grave. That was all. No notations in Troxell’s hand, no additional contents of any kind.
Two other items in the box. One was a thick bunch of nonreligious Hallmark cards bound together by a rubber band. All new and of more or less the same design, with simple messages: deepest sympathy, heartfelt condolences. Ready to be signed with something anonymous like “A Friend” and sent to victims’ families with or without floral offerings.
The final item in the box was the most interesting of the lot. Pad of ruled yellow foolscap, new, with none of the sheets having been torn off. Five pages had writing on them, all of it in Troxell’s crabbed hand. The top sheet had been done with a ballpoint, the penmanship good and the rows orderly until the last few sentences; those sentences sprawled and had been written with enough pressure to tear the paper in a few places. Rough draft of a letter that had never been sent:
To the S.F. Police Department Three nights ago, at approximately 7 p.m., I was at Lloyd Lake in Golden Gate Park. I stop there sometimes on my way home from work, sit at Portals of the Past and watch the ducks, it’s a quiet place to unwind.
I was returning to my car when I noticed a man and a woman talking alongside a car parked across the road from mine. There was no one else in the vicinity. The man was holding the door open. The woman hesitated as if she was reluctant to get inside, then relented. The man got in after her. I don’t believe either of them noticed me.
He didn’t start the car or put on the lights. As I was buckling my seat belt, I saw them talking and the woman began to laugh. It seemed to make him angry. He said something to her and she stopped laughing. She tried to get out of the car. He grabbed her, dragged her back. I think he might have hit her then. No, I’m sure he did, he punched her in the face, the dome light was on and I saw her head bounce off the door glass and her body slump down on the seat. He pulled the door shut. He started the car and drove away.
I could have followed them but I didn’t.
I sat there a while longer and then I drove home.
I didn’t do anything.
It was dark and I didn’t get a clear look at the woman but she was young and she was wearing a light- colored jogging suit. I think she might be the woman who was raped and murdered that night.
I can’t identify the man, I didn’t get a clear look at him.
I can’t identify the make or model of the car.
I couldn’t read the license plate number.
I don’t really know anything.
I didn’t do anything.
I can’t I couldn’t I don’t I didn’t
The other four pages had been written with a black felt-tip pen. Some of it was the same crabbed handwriting as the letter draft, some was in block printing, a few words had been formed in thick, heavy, doodlelike strokes. Done at different times, but in each case during a period of emotional upheaval.
The first: american? japanese?
2 doors 4 doors? dark color but what color? dark blue dark green dark brown? license plate? 2 something U or O or D but that’s all big man but just husky or fat? what kind of cap? baseball racing sun what? don’t know can’t remember couldn’t tell in the dark didnt pay enough attention why not? you coward you know why not
The second: cant cant coward cant coward coward coward
The third: why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy
WHY
WHY!!!!!
The last: cant stop any of it from happening cant understand it cant get away from it in the midst of life we are in death its all around us everywhere
SO
MUCH
DEATH
Runyon used the small digital camera he carried to photograph each of the five sheets. Then he replaced the pad, closed the carton. There was nothing else to see in the studio; he’d seen enough, more than enough.
He went back out into the cold night.
Christ,” Bill said, “I was afraid of something like that.”
“Better to know than not. For everybody.”
“Except us. Evidence obtained by illegal trespass. We can’t sit on it, and that puts us smack between a rock and a hard place.”
“I’ll take responsibility if it comes to that. You didn’t order me to get the key.”
“I didn’t order you not to, either.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll need to sleep on it, take a look at those digitals, talk to Tamara. One thing for sure: We’re off this case, as of right now.”
Runyon didn’t argue. He put his cell away, started the car. The Troxell surveillance might be finished, but not the Erin Dumont homicide investigation. Not for Risa Niland. And not for him.
Still nobody home at the Johnson number in Morgan Hill.
McRoyd’s Irish Pub was noisy and crowded, standing-room only at the bar, two bartenders on duty and both needed. The older of the barkeeps was Sam Mc-Royd, a bantam of a man in his sixties, white-haired, garrulous-a court-holder who spent as much time arguing and bantering with his customers as he did mixing drinks. It took Runyon ten minutes to claim a stool, another fifteen minutes to get McRoyd’s ear and ask his questions.
“Weighed three hundred pounds, ye say? Wore his hair in one of them ponytails?”
“That’s right.”
“And a uniform?”
“Might have worn one in here, might not.”
“Don’t place him. Not a regular customer. Let me think on it a minute.”
Runyon ordered a draft beer. McRoyd went to draw it, and when he came back he said, “Now I recall the lad. Giants fan. Steroids.”
“Steroids?”
“Didn’t see nothing wrong with players like Barry Bonds using ‘em. Winning was all that mattered to him, never mind fair play. We had a few sharp words about that nonsense, one night.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“Drank Guinness. The right way, slow, to savor the taste. Quiet except for his Giants fever and his crap about steroids. Wore a Giants cap. Turned around with the bill in back, like a catcher before he puts on his mask.”
“Every time he was here?”
“Seems like. Never took it off.”
“But no uniform?”
“No uniform,” McRoyd said.
“Did he talk to anybody besides you? Another customer?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Give you any idea where he lived or worked?”
“Baseball, that’s the sum of it.”
Runyon took a little more than that away with him. Giants fan, Giants cap, didn’t wear a uniform after working hours. Not much, but something. big man but just husky or fat? what kind of cap? baseball racing sun what?
And maybe more than just a little something.
In his cold apartment he brewed a cup of tea and then downloaded the five digital photos onto his laptop. They were all good shots, the writing clearly readable in each. He created and saved a file for them, e-mailed the file to Tamara’s computer at the agency.
He carried his cup into the bedroom, sat on the bed and looked at the silver-framed portrait of Colleen on the nightstand. Her smiling image held his attention for a long time, until the tea was gone and his eyes began to ache and his vision to swim a little at the edges. Then he got up, returned to the living room, switched on the TV for
