Rob’s throat tightened as he wondered just how gruesome this was going to get. His feet were ready to walk away, but his mind told him to stay. He was no crime reporter, but Rob wasn’t the kind of journalist who only wrote a once-weekly gardening column, and he certainly didn’t want to appear as such.
Just a couple of steps behind the swing, the stretcher was set up—flat, and in a lifted and locked position; Nichols took a deep breath and gave a pull. Warren was no more than five-foot eight-inches and probably one hundred and seventy pounds. Still, a body that’s been sitting for that long is not easy to lift.
After a couple of tries, Nichols and his partner, Hal Michaels, decided on plan B.
“Let’s lower the gurney and bring it around to the front of the swing. We’ll move the body forward. At least that way, gravity will be on our side.”
It was easier, particularly when they decided not to be overly concerned that the body would take a couple of bangs between sliding off the porch swing and onto the gurney. Petersen stepped in and raised the rail on the outer side of the gurney, fearful of what Rob might write if Warren’s body rolled forward off the stretcher and onto the porch.
By now, twilight had turned into night. It was awkward and unnerving for Rob to watch what he realized was no easy feat. In spite of all their best efforts, Warren's body nearly missed the stretcher, but Petersen and Hansen were prepared to stop it from doing that. The commotion caused both of Warren’s arms to fall free of his jacket’s pockets. The EMT officers were too busy steadying the body on the stretcher and preparing to strap it down to notice the curious sight that caused Petersen to bark out, “What the hell?” while he was in the middle of rhapsodizing to Rob over his two favorite Warren Bradley dishes.
Petersen pulled a flashlight out of Hansen’s equipment belt, who turned to see what had captured his boss’s attention. The flashlight illuminated the bottom of Warren’s right sleeve. It hung there, several inches below Warren’s arm as if he were a child in an oversized coat.
Now that Petersen had everyone’s attention, he walked around the stretcher. On the opposite side of the gurney he ran the flashlight up to look inside Warren’s left jacket sleeve.
“Okay, everyone freeze,” Petersen declared. “We’re standing in the middle of a crime scene. I’m sure we’ve already contaminated it, so let’s step away from the body and give this a little thought.”
“What are you talking about, Chief?” Nichols asked.
“Let me put it to you directly: when people die of natural causes, they get to keep both their hands—something Mr. Bradley here has lost.”
After slipping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, Petersen pushed up Bradley's sleeves.
Rob could not believe what he was seeing, but it was true. Both of Warren Bradley’s hands were missing.
Over the next few hours, all the usual things that happen at a crime scene occurred.
While the thought briefly occurred to Petersen to put the body back on the porch swing as close to the pose it was in when they arrived on the scene, that seemed impractical, particularly considering Rob was standing nearby watching their every move.
Why me, God? Petersen thought. His retirement was scheduled for late October, less than six months away.
More Sausalito police cars arrived, as well as two from the sheriff’s department. One carried Eddie Austin.
Finally, a little after ten, the coroner arrived. Several times Petersen explained how the missing hands had gone unnoticed until the body was placed onto the stretcher. Each time he retold the story it was received with a shake of the head and a look of surprise from both Eddie and the coroner.
Shortly after eleven, Bradley’s body was finally on its way to the morgue, and his small cottage was wrapped with yellow CRIME SCENE tape.
In the thick brush below Bradley’s home, a coyote wandering through the canyon came upon Warren’s missing hands. The animal had been attracted by the subtle scent of sausage and porcini ragu with just a hint of a mixed fruit cobbler. In little time this lean, hungry beast devoured all but a few scraps of critical evidence and then moved on.
Those spare bits of flesh and bone—all that remained of the famous chef’s two talented hands—were carried off at daybreak by a vulture patrolling the hills of Sausalito searching for unexpected treats.
Chapter Seventeen
That night, Rob and Karin slept only four hours, having stayed up until two in the morning discussing the bizarre details of Warren Bradley’s murder.
In the hope that the fresh air might revive his tired mind, Rob walked down to his office, located in an old Victorian on Princess Street, just three blocks beyond the hub of the city's tourist center.
Rob steeled himself for what he knew would be the first of several long days. It was Wednesday, and The Sausalito Standard would arrive in homes in a few hours. What would be missing from this edition was likely destined to be this year’s biggest story.
“Damn it,” Rob repeatedly mumbled to himself with his hands shoved into the pockets of a light tweed sports jacket. He remained oblivious to the birds chirping their greeting to a lovely blue morning and the sun rising over the hills of the East Bay. Among other things, Bradley’s killer was undoubtedly guilty of lousy timing. Rob knew, however, that this was the unavoidable reality in publishing a weekly newspaper, particularly in an age of instant communication. Just as it is with any endeavor, luck and timing play a significant role.
Having been the person who discovered Bradley’s body, this
