upscale business enterprises, and haven for writers, artists, and professional people attracted by the historic downtown, big old west-side homes, the saltwater estuary that terminated in its midst. Population around fifty thousand, most of that number in sprawling developments on the east side.
The police station was on North Main, housed in a gray cinderblock building that looked more like a converted mortuary than a cop house and sided by a fenced-in yard where the patrol cars and other vehicles were kept. Runyon ID’d himself to the woman sergeant at the front desk and outlined the reason he was there. That and one of his business cards got him in to see Lieutenant Adam St. John.
St. John was in his fifties, lean and fox-faced, with tired eyes and a slow way of moving as if he were trying to conserve energy. He seemed to need to make it clear at the outset that bringing in a private investigative service on the Henderson case wasn’t his idea.
“I told them that if we can’t do anything, it’s damn unlikely anybody else can. But they insisted. Your agency’s got a good rep, so I handed out your name.” He shrugged. “It’s their money.”
“Pretty desperate, from what they told us.”
“Can’t blame them for that. If I had some whack job after me, I guess I’d be desperate, too.”
“Any new developments?”
“Not yet. We’ve done everything we can, and then some. It’s not like we’re trying to slough off on this.” Now he was on the defensive.
“Nobody thinks that,” Runyon said.
“Yeah, well, it’s frustrating for us, too. I mean, there’s just nothing to go on. Nothing in the family’s background, at least nothing we can find or they’re willing to talk about. We ran both brothers through the NCIS and even made an FBI inquiry. Zip.”
“The father, too?”
“Lloyd Henderson? Why should we run his name?”
“His grave was vandalized.”
“Vicious act aimed at the two sons,” St. John said. “Hell, the man’s been dead for years.”
Runyon consulted his file notes. “Died in 2004.”
“Right. Natural causes, in case you’re wondering.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“Dentist. Retired. Lived here all his life, served on the city council, belonged to the Rotary, Kiwanis, all the civic organizations. You won’t find a more respected member of the community.”
“Take your word for it,” Runyon said. “The brother who was attacked in his garage. Damon, is it?”
“Damon, right.”
“Anything he could tell you about the perp?”
“No. He had a flashlight, but he got hit from behind. All he saw was a shadow.”
“Size estimate?”
“Big, from the weight when he was straddled.”
“And all the perp said to him was ‘Not yet, it’s not time yet’?”
“That’s all.”
“He’s sure about the words?”
“Positive.”
“What about the voice? Anything distinctive?”
“No. Just a whisper. And he was hurting bad by then.”
“What about olfactory impressions?”
“Olfactory… smells? You mean did the guy smell?”
“Body odor, cigarettes, booze, cologne or aftershave.”
“… Henderson didn’t say anything about that.”
And St. John hadn’t thought to ask. Runyon let it go. “How did the perp get inside the garage?”
“Jimmied the lock on the side door. Didn’t make much noise, but Henderson was awake-using the toilet. That’s how come he heard.”
“Perp wore gloves, I suppose. No prints.”
“None that didn’t belong to the family members.”
“Other evidence of any kind?”
“Not that we could find.” St. John was defensive again. “We don’t have a big city forensics department here. We did the best we could.”
“Sure you did,” Runyon said. “What about Damon’s family? They see or hear anything?”
“His wife woke up and ran out when she heard him screaming. But the perp was gone by then.”
“Neighbors?”
“Woman lives down the block thought she heard a car racing off but she didn’t see it. Otherwise… no.”
“Damon still in the hospital?”
“As of this morning. He’ll probably be there a couple more days. The perp busted up his collarbone pretty badly with that tire iron.”
Runyon said, “That’s about it for now, then. Thanks for your help, Lieutenant.”
“Okay. Just make sure you let me know if you find out anything.” The look in St. John’s eyes said he’d be damn surprised if Runyon did.
L os Alegres Valley Cemetery was in a semirural area a couple of miles northeast of the Henderson residence. One look at the somewhat secluded location, the low encircling fence, and it was easy to see how the perp had gotten in and out without being seen. The main gates were open and when Runyon drove through he could see a couple of low buildings off on the right-office, maintenance facility. But he didn’t need to go there to find out where the Henderson family plot was located. Two men working with a big forklift drew him to the other end of the grounds, and when he reached them he saw that they were putting a new black-granite monument into one of the larger sites-the Henderson plot, it turned out. Much of the earth in the large, square patch of ground had been dug up and resodded as well.
There were half a dozen gravestones in addition to the new monument with Lloyd Henderson’s name on it. The others, judging from the names and dates, appeared to be the parents and grandparents of Lloyd Henderson, and two sisters who had precedeased him.
The older of the workmen, heavyset and gray-bearded, was supervising the job. Runyon approached him, flashed his license, explained what he was doing there. The man, Joe Sobolewsky, was head groundskeeper and willing to talk.
“I was the one found the mess in the morning,” he said. He had a malleable face; it twisted up into an expression of disgust. “Never seen anything like it in all the years I been here. Close my eyes, I can still smell the stink of that acid.”
“Extensive damage?”
“Real extensive. Enough acid on the marker to wipe out all the words, eat a hole in the granite big enough to put the top of your head in.”
“Not simple vandalism, then.”
“Oh, hell, no. We get that kind of thing out here once in a great while, but nothing like this.”
“Hate crime,” Runyon said.
“That’s it, mister. That’s it in a nutshell. Hate crime.” Sobolewsky paused to dig a knuckle into one ear. “One funny thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Water tap over there on your right. When I came out that morning, the ground under it was soaking wet. And it wasn’t from leakage-the tap was shut off tight.”
“As if somebody turned it on for some reason during the night.”
“Right. Had to be the guy who desecrated the grave. But I can’t figure why, unless all that devil’s work made him thirsty.”
“Or he spilled a drop or two of acid on himself or his clothing.”
“Yeah, that could be it, too.”
Runyon asked, “Do you know the Hendersons?”
“Not personally. By reputation. Good people.”
