There was a handgun, a Glock model 17, he had purchased the year before at Trader’s
in San Leandro. Wearing a pair of cotton gardening gloves, Ray had fieldstripped the
weapon as described in the manual and thoroughly cleaned and oiled it. Then he loaded
the semiautomatic’s two magazines to their capacity of seventeen nine-millimeter cartridges
each, still wearing gloves to eliminate the possibility of leaving fingerprints on
the brass cases.
In a similar manner he’d fieldstripped his father’s old M1 carbine, smuggled home
from his service in Korea, and lovingly cleaned and oiled the military arm. Like the
pistol, Ray meticulously loaded the weapon’s multiple fifteen- and thirty-round magazines
with fresh .30 carbine ammunition purchased from a gun shop in Fremont months ago.
Ray had taken the time to purchase a paratrooper model folding stock for the weapon
at an Army/Navy surplus store in San Jose, and had replaced the standard full-length
wooden stock on the M1 rifle with the shorter pistol grip. He’d also modified the
rifle’s canvas sling by shortening it and securing it to the butt of the pistol grip
by means of a swivel. This allowed Ray to hang the semiautomatic military carbine
over his shoulder like a purse. Concealed under a coat, the weapon could be hidden
from view but ready for instant use.
Ray had a pocket-sized police scanner with an earpiece. He’d customized it himself
by installing the crystals for the Alameda police radio frequencies.
Among the other items on the sofa bed were a blue nylon windbreaker, several pairs
of cotton gardening gloves, baseball caps of assorted colors, two pairs of Ray-Ban
sunglasses, and a box of replacement guitar strings. Ray Cowell did not play guitar.
There was also a fanny pack containing several small tools, which included a flashlight
and a Philips screwdriver. A paintball pistol, designed and manufactured to resemble
a Colt Python .357 magnum revolver with a six-inch barrel, lay on the sofa as well.
Next to it were an opened package of phosphorescent orange paint balls and compressed
CO2 cartridges to power the gun.
Ray packed all of the items, including the new vest and hairspray, into a green US
Army duffel bag with the name PASCOE, ARNOLD R. stenciled in faded block lettering
on the side. He put the bag into his closet and lay back on his now vacant sofa bed
to light a cigarette.
Exhaling smoke, Ray contemplated the past. He thought about his mother and what she’d
become. He thought about Paige Callen and her father, a smirk spreading slowly across
his thin features. Mostly, though, he thought about his own father and what might
have been if not for Sissy, and that terrible summer.
The summer of 1964.
CHAPTER 8
Bob Farrell followed Judge Callen into the house’s interior.
“Thank you for coming,” Callen said over his shoulder as he led Farrell into his study.
“I apologize for the lateness of the hour.”
“No apology necessary,” Farrell said. “Sandy said you wanted to see me about a job.
He told me it was urgent.”
“It most certainly is.” Callen motioned to one of several large armchairs. “But not
so urgent as to preclude being a good host. May I offer you a drink?” The Judge thrust
his chin at a well-stocked wet bar in one corner of the expansive room. “You look
like a thirsty man.”
“I’ve been known to take a drink,” Farrell acknowledged.
“That’s a good sign,” Callen said. “I find it difficult to trust men who don’t imbibe.”
“A sentiment we share,” Farrell said. “Why don’t you take a load off and permit me
the honor of pouring you one.” He could see the Judge leaning heavily on his cane.
“You are a considerate man, Mister Farrell. It’s been a long and exhausting day.”
He slumped into a well-worn, high-backed leather seat. “Scotch over rocks, if you
please. And don’t spare your elbow.”
“I won’t.” Farrell strode to the bar.
“Sandy speaks very highly of the work you did for him, Mister Farrell.”
“What did he say?”
“That you were both effective and discreet,” Callen said. “Qualities I admire.”
“Sandy’s a good man. And the name’s Bob.” He busied himself pouring two drinks, a
Dewar’s for Callen and a Kentucky bourbon for himself.
“He was most grateful for what you were able to accomplish for him,” Callen added.
“I was glad to help. So, what can I do for you, Your Honor?” Farrell asked once he
had delivered the Judge’s drink and sat down.
