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  Chapter 23

  GARY GOODFRIEND WORE a fringed buckskin jacket, distressed jeans, and a plaid shirt. He swaggered as he came up the aisle, then walked through the gate as though he were bellying up to a bar.

  Yuki took a sip from her water bottle and watched as Goodfriend was sworn in. The man was cocky. He had an ego. But he had also come forward and volunteered to testify for the prosecution.

  He was an uncontrollable yet important witness, and Yuki had decided to take a chance on him.

  When he was seated, she greeted him and asked him about his business.

  “I’m an FFL. A licensed gun dealer. I have a store over in Castro Valley.”

  “Do you know the defendant?”

  “I met him at a Calgun firearms show. I had a booth there. I talked to him for about ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “Did you sell him a gun?”

  “Yes. I sold him a Beretta Px4 Storm. It’s an exceptional weapon. Mr. Herman had a CCW and he paid cash.”

  “Can you tell us what CCW stands for?”

  “Carrying a concealed weapon—a permit.”

  “Did you sell more than one gun at the gun show?”

  “About fifteen guns that day. Another dozen the following day.”

  “And what was it about Mr. Herman that made him stand out in your mind?”

  “He was talking to another customer while I rang up a sale. Something he said just stayed in my mind.”

  “And what was the nature of that conversation?”

  “Two guys shooting the bull about guns. What they owned. What they liked. What they liked to shoot at.”

  “And what did Mr. Herman like to shoot at?”

  “Mr. Herman told the other guy that he had a rat problem.”

  “Do you know the name of the other guy?”

  “No, I didn’t sell him a gun. I never saw him before or since.”

  “So you overheard Mr. Herman say he had a rat problem. What did the other guy say to that?”

  “He said, ‘Rat problem? You mean like a snitch?’ And Herman over there said, ‘No, a rug rat problem.’”

  “What did you take ‘rug rat’ to mean?”

  “A rug rat is a kid. A child. At the time, I thought he was just, you know, joking, but when I heard about his wife turning up dead and his kid going missing, I remembered what he said and it got me worried.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes.”

  Yuki showed the police report to the judge and to Kinsela, then handed it to the clerk along with the sales receipt for the gun. These items were entered into evidence.

  Then she thanked Gary Goodfriend and turned him over to the defense for cross-examination.

  Chapter 24

  JOHN KINSELA GOT to his feet behind the prosecution table and stayed there. He looked bored as he questioned Yuki’s witness from across the room.

  “Mr. Goodfriend, you say you sold thirty guns, more or less, at the gun show that weekend. Is that right?”

  “Yes. More or less.”

  “And presumably you talked to more than those thirty people who bought guns from you.”

  “Oh, sure. I talked to hundreds of people.”

  “But you’ve told us that you remember Mr. Herman distinctly two years later. Is that right?”

  “He’s a memorable person.”

  “Memorable because he said he had a rug rat problem. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And as I understand it, you took that to mean that he was buying a gun to kill a child?”

  “You could take it to mean that.”

  “Seriously? But you didn’t notify the police at that time, did you?”

  “No. It just sounded like bull. Creepy bull, but bull.”

  “Did the defendant also tell you directly that he had a rug rat problem?”

  “Nope.”

  “Would it surprise you to hear that, in fact, Mr. Herman’s house did have rodents? And that he hired an exterminator?”

  “If you say so, I believe you.”

  “Thanks. Now, apart from the overheard conversation, and whatever you two said during the gun transaction, did you have any conversations with the defendant at any other time?”

  “Nope.”

  “So apart from the joke he made with this ‘other guy,’ you had no additional reason to believe that Mr. Herman meant to harm his daughter.”

  “No. Not really.”

  “That’s all, Mr. Goodfriend. Thanks for your testimony.”

  Goodfriend leaned forward and addressed Kinsela’s back. “Just his reputation as a criminal defense lawyer who is said to eliminate prosecution witnesses. Which means I’m putting my life on the line here.”

