Red Line (10 page)

A few miles from the freeway and business district, in between clusters of ranch-style houses on wide, tree-lined streets, the Lafayette Community Center stretched along a winding road that ran from Lafayette to Moraga. Several old wooden buildings, used for classes ranging from arts and crafts to mother-and-toddler aerobics, ringed the parking lot. Athletic fields for youth soccer and baseball sat behind the buildings, and beyond that rose a hillside covered with large oak trees and grasses dried to a golden brown. The smallest building, located on the far edge of the complex, was where the Alcoholics Anonymous groups met.

Unlike the church basements where AA groups traditionally gathered in their early days and still commonly did on the east coast, this room was light and airy. Ten people sat around a table in the center of the room and forty more sat in rows of chairs behind the table.

The meeting was ten minutes under way when Sinclair came in and took a seat in the back. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits so no one would see them shaking. After leaving Oakland, he’d driven straight
to the Lafayette Wine and Spirits Shop, just down the street from his apartment. He sat in the parking lot, staring at the displays in the window, unable to go inside yet unable to muster the courage to leave. He wanted to have a drink like any normal person. But he knew that was wishful thinking. Still, another part of him thought it was possible—that he wasn’t really an alcoholic after all. And another part of him didn’t give a shit—even if one drink would lead to a bottle. As he sat there, that “one day at a time” slogan running through his head, he decided to go to a meeting, and afterward, if he still wanted it, the liquor store would be open.

Tonight, the meeting format was speaker discussion. Walt sat at the head of the table speaking in his mellow baritone. He was a fixture at the community center meetings, where everyone knew his story. A Vietnam vet, Walt had gone to college on the GI Bill and eventually got a doctorate in clinical psychology. He grew a successful practice, specializing in post-traumatic stress disorder, and treated combat veterans and victims of childhood and sexual abuse. By the time he turned forty, his life appeared perfect: a charming wife and two preteen sons, a house in Lafayette, and a reputation as one of the most respected therapists in the state. However, he had begun combining his drinking with painkillers and sedatives prescribed by five different physicians, each without the knowledge of the others.

“My drinking and drug use allowed the dark side of my personality to take over,” Walt said. “I felt entitled to do whatever I wanted. I was having an affair with three of my patients, women who came to me for help, when one of them made a complaint to the board. After the investigation, the courts took over. I was convicted of insurance fraud for billing patients’ insurance for services I never
performed, sexual offenses, and drug charges for my abuse of prescription drugs. I served sixteen months in prison, lost my license, my house, and every cent I had in the bank.

“I thought my life was over. Although I had preached it for years as a therapist to my patients, I secretly thought AA was for people like all of you. You know—skid row bums.” He paused to let the laughter in the room of well-dressed people subside. “I attended my first AA meeting in prison and learned I wasn’t unique. It didn’t matter if you were a doctor, lawyer, or janitor. The disease affected us all the same way.”

Walt took a sip of coffee from the ceramic mug in front of him and continued. “Amazingly, my wife stayed with me, and when I got out of prison, I moved into a small apartment with her and our two boys. I was on parole and had to register as a sex offender. The only job I knew was one I was no longer licensed to do. I hadn’t worked with my hands in twenty years, but I found a job doing construction work as a carpenter’s apprentice and driving a limo at night, mostly back and forth to the airport. We didn’t have much in a material sense, but I had everything I needed.”

A tear rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away. “You see, the success, the fancy house, and all the material things I had when drinking never brought me happiness. Today I’m grateful for what’s truly important in my life: my family and friends and a sense of serenity I never dreamed possible. Both of my sons graduated from college, one from Berkeley and the other from Stanford, and started their own families. I work for a good man doing simple work. It’s a far cry from listening to patients in a fancy office at two hundred dollars an hour, but it’s honest work and keeps
me humble. Most importantly, I haven’t wanted to take a drink in twenty years. And for that, I am grateful.”

When the meeting ended, members began milling about, talking and laughing. Sinclair made a beeline for the door.

“Matthew, hang on a minute.”

Sinclair turned and saw Walt heading toward him. He was a short, wiry man, with snow-white hair and eyes the color of a calm, summer sky. His face and hands were brown and weathered. Although in his midsixties, he moved like a man years younger. He opened his arms to hug Sinclair, but Sinclair turned and extended his hand. He wished these AAers would just shake hands like normal people.

“I saw you on the news tonight. How’re you holding up?”

“I wanted a drink. That’s how I’m holding up.”

“But you didn’t. You came here instead.”

