“You can consider it Edmund's treat.” Edmund was her husband, who for the past six years had played kettle drums for the San Francisco Symphony.
“I'll send him a note,” I said as we sat around my desk.
“Maybe I can get Giants tickets.” I set out my lunch.
“You mind?” she asked, dangling a plastic fork over the salad. “Saving your ass is tiring work.” I pulled the container away. “Like I said. Depends on what you have.”
Without hesitating, Claire speared a piece of chicken.
“Didn't make sense, did it, why a black man would be acting out hate crimes against his own race?”
“All right,” I said, pushing the container her way.
“What did you find out?”
She nodded. “Mostly it was pretty much like you told me. None of the normal abrasions or lacerations you would connect with forced submission. But then there were those unusual dermal specimens from under the subject's nails. So we scoped it. They did reveal a hyperpigmented skin type. As the report said, 'normally consistent with a non-Caucasian.” Samples are out being histopathologied as we speak.'
“So what are you saying?” I pressed. “The person who killed that woman was black?”
Claire leaned over, lifting the last piece of chicken out from under my fork. 'At first blush, I could see how someone might feel that way. If not African American, a dark Latino, or Asian. Teitleman was inclined to agree, until I asked him to perform one last test.
“I ever tell you,” she mooned her wide brown eyes - “I did my residency at Moffitt in dermapathology?”
“Claire.” I found myself shaking my head and smiling.
She was so good at what she did.
She shrugged. “huh? I don't know how we overlooked that. Anyway, basically, what a lab is going to be looking for is whether that hyperpigmentation is intracellular, as in melanocytes, which are the dark, pigmented cells that are much more concentrated in non-Caucasians, or intercellular... in the tissue, more on the surface of the skin.”
“English, Claire. Is the subject white or black?”
“Melanocytes,” she continued as if I hadn't asked, “are the dark skin cells concentrated in people of color.” She pushed up her sleeve. “You're looking at Melanocyte Central here. Trouble is, the sampling found under the Chipman lady's nails didn't have a one. All that pigment was intercellular - surface coloration. On top of that, it was a bluish hue, atypical for naturally occurring melanin. Any self-respecting dermapathologist would've caught that.”
“Caught what, Claire?” I asked, fixing on her smug grin.
“Caught that it wasn't a black man who did that terrible thing,” she said emphatically, 'but a white man with some topical pigmentation. Ink, Lindsay.
What that poor woman dug her nails into was the killer's tattoo.'
Womans Murder Club 2 - Second Chance
Chapter 30
AFTER CLAIRE LEFT, I was buoyed by her discovery.
This was good stuff. Karen knocked and handed me a manila folder. “From Simone Clark.” It was the file from personnel I had requested. Edward R. Chipman.
I slid the file out of the envelope and began to read.
Chipman had been a career street patrolman out of Central who retired in 1994 with the rank of sergeant. He had twice received a Captain's Commendation for bravery on the job.
I stopped at his photo. A narrow chiseled face with one of those bushy Afros popular in the sixties. It was probably taken the day he joined the force. I looked through the rest of the contents. What would make someone want to kill this man's widow? There wasn't a single censure on his record.
For excessive force or anything else. In his thirty-year career, the officer never fired his gun. He was part of the Police Outreach Unit in the Potrero Hill projects and a member of a minority action group called the Officers for Justice, which lobbied for and promoted the interests of black officers.
Chipman, like most cops, had one of those proud, uneventful careers, never in trouble, never under review never in the public's eye. Nothing in there drew the slightest connection to Tasha Catchings or to her uncle, Kevin Smith.
Had I read more into the whole thing than was there? Was this even a serial thing? My antennae were crackling. I know there's something. C'mon, Lindsay.
Suddenly I was hammered back to reality by Lorraine Stafford knocking at my door. “You got a minute, Lieutenant?” I asked her in. The stolen vehicle, she informed me, belonged to a Ronald Stasic. He taught anthropology at a community college down in Mountain View. “Apparently the van was stolen from the parking lot outside where he works. The reason it was late being reported missing was that he went to Seattle for a night. Job interview.”
“Who knew he was going to be away?”
She flipped through her notes. 'His wife. The college administrator. He teaches two classes at the college and tutors students from other schools in the area.