  Kinsela spun around to face the judge. His face was red and he was clearly surprised by Goodfriend’s postscript.

  “Your Honor, move to strike. The witness’s remark is hearsay on its face and highly prejudicial.”

  Yuki was ready with a response.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Goodfriend answered Mr. Kinsela’s question and now he’s objecting to the witness’s answer.”

  “He offered his opinion on my client’s character, which was not asked for,” said Kinsela.

  “All right, all right. Mr. Kinsela, before I instruct the jury, do you have any other questions for Mr. Goodfriend?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  The judge told the clerk to strike Goodfriend’s last comment from the record. Then he instructed the jury that the witness’s characterization of Mr. Herman and his further opinion that his life was in danger were not evidence and that the jurors were not to consider it during their deliberations.

  Yuki controlled herself, but she was elated. Nicky Gaines nudged her. He was grinning like a jack-o’-lantern. Another point for the prosecution. Hey: Team Yuki was on a roll.

  Chapter 25

  I LEFT BRADY’S office and crossed the fluorescent-lit, twenty-by-thirty-foot bull pen/obstacle course, getting hugs and high fives from cops I’d known for a long time. At the front of the room were two gray metal desks butted head-to-head. One of those desks was mine. The other belonged to my partner.

  A cute young woman with dark wavy hair, wearing a white T-shirt and tight jeans, was sitting in my chair. She was in deep conversation with Conklin, who got to his feet when he saw me.

  “Boxer, hey. Good to see you.”

  He gave me a gender-neutral hug, but a good one, and then said, “Meet Mackie Morales, our summer intern. Mackie, my partner, Sergeant Lindsay Boxer.”

  Morales got out of my chair and reached out to shake my hand. She said she’d heard so much about me, and then she told Conklin she’d be in the file room.

  He said, “Wait, Mackie. I’m going to bring the sergeant up to speed on the Faye Farmer case. Stick around for that.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Stay.”

  It’s rare to meet someone you like immediately, but I felt good about Mackie Morales. She had an open smile, a good handshake, and apparently Conklin approved of her.

  “Thanks,” she said. She pulled a spare chair up to our desks, and I asked Conklin what he had on Faye Farmer.

  “I was just on my way to notify her parents. Ask them about my list of her friends, her devotees, and her detractors,” Conklin said. “CSIU is down in the ME’s office now, going over the premises for trace after the body went missing.”

  “The Chronicle just broke the story online,” Morales told me. “We’ve got phone calls, tweets, e-mail, and our website is swamped.”

  Conklin said, “While Mackie runs down the phone leads—”

  He never got to finish his sentence. Brady came out of his office, strode toward us, and then loomed over our desks. He said to Conklin, “Remember that weirdo professor, dreamed about a murder?”

  “Dr. Perry Judd,” said Morales.

  “The woman he described yesterday was gunned down in Whole Foods an hour ago. Same woman, down to the green-bead necklace and the roots growing
out of her blond hair. Conklin, you and Boxer check out the scene. Then go pick up the professor. Talk to him again.”

  Morales leaned over my shoulder and pulled up the professor’s contact info on my computer while I called Joe.

  I didn’t like the sound of his voice when he answered.

  “Joe, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s going to be okay, honey, but Julie has a little fever.”

  My stomach clenched and the blood left my head. I thought I might be sick all over my desk.

  “How little is little?”

  “It’s a hundred and three. It’s not unusual for a baby to have a fever, so I’m just letting you know. Don’t worry about this. I’ll see you later.”

  “Joe, you’ll see me in twenty minutes. I’m leaving now.”

  “Lindsay, no. I’ve got her. Everything is under control.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Conklin said, “Boxer, you okay?”

  Joe said, “I’ve seen this before. I looked it up online, and I also put in a call to Dr. Gordon. Please, Lindsay. Let me handle this. I’ll call you if we need you.”