“Yeah.” Sinclair felt tears forming, but he blinked them away. The last time he nearly cried was at a police funeral, but he didn’t feel sad now. He didn’t know what he was feeling.

“It’ll get easier.”

“That’s what you guys say, but it’s getting harder.”

Walt stood there with a warm smile on his face. Inviting him to speak—to open up.

“You wanna get a cup of coffee?” Walt asked.

“I haven’t really slept in two days. I ought to get home.”

Silence again with the same smile.

“Do you have a sponsor or anyone in the program you talk to?” Walt asked.

“I’m not sure I believe in that sponsor stuff.”

“I understand.” Walt took a card from his pocket and handed it to Sinclair.
Walt Cooper
and a phone number, nothing more.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Walt said.

Sinclair nodded.

“If you feel like drinking, call me before you pick up,” Walt said.

Sinclair extended his hand to avoid a hug. “I will.”

“And Matthew,” Walt said as Sinclair turned toward the door. “Things will get better. I promise.”

The man stood on the balcony of the twenty-second-floor apartment at 1200 Lakeshore, taking in the view of Oakland’s downtown and Lake Merritt below him. A necklace of lights surrounded the three-mile shoreline, which included city parks, a jogging path, and high-rise apartments. Although expensive by Oakland standards, the $3,500 rent for the two-bedroom apartment would have been a bargain in Manhattan or even San Francisco. Gertrude Stein’s famous quote about Oakland, “There is no there, there,” seemed flippant and inaccurate from his vantage point high above the crime and despair the city was best known for.

He puffed on the Cohiba Maduro he’d picked up for ten dollars at a downtown cigar shop and reflected on the moment in front of Carol Brooks’s house. Hand on the car door handle, ready to spring out, he had stopped. Caution prevailed. Too risky. Too many unknowns. He had watched as the garage door descended and Carol’s Mercedes disappeared behind it.

When his watch read ten, he ground his cigar out in a crystal ashtray, went inside, and turned on the television.

After a few minutes of world events, the anchor introduced the top local news—the second murder victim in two days found on a bus bench near Children’s Hospital. The man settled into the sofa as news reporter Liz Schueller filled the television screen, her golden hair and brilliant smile captivating every male viewer. Even her mannerisms and speech were perfect. She held a smile for just a few seconds, enough to give her audience a taste before turning serious. Murder was serious business after all.

She appeared so sincere, the ideal blend of sadness and professional detachment. A perfect actor in front of the camera—pretty, poised, yet human. Few people knew the real Liz.

He watched as she reported the names of the victims: Zachary Caldwell and Susan Hammond. Liz’s cop boyfriend must have decided that making their names public would help solve the case.

Sinclair appeared on the television, dressed in a dark suit and a perfectly knotted tie. The man turned up the volume. Sinclair looked his normal, arrogant self as he stared straight ahead, exuding confidence meant to make Oakland residents feel safe and believe Sinclair could protect them and their families from the same fate.

After Sinclair’s fifteen seconds, Liz appeared back on the screen and said the police still did not know the cause of death for either victim. It would require further tests by the coroner, but they had ruled out obvious trauma such as a gunshot, stabbing, or beating. The man knew they must have noticed the cuts on Susan’s wrists. He doubted the coroner’s office had figured out the drugs in both of them yet. Even if they had, the cops probably wouldn’t tell
reporters those details. Once Sinclair knew, he’d start connecting the dots.

The TV showed the entrance gate to Blackhawk, where Dr. Caldwell lived, and the front of the office building where Susan and her lawyer-husband worked. The shots panned out to capture the mood and then in for the detail—a little artistry. The male anchor’s deep voice introduced the next story, and the man switched off the news and slipped in a DVD.

He had watched this one many times. It contained dozens of news broadcasts showing Sinclair talking about other murders during the last two years. Each with the same confidence and determination. He seemed to be on camera every time he handled a murder. The story about the hero cop’s fall followed, when the highway patrol arrested Sinclair for drunk driving. Oakland PD suspended him from duty and booted him out of homicide. He watched the segments from the other networks as they uncovered the scandal: Sinclair turned out to be driving from Liz’s apartment when he crashed the police car. At first, they only said he was visiting a “well-known television personality,” but a day later, the other networks mentioned Liz Schueller by name.

The competition within the news business was vicious. The other stations loved trashing Channel 6 and showing the reporter as the seductress of a broken and troubled cop with a past littered with citizen complaints, lawsuits, and shootings. They pretended it was relevant news they couldn’t ignore, but it was all about ratings and the important advertising money that fueled the business.

