Inspector Conklin, I read on the Internet about the index cards and I was struck by the number. Six hundred thirteen!”
“Did you write that number, Connie? If you did and can tell me what it means, that would be tremendous.”
“No, no, but six hundred and thirteen is verging on a Guinness world record for a serial killer. Elizabeth Bathory, the bloody lady of Cachtice, had over six hundred girls killed in her castle in Hungary. The exact number is uncertain. Well, it happened in the early sixteen hundreds…”
“Interesting. But I’m thinking four-hundred-year-old murders aren’t that relevant to our current investigation.”
He gave her a nice smile and she responded earnestly.
“No, really. This could be the clue you’ve been waiting for. Please check it out.”
I couldn’t get a handle on Kerr’s mental state. Was she crazy? Or crazy like a fox? I needed to know.
I told Conklin that I’d be back in a minute, and when I was outside the room, I called psychologist Dr. Frank Cisco. Cisco answered his phone, said he was in the building and that he’d come upstairs. A few minutes later, we met in the stairwell.
Frank Cisco was a consultant to the SFPD, on call when a cop was in trouble, and he advised the DA’s office as well. He was a big man with a lot of thick white hair. Today he was wearing a busy plaid sports jacket, gray slacks, and pink orthopedic shoes.
Frank was a sweet man, gave you the feeling you could say anything to him in confidence. He hugged me and said, “What’s new, Lindsay?”
“A ton,” I said, hugging him back.
A few days ago, I had called Cisco and asked him to review our short list of cops who were considered possible suspects in the vigilante-cop case. I didn’t ask him to leak confidential information, just to look at the personnel files and let us know which cops, in his opinion, were likely to go on a shooting spree.
He’d said it would be unethical for him to finger suspects based on a hunch. Fine. I got it.
Now I said, “Frank, this isn’t about the shooter cop. I need your help on a different case altogether.”
He looked relieved, and as we walked back to the interrogation rooms, I told him what little I knew about Constance Kerr.
Chapter 81
I knocked on the door to Interview 1 and when Conklin stepped outside, I asked him to get Kerr to go through the whole story again for Frank’s benefit.
Frank and I went into the observation room and watched the interview.
Connie asked Conklin, “When can I go home?”
Conklin said, “I just want to make sure I’ve got your story straight.”
Kerr told the story again, but this time she added new details about the morning the heads were found: her routine on awakening, her rituals and habits, how she’d made up the wall bed and brewed a special Manchurian tea. Finally she got to the part where she heard the sirens and peeked through her back window.
Then, weirdly, she began telling the story from the third-person point of view.
“She saw the caretakers and the police standing outside the back door and the skulls were there and she thought, Mercy. This is a day like no other.”
“What are you doing, Connie?” Conklin asked her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who’s the she who thought the day was like no other?”
“I was trying it on as if Emma had seen it — you know, Inspector, the character in my current work. Emma is very perceptive, but naturally she doesn’t know any more than I do. I would love to hear your theory of the case. I think you could really help me with my book.”
I said to Frank, “What are your thoughts? Is she playing us?”
“She’s playacting for sure, but her nuttiness neither confirms nor eliminates her as the killer. I will say this. Based on my ten minutes of observation, I think she’s going to great lengths to hide something. Could be related to this case, could be something else she doesn’t want anyone to know.”
I laughed, said, “Brilliant analysis, Frank. Thanks a lot.”
He laughed too. “Yeah, what did you expect? That I can unwrap her crazy little mind in ten minutes?”
On the other side of the glass, Conklin was still trying to pry something useful out of Connie Kerr.
“Connie, your friend who brings you food. Who is it?”
“Ahhh,” she said dramatically. “Is he a man with a past? Or is it a lady friend she doesn’t want to expose?”
“Connie, this isn’t helping you.”
“I don’t have to tell you all my secrets. And I won’t. If I’m not under arrest, I want to go home. You can’t keep me here without probable cause.”
Conklin sat back and said without any malice, “You’re wrong, Connie. I can book you for trespassing, for theft of services, for obstruction of justice.”
“Listen,” Kerr said, slapping the table and leaning toward Conklin. “You’re wrong about the trespassing and all the rest. Tommy Oliver knows that I live in number six and he’s known it for years. I’m sure he has told Harry Chandler.”
“Tommy Oliver? Is that T. Lawrence Oliver? Harry Chandler’s driver?”
“Yes. Tommy hooked up my electricity. He fixed the locks.”
“Okay. We’re holding you as a material witness while we check out your story, talk to a few people, and so forth. The law gives us forty-eight hours.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can. I’m doing it. Please stand up.”
“I demand to make my phone call.”
“Not a problem.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Of course. By the way, we don’t have single-occupancy accommodations here, so you’re going to be sharing a cell with some other ladies. If you remember something helpful about the boneyard underneath your window, please reach out to me, Connie. I’ll be happy to talk to you anytime.”
Chapter 82
While Conklin brought Connie Kerr to booking, I invited Frank Cisco to the break room for leftover cookies and stale coffee. He accepted.
We were alone for the moment, sitting across from each other at an old table, and what had started as a consultation suddenly felt like a therapy session. I guess that’s because after Jacobi and I got shot on Larkin Street, I’d had to see Frank for a couple of months or lose my job.
I’d been furious that the department sent me to a shrink to determine my mental fitness, but even though I was insulted, I had gotten a lot from my sessions with Frank. Actually, he was a great therapist.
Now he asked me, “What’s going on with you, Lindsay?”
“I’m pregnant,” I said.
“Heyyy. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
I dipped my head. I didn’t want to tell him that Joe had cheated on me, that I had thrown him out, that working non-stop meant I didn’t have to concentrate on how I was going to provide for my baby without my husband.