“This morning at dawn, a man assaulted my daughter. She was jogging on the beach here
in Alameda. The assailant called her by name and made it clear he would be back.”
“Was she–”
“No,” Callen cut him off. “She was not sexually assaulted. But he took pains to let
her know he could have. He struck her in the head with a pistol, which I’ve subsequently
learned was something called a ‘paintball’ gun. Then he shot her with it.”
“I can only assume your daughter didn’t know it was a paintball gun?”
“You presume correctly. She believed she was going to be executed.”
Farrell nodded to himself. “Does your daughter have any idea who this guy is?”
“No. She didn’t recognize the voice.”
“The police have anything?”
“Nothing.” Callen shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“That’s not uncommon this early in the investigation. Of course, it could mean this
guy is good, the cops investigating him aren’t, or both.”
“I agree,” Callen said.
“Is your daughter employed?”
“Paige is an Alameda County deputy district attorney. She’s assigned to the DA’s office
here in town.”
Farrell’s brow furrowed. “Paige? Paige Callen? Your daughter wouldn’t be a tall blonde,
late twenties, would she? Lots of freckles; takes herself real seriously?”
It was Callen’s turn to wrinkle his eyebrows. “She is. How did you know that?”
“We’ve met before,” Farrell chuckled into his drink.
“You two haven’t–”
“Hell no; nothing like that. I’m practically old enough to be her father.” As soon
as he said this, Farrell winced. “No offense, Your Honor.”
“None taken,” the Judge said sternly. “If I may be so bold, how do you know Paige?”
“I really don’t; she knows me.”
“Please explain.”
“About a year ago, I found myself in some hot water with the Feds. Some of the trouble
had to do with things I did here in Alameda. The US Attorney’s office was looking
to lock me up and throw away the key. I brokered a deal, and all the charges went
away. I gather the Alameda cops, and your daughter, who was the deputy DA reviewing
those charges, were none too happy I was getting off.”
“I’m aware of your past troubles with the federal authorities,” Judge Callen said.
“I didn’t realize Paige was involved from the Alameda County DA’s end of things; she
never told me.”
“How do you know about me?”
Callen smiled. “I may be retired, but I keep my fingers in the game. The senior superior
court judge in Alameda County at the time you ‘brokered a deal’, as you called it,
with the federal, state, and county prosecutors, is a protégé of mine. I would call
what you ‘brokered’ more like blackmail and less like a deal. Not many legal settlements
of that magnitude are negotiated in this county without my knowledge.” He paused for
effect. “Then or now.”
“Small world,” Farrell said. “I wondered why Sandy said you specifically asked for
me.”
“I did indeed.”
“Not being a believer in coincidence,” Farrell went on, “I have to ask: does my history,
which you admittedly know so well, have anything to do with why you want to hire me?”
“It does.”
Farrell took this in, gazing into his bourbon.
“Not a lot of people approve of what I did. Some of them, like your daughter, wanted
me jailed for it.”
“You did what you had to do, Bob.”
“I’m not referring to tracking down Vernon Slocum,” Farrell corrected him. “I meant
as a superior court judge, how do you feel about me getting off?”
“You took down a monster. You succeeded where the proper authorities failed. You saved
lives. And you managed to protect your daughter, your partner, and yourself in the
process. An impressive feat. In your shoes, I’d have done the same if I could.”
“Your daughter doesn’t share your sentiments. I only met her once, at the federal
courthouse in San Francisco, when the deal was sealed. She was fit to be tied. She
ranted at the federal attorney for several minutes about what a ‘gross miscarriage
of justice’ it was. She believes I should be occupying a cell in a federal penitentiary.
Hell, I thought she was going to clobber me right there in the courtroom.”
“That’s my Paige, all right,” Callen conceded. “She’s very passionate about following
rules.”
“You can say that again.” Farrell eyed the Judge coolly. “Does your daughter know
you want to employ me?”
“Not yet.”
“When she finds, out there’ll be fireworks.”
“I don’t care. I want Paige protected. I want to commission you to find out who this
degenerate stalking her is.” The Judge paused again. “I want him dealt with.”
“Those are two different things.”