How it backfired on them was ironic. Channel 6’s viewership actually increased 10 percent following the revelation. People in California had no problem with a cop having a romantic relationship that was rife with conflict of interest, especially when he was a handsome homicide detective with a bunch of medals for heroism and bravery on his chest. Viewers wanted to see more of the woman Sinclair was willing to risk his career and professional reputation for, and Channel 6 put Liz on camera more frequently. She acted her normal professional and poised self on the air, and the public loved her even more for not shrinking away.

Last Friday, Channel 6 had mentioned Sinclair for the first time in months. The man hit the fast-forward button and the DVD jumped to that broadcast. Liz was on the air in front of the Oakland Police Department, finishing a story about a major drug bust. The news anchor cut in. “Liz, we heard some rumors about Matt Sinclair coming back to work. What have you heard?”

In what was surely a perfectly rehearsed exchange, Liz replied, “An arbitrator announced a decision today that restores Sinclair’s rank to sergeant, and effective Monday, he will be leaving crime analysis, where he has worked for the last six months, and return to homicide.”

“Much has been reported about your relationship with Matt recently. Can you tell us how he’s taking the news?” the anchor asked.

Liz glanced down for a beat, showing the perfect amount of rehearsed embarrassment, then smiled and said, “He’s happy to be back, and I join the rest of our viewers in wishing him the best upon his return. The city needs
detectives of his caliber and dedication to combat the terrible violence we see here nightly.” One, two, three, the man counted to himself, as a close-up of a beaming Liz filled the entire television screen before it shifted back to the anchor sitting at the desk.

Liz deserved an Academy Award for that performance.

Sinclair strained against the weight—two forty-five-pound plates on each side of the Olympic bar—and locked out his eighth rep. Arms aching, he was ready to lower it onto the bar rest when he heard a voice from across the department gym. “Not bad for a skinny white dude.”

Sinclair dropped the bar on the metal rests with a loud clang and sat up on the bench as Officer Tokepka, one of a dozen or so Tongan and Samoan officers on the department, walked toward him.

“Your office said you’d be here,” Tokepka said. “You got the one-eighty-sevens at Children’s, right?”

“Yea, you know something?”

“I popped a white dude last night for six-forty-seven F. Had a couple of syringes on him. Said he was a nurse at Children’s and that’s why he had the needles, but I think he was trying to score some heroin.”

Sinclair stood and stretched his back. “You got a name on him?”

“Lance Keller. I have a copy of the CAR in my locker with his DOB and stuff,” Tokepka said, referring to a consolidated arrest report form.

“What time was this?”

“Beginning of shift—around midnight. I’m sure the jail already released him. They don’t hold people for drunk in public longer than four or five hours. I just needed to get him off the street. White dude walking around West Oakland that time of night is looking to get robbed or killed.”

Sinclair showered and changed and then stopped at the city jail admin office. Keller had been released two hours earlier, but Sinclair got a copy of his consolidated arrest report and walked into the homicide office a few minutes before eight.

Braddock, Jankowski, and Sanchez were already there. A copy of the
Oakland Tribune
lay in the middle of Sinclair’s desk, the headline reading,
Bus Bench Killer Claims Second Victim
.

“Catchy, huh?” said Braddock, sipping on her morning coffee.

“You know we’ve rated when they give our killer a nickname,” said Sinclair.

Braddock’s phone rang, so Sinclair grabbed a cup of coffee and strolled to the back of the office. Sanchez was still sucking information from every electronic device at his disposal and entering it into his database but hadn’t discovered any connections. Jankowski was reading the paper.

“Good news,” said Braddock. “I had ACH look into Jenny Fitzgerald’s hospital admission. We know her clothes were collected as evidence by the tech who took photos of her injuries at the hospital. ACH gets a bunch of bogus claims of missing property, so they take any valuables from critical patients and hold them for safekeeping. It seems that two purses came in with her in the ambulance.”

The explanation was simple. Both girls’ handbags were on the bus bench, so either the paramedics grabbed both along with their patient or the officers on the scene put them on the gurney with the patient—Jenny, in this case. Sinclair had done the same thing when he was a street cop. No officer wanted to get blamed for misplacing someone’s personal property and surely didn’t want to do a report and extra paperwork to recover and turn in personal items when it was easier to toss them in the ambulance with a patient.

“When Jenny was released, her mother signed for one purse, containing, quote, one cell phone, miscellaneous personal items and ID, and twenty-two dollars in cash. Guess whose name is on the ID in the other purse?”

“By any chance is there a cell phone in that purse?” asked Sinclair.

“Yep.”