  I had to say, “Okay,” and I did. I hung up, and the blood returned to my head. I told Conklin that I was ready, and the two of us headed downstairs to the parking lot behind the ME’s office.

  I got into the passenger seat of the squad car and tried to get my mind on my two cases.

  But I kept hearing my little girl cry.

  Chapter 26

  BY THE TIME Conklin and I arrived on 4th Street, the CSIU van and half a dozen squad cars had blocked a lane of traffic and run up on the hundred-foot stretch of sidewalk in front of Whole Foods. Morning commuters beat on their horns and shouted out their car windows, but no amount of yelling moved the stalled traffic.

  Conklin double-parked and we exited the car into the wall of bystanders who were packed behind the barrier tape, sending a gale of tweets and snapshots out to the Web.

  Officer Tom Forcaretta was at the front door. He was new on the force, but appeared to be coping well with the chaos. I signed the log and asked him to tell me what he knew about the crime.

  “The shooting happened between seven thirty and seven thirty-five,” he said. “The vic is Harriet Adams, white female, thirty-eight, looks like she took three bullets—right arm, neck, right chest. She was alive, but barely conscious when I got here. She told me her name. That was all. Ambulance took her to Metropolitan but she was DOA.”

  “How many witnesses?” I asked.

  “Two semiwitnesses. A stock boy and a customer, but neither of them got a look at the shooter. They heard breaking glass and saw the victim go down. Both of them were interviewed and released.”

  “And where are the other customers?”

  “The ones we could stop from leaving are in the stock-room. A team from Robbery is interviewing them, then releasing them through the rear door.”

  “How many customers are we talking about?”

  “Too many to count, Sergeant. Over a hundred, prob’ly.”

  “And the people who work here? Could be an employee went postal.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Employees are in the manager’s office. Bambi Simmons, that’s the manager, said our vic was a regular customer and maybe a pain in the butt. She returned opened cans and so forth.”

  “I take it the weapon hasn’t been recovered.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And the surveillance tape?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ve got it, such as it is.”

  Automatic doors slid open and Conklin and I stepped into the thirty-thousand-square-foot crime scene. It wasn’t Columbine, but it was freaking overwhelming, anyway. Crime techs were all over the place, putting down markers, snapping photos. If they didn’t turn up two million unique fingerprints, it would be amazing.

  Conklin and I were directed to the far right-hand side of the store, where Charlie Clapper, head of our crime lab, was shooting pictures. He did a double take when he saw me.

  “Good God, Lindsay. Aren’t you on leave?”

  “I was. This is my welcome-back party.”

  “Good to see you, kiddo,” he said. “And here’s what we’ve got for you: a violent death in a humongous haystack. No idea if there’s a needle in here or even what a needle would look like. Did you hear? No witnesses, no weapon, no robbery. Just ‘bang, bang, bang.’ It’s a real who-freakin’-dunit.”

  Chapter 27

  THE DAPPER CHARLIE Clapper was a homicide cop before he became director of forensics, and we were lucky to have him. He was thorough, insightful, and after he pointed out the evidence, he got out of the way.

  Now he led us to the frozen-foods section, and Conklin and I got our first look at the primary scene.

  Blood spatter, mostly of the arterial kind, had sprayed the contents of the freezer and the doors on both sides of the shattered glass. There was a long smear of blood on the unbroken bottom half of one door, showing where Harriet Adams had slid down after taking those shots.

  An open handbag lay at the edge of a puddle made up of water, blood, and ice cream. The pool had been entirely corrupted by the EMTs’ attempt to save Harriet Adams’s life.

  Conklin and I gaped at the number and assortment of footprints, drag marks, handprints, and gurney-wheel tracks running in and out of the pool.

  “Textbook example of EMTs—evidence-mangling technicians—at work,” Clapper said. “Unless there’s a signed death threat in the victim’s handbag, we’ll never solve the case out of this.”

  Conklin said to Clapper, “You have a picture of the victim?”

