the street.
Olsen laughed and pink spittle sprayed from his mouth. “People had to pay. You, if anyone, should understand. You and me—we’re the same.”
Behind him, Sinclair heard Liz in a soft, quivering voice. “Kill him, Matt.”
Olsen’s right hand trembled as he tried to raise his gun. There was a gaping hole in Olsen’s right forearm, jagged pieces of broken bone poking out of the ragged flesh. His arm shook as he tried to raise the gun. Olsen began to reach across his chest toward the gun with his left hand.
“No,” Sinclair ordered.
“It’s either me or you,” said Olsen, as his left hand crept closer to the gun. “The Bus Bench Killer or Sergeant Sinclair. That’s how it’s supposed to end.”
Sinclair heard police radios coming across the parking lot. Then he stepped toward Olsen and, with all his might, kicked his arm, aiming at the shattered bone.
Olsen let loose a long, anguished scream and his hand released the Beretta.
With his foot, Sinclair hooked the gun toward him and kicked it clear. “This is how it ends. You and I are nothing alike.”
The waitress cleared their plates and brought coffee. It was the first time Sinclair had seen Liz since the ambulance took her away three days ago. Their conversation over dinner had been cordial, but he sensed a divide as wide as the San Francisco Bay between them. In the candlelight, Sinclair could barely make out Liz’s injuries under her heavy makeup, but her eyes showed fatigue and stress. He’d been waiting for her to announce what was on her mind ever since he received a delivery of flowers and an expensive box of cigars at the office earlier that day. The note asked him to join her for a late dinner and closed with,
Thanks for saving my life. I’ll always love you, Liz
.
His final showdown with Olsen at the Golden State Motel three days earlier was still fresh on his mind. Once Lieutenant Maloney and the rest of the homicide unit arrived on scene and cleared him to leave, Sinclair had rushed to the hospital. The ER staff had taken Braddock downstairs for a CT scan, so he grabbed a nurse and inquired about Liz. The nurse said Liz had been examined, found to have no serious injuries, and signed herself out against medical advice. A few hours later, Sinclair sat alongside Braddock
as she lay unconscious in ICU. He was staring at the TV on the wall when the five o’clock news came on, and he was shocked to see Liz sitting at the anchor desk. A dark bruise covered half her face, and her lower lip was so swollen she spoke with a lisp. She wore her battle wounds proudly, and Sinclair was sure it was the first time Liz ever declined hair and makeup before going on the air. She reported the harrowing details of her ordeal and heaped praise on him and Braddock for her rescue. She was on the ten o’clock news later that night and on a morning show Monday. They spoke several times on the phone, but she was too busy to meet. She flew to New York Monday night and appeared on
Good Morning America
Tuesday morning and another network talk show that afternoon.
Liz added cream to her coffee and slowly stirred it. “I’ve been offered a huge contract for an anchor-track position with CBS in Chicago.”
“That’s what you’ve always dreamed of.”
She smiled.
“Will you take it?”
“I already have. Movers arrive tomorrow and I fly out tomorrow night. I’m hot right now, and they want me in place right away to take advantage of it.”
“Congratulations. You earned it.” Sinclair only half meant it. Most of the homicide unit thought the DA’s office should have charged her criminally for what she did, and all were in agreement that any cop who did something that reckless would be fired. Sinclair wasn’t so sure. Monday morning, Chief Brown had told the Internal Affairs to initiate an investigation for disobeying his order to stay in the office, but like after the Alonzo Moore shooting, the media made Sinclair into a hero, and along with Liz, he became
a national sensation. Brown called IAD a few hours later and told them to close the case. In a news conference that afternoon, he joined the tide of public opinion and praised Sinclair.
“None of this would have been possible without you,” Liz said. She pulled a tissue from her handbag and wiped her eyes.
Sinclair nodded and smiled.
“I need to get back. Prepare for the ten o’clock broadcast. They’re doing a farewell segment on me.”
Sinclair reached for his wallet.
“I already paid,” she said. “My new job comes with a credit card and expense account.”
Sinclair stood. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Finish your coffee.” She stood and wiped her eyes again. “I’ll lose it totally if I’m alone with you.”
Liz leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered in his ear, “I’ll always love you, Matt.”
He watched as she walked away, the sound of her clicking heels growing faint until she disappeared out the door. A wave of sadness came over him, but at the same time, he felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.