right questions and either clear Randall — or get him to confess.
Chapter 91
Randall looked tired and irritated. Conklin and I pulled out chairs and sat across from a man who might have set a new record for murders by a cop.
I pushed a container of coffee toward him, waited for him to stir in his sugar, then said, “The more you cooperate, the faster this will go, Sergeant. Where were you for the last eight hours?”
“I arrived home after my shift at approximately six o’clock p.m. I was home all night, as my wife told you.”
“Do you have another car, Sergeant Randall?”
“No. My wife has a car.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Department issue only. I don’t want guns in a house with kids and a father-in-law who has no short-term memory.”
“Did you drive your wife’s car or any car between the hours of six last night and one this morning?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you fire a weapon in the last week?”
“I like how you ask me that with a straight face.”
“Did you?”
“Hell no. You tested my hands, Sergeant. Negative for GSR.”
That was true.
Randall’s hands had been negative for gunshot residue, although he could have washed up and probably had. We had had no warrant to search his house or bring in his clothes for analysis. I got up, walked around the room, came back to my chair, and leaned across the table.
“We have a witness who saw you at Zeus.”
“I guess he failed to identify me in the lineup.”
“Others may come forward. When the ME does her post on the body, when CSU finishes processing the alley, we’re going to find physical evidence. You can count on that.”
“Knock yourself out, Sergeant. I’m not worried.”
Conklin took his turn.
“Sergeant. Will. I don’t have to remind you, now is the time to tell us the truth. We’re going to be sympathetic. We’re going to go out of our way to help you. Your victims are criminals. You’ve got friends in high places.”
“I didn’t do it.”
I sighed, said, “Any idea who the shooter might be?”
“No idea in the world, but I admire the work he’s doing. He’s cutting through the red tape and putting the scumbags down.”
Randall looked at me as though daring me to confuse his attitude with an actual confession.
He said, “I’ve got nothing for you, Sergeant. My kids are scared. My wife is going crazy. Lock me up or let me go.”
We kept at it for another hour, Conklin and I taking turns, drilling down on his activities of the week before, going back over the same ground, but never tripping him up. Randall was smart and had as much interrogation experience as I had.
We’d done a good job and so had Randall. He hadn’t given us a crumb and I couldn’t think of anything else to ask him.
“You’re free to go,” I said. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
Randall stood up and put on his nylon windbreaker.
“I need a lift.”
Then, as an afterthought, he said, “You should be careful, Sergeant Boxer. You don’t want to take chances with your baby.”
I took it as a sincere remark.
Conklin walked Randall out, and when he came back, I was still in the interrogation room. I hadn’t moved.
“Did he do it?” I asked.
“I can’t tell.”
“You know what, Rich? I kind of like the son of a bitch.”
“He’s a hard-ass,” Conklin said. “Kind of reminds me of you.”
Chapter 92
I brought Martha with me to breakfast at a great neighborhood bistro out in Cole Valley called Zazie. Zazie had scrumptious food and a patio garden out back. We came through the front door and the hostess told me she was sorry, but dogs weren’t allowed.
“Martha is a police dog,” I said.
“Is she really?”
The hostess held on tight to her menus, looked down at my small, shaggy border collie, and showed by her dubious expression that she couldn’t believe Martha was in the K-9 Corps.
I’ve got to hand it to Martha. She looked up, made direct eye contact with the hostess, and conveyed professionalism and sharp canine wisdom with her deep brown eyes.
I backed her up.
“See?” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m a cop. She’s my deputy dog.”
“Okay. She’s a drug sniffer, I guess. I shouldn’t touch her, right? Kinda cute, isn’t she? Should I bring her some water? Sparkling or flat?”
I had my first grin of the week, then had another when I saw Claire waiting for me at a table at the back of the long, narrow garden enclosed by ivy-covered walls.
I hugged her. She hugged me. I just couldn’t get enough of that hug. When we finally broke apart, Claire bent and kissed Martha on the nose, making my little pal all waggle-tailed and squirmy. Martha really hearts Claire.
We sat at the nice long table in the corner of the patio, and Claire moved her newspapers out of the way — but not quick enough.
“Hey, let me see those.”
I read the headlines.
The Post: “Another revenge killing at Zeus,” by Jason Blayney. The Chronicle: “Suspect held in House of Heads mystery,” by Cindy Thomas.
“It’s true: you can run but you can’t hide.” I handed the papers back to Claire, who said, “So what’s the latest with you and Joe?”
“You go first, butterfly. I can’t talk until after I’ve had hot chocolate and gingerbread pancakes.”
“I haven’t been to bed,” Claire said. “Can you tell?” Now that she mentioned it, I realized that she was wearing scrubs.
I said, “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Where should I start? Yesterday, seven p.m. We’ve got a full house, of course. Among my other patients, I’ve got a seventeen-year-old boy on the table. Contact muzzle stamp on his temple and soot in the entrance wound. It’s a clear suicide, but his parents aren’t accepting it. Everything I say, they come back with ‘No, Davey would never do that.’”
“The doors show any signs of a break-in?”