  “The hospital just sent it,” he said. He pulled up a photo on his mobile phone. I took a look.

  Harriet Adams was on a metal table with a sheet pulled up to her chin.

  Conklin asked Clapper, “Can you make a call? Find out what she was wearing? Find out if she wore toenail polish?”

  “I’ll be back,” I said.

  I called Joe from the soup-and-nuts aisle. He said Julie was sleeping. He didn’t want to wake her to take her temperature. I asked him a lot of questions: Was she hot? How did she look? Did he think maybe a run to the hospital was in order? Joe talked me down, and then I called Brady.

  “You need a senior team on this,” I told him. “We’ll take over again after we interview our person of interest.”

  Once again, Conklin and I bucked the crowd outside the food store on our way to the squad car.

  “What are your thoughts?” I asked my partner as we pulled out and headed east toward Brannan Street.

  “It’s crazy, Lindsay. The scene is exactly what the professor said he dreamed—except for one thing. He dreamed that the victim was shot dead in the store.

  “He didn’t get that right, but he nailed everything else, down to the green glass beads and the blue paint on her toenails. What the hell are we dealing with? A guy reports that he’s going to kill someone—and then he does it?

  “He’s crazy or he’s messing with us, one or the other,” Conklin said. “Right?”

  He leaned on the horn, then switched on the siren. It was as if the traffic were welded into one piece.

  “Right,” I said.

  Chapter 28

  I’D LEFT THE house this morning whistling heigh-ho, heigh-ho. Three hours, a sick baby, and one bad crime scene later, Conklin and I were sitting across the table from the squirrelly Professor Judd.

  My mind was only half in the moment. I opened my phone and put it on the table, staring at it as if staring would make it ring. While we waited for coffee, Conklin warmed up our person of interest with softball small talk.

  Judd was at ease, blathering to Conklin about a book he was reading. He didn’t seem surprised or alarmed or even aware that he was in our interrogation room because he had predicted a murder twenty-four hours before it had happened.

  I tried to picture this neat and bookish man as a killer, and it didn’t quite compute. Mackie brought coffee and left the room, stationing her
self behind the one-way glass.

  “We need to go over a couple of things, Professor,” Conklin said. Have I said that Conklin has mastered the art of being the “good cop”? Most of the time, being sweet and a good listener gets suspects to tell him the truth. If sweetness doesn’t do the trick, he’s got me.

  “Sure,” said Perry Judd. “How can I help you?”

  “Can you tell us where you were at seven thirty this morning?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. I was in my office. Three of my students missed the second semester final and I was giving them a makeup exam before class. Why do you ask?”

  “And how long did it take them to do the test?” Conklin asked. He sugared his coffee. Gave it a stir.

  “I can tell you exactly because it was a timed test. Forty-five minutes.”

  “Were you in the room the entire time?”

  “Oh, sure. Not that I don’t trust the kids, but if you leave them alone, they’re bound to converse. Another way of saying, ‘They’ll cheat.’”

  “And all three of them will say you were in the room from seven thirty to eight fifteen?” asked Inspector Rich Conklin, the good cop to my bull in the china shop.

  “You bet they will.”

  I butted in, not because my partner wasn’t doing a perfect interrogation. He was. I did it so I could keep my mind in the room, and maybe get this a-hole to confess to premeditated murder.

  “Professor. The woman you described from your dream was shot and killed this morning in the frozen-foods section of Whole Foods. Just like you said. How did you know about the shooting? Or did you make a plan, report it, and then execute it?”

  “She was really shot?”

  Perry Judd seemed to be very pleasantly surprised. In fact, as I watched him, his face brightened from his goatee up to his hairline.

  “Really? You’re saying it actually did happen?”

  I scowled. “Middle-aged white woman, blond hair with dark roots, green beads, sandals, and blue toenail polish. Just the way you described her to my partner yesterday.”

  “Good God. It’s true; it’s really true.”