“I don’t believe they are. Both achieve the same goal: keeping my daughter safe.”
“Two different things,” Farrell repeated. “Protecting your daughter and hunting for
her stalker are separate tasks. Both are labor-intensive.” He tilted his head. “Why
not let the police handle it?”
Callen shook his head dismissively. “The police have to play by the rules. Not only
do they have to play by those rules while trying to catch this perpetrator, they are
simultaneously handcuffed by the requirement to build a legal case against him for
prosecution in criminal court. Somewhere behind these considerations is keeping Paige
safe.”
“For a superior court judge,” Farrell noted, “you exhibit a remarkable lack of faith
in the criminal justice system.”
“Correction: I’m a retired superior court judge. Any allegiance I may have had to
the criminal justice system is subordinate to my duty as a father. After reviewing
your history and the documentation of your hunt for serial killer Vernon Slocum, which
the federal authorities chronicled in minute detail–”
“The Feds are good at that,” Farrell cut in.
“–I’m frankly rather surprised at your squeamishness.”
“I’m not squeamish about breaking rules,” Farrell countered. “Or the law, when it’s
necessary. I’m just not accustomed to meeting superior court judges who hold similar
views.”
“As I say, I’m a father first.”
“I understand. I have a daughter myself.”
“Then you know why I want to hire you.”
“Not entirely,” Farrell said. “I’m a one-man band. Why not employ one of the larger,
established private investigation firms? They have the resources and manpower to handle
both a wide-ranging investigation and around-the-clock protection. Surely money isn’t
a barrier; why hire me?”
Judge Callen drained his scotch and extended the glass to Farrell. Farrell did likewise
and stood up, gathering the Judge’s empty glass along with his. He made his way back
to the bar and busied himself refreshing their drinks.
“You can make mine a double,” the Judge said.
“Way ahead of you. You were saying?”
“I already told you I read the full dossier on you, Bob. I know about your nearly
thirty years as a San Francisco police inspector. I know about your Vietnam service.
And as I already told you, I know all about your blood hunt for Vernon Slocum. I know
what you did, why, and how you did it.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Farrell said, handing the older man his scotch.
“Why me?”
“I’ll do you the courtesy of speaking bluntly,” the Judge said. “You’re obviously
a man who speaks his mind.”
“Life is too short to do otherwise.”
“Simply put, you, Mister Farrell, are an exceptionally resolute man. You always get
the job done.”
“I’m flattered by your confidence in me,” Farrell said, after taking a sizeable gulp
of his own drink, “but that may not be enough. I can’t guarantee results. Nobody can.
Anyone who claims otherwise, in this line of work, is either incompetent, lying, or
a fool.”
“Another reason I want you handling this case,” the Judge said. “You’re a realist.
You’re not going to blow smoke up my ass and try to placate me with a lot of excuses
and bureaucratic double-talk like the police do.”
“That’s not the only reason you want to hire me, is it?”
“No,” the Judge admitted. “It’s not.”
“It’s because I’m a father?”
“Correct. We share a common bond. What would you do to protect your child?”
“What wouldn’t I do?” Farrell said, staring again into his drink.
“Precisely why you’re the man for this job.”
“Judge Callen” – Farrell looked up – “I haven’t said I would take this case yet.”
“Of course you’ll take the case,” Callen announced, as if it was already settled.
“If it’s money you’re worried about–”
“It’s not money,” Farrell said. “When I went after Vernon Slocum, it was personal.
Begging your pardon, but this isn’t. I cracked a lot of eggs to make that omelet and
damn near paid with my life. I almost got my partner killed, and the both of us barely
escaped a long prison jolt.”
“I am aware of the sacrifices you made,” the Judge said. “Remember, I read your dossier.”
“I’m not talking about sacrifice, Your Honor,” Farrell said. “I’m being practical.
You may have forgotten that I forced the Feds and several local DAs like your daughter
Paige, into swallowing all the criminal charges we’d accumulated while on the hunt;
but they sure as hell didn’t forget. Any one of them would jump at the chance to put
me on the grill again, with your daughter leading the pack. I’m sorry for your troubles,
but I don’t need that kind of grief. I don’t want to go to prison.”