A few minutes later, Sinclair and Braddock were in their car surrounded by the morning downtown traffic. He told her about Lance Keller’s arrest.

“Let’s hit ACH first since they’re waiting for us,” Braddock said.

Sinclair agreed as his cell phone vibrated. The screen showed Liz.

“Did you see the interview?”

“No,” he said. “I was still working during the early broadcast and sound asleep by ten. Did you make me look good?”

“You looked very professional and incredibly yummy. Are you coming over tonight?”

“Might be a long day.”

“Any arrests imminent?”

“Not unless we get lucky.”

Sinclair put his phone away.

“I get it—I really do,” said Braddock. “She’s beyond beautiful, but she doesn’t seem like the settling-down type.”

Sinclair had never had a female partner before. He should’ve expected it would be different. He had known Phil’s favorite football teams, every car he ever owned, and what he paid for his house long before he knew his wife’s name. Phil never asked how Sinclair’s marriage was going, even when it was obviously falling apart, and never told him his opinion about his relationship with Liz.

“Who says I want to settle down?”

“At one time you did,” she said. “When you and that pretty DA got married, everyone talked about your being the perfect couple.”

Sinclair had thought a lot about his marriage over the last six months. He figured out that he had gotten married not because he was ready to settle down but because he thought marriage might make him settle down. He regretted that he ruined the life of a wonderful woman because he wasn’t capable of a being a husband and knew she was one of a long list of people he’d have to eventually make amends to.

“We know how that worked out.”

*

Highland Hospital, also known as Alameda County Hospital—ACH to cops—had one of the busiest trauma centers in the state. Its emergency room handled an average of two hundred patients per day, with two or more trauma activations every shift for life-threatening injuries—gunshots, stabbings, or major car accidents. After Vietnam
and until Oak Knoll Naval Hospital closed in 1996, the Navy used to send its doctors to ACH to gain firsthand experience in treating gunshot wounds. Thanks to the Oakland criminals, the Navy doctors received plenty of training.

ACH’s ER was quiet as Sinclair and Braddock made their way down the long hallway, past the treatment rooms that contained only one or two patients, unlike most Saturday nights when every trauma room bustled and beds with patients overflowed into the hallway. They slipped past the nurse’s station, where three nurses sat behind stacks of medical charts, and into the break room.

A nurse dressed in green scrubs looked up from a chipped Formica-topped table where she was sitting. She was in her late forties, tall and thin, with a smoker’s wrinkled face. She gave Braddock a quick smile.

“Claire, this is my partner, Matt Sinclair,” said Braddock.

“Nice to see you again, Claire.” Sinclair knew most of the ER nurses and doctors, since homicide cases brought him there a few times a month, but he also knew Claire was among many of the older nurses who had begun eyeing him with disdain when he began dating several of the younger, single nurses at the hospital after his divorce. She smiled slightly at Sinclair, then pulled a black clutch purse and a chain of custody form from a plastic hospital bag and handed it to Braddock. “It wasn’t our screw up in ER,” she said. “When no cop picked it up by the end of the shift, we handled it according to protocol.”

“No problem. I’m just glad you found it.” Braddock signed her name on the form and opened the purse. The phone was inside.

Braddock said to Sinclair, “We should probably get this printed before we handle it.”

On their way back to the car, Sinclair said, “Jeez, if looks could kill.”

“Before Liz, you did have quite a reputation among the nurses.”

“Really, like what?”

“I overheard comments like slut and man-whore thrown around in the break room.”

“You’re messing with me.”

“I am.” She laughed. “But you’re easy.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sinclair and Braddock stood in a windowless room in the basement of Children’s Hospital staring at a bank of twenty video monitors. A uniformed security officer sat at one of three consoles, and Bob Daly, a mustached man in his midfifties wearing a brown suit, hovered over another.

“We have a state-of-the-art system,” said the hospital’s director of security. “Over one hundred cameras throughout the hospital complex, all recorded digitally and retained for three years. We have the capability to monitor any camera, but obviously, we can’t watch every camera simultaneously.”

Sinclair told Daley what he was looking for.

“It’s a long shot, since we only have a few external cameras. The incident from last August will be easier to locate because we have a precise time. I can check cameras, say . . . five minutes prior and five after for anything unusual. The other two incidents will take longer since we’ll have to search through hours of video.”

“If you make copies, I can get people at the department to view it.”

“This isn’t like looking at video of a liquor store holdup. You’d have to know how to navigate through a hundred camera views, and a desktop computer can’t do that. Besides, what you’re asking for is hundreds of hours of video.” Daly glanced at the security officer sitting at the computer console. “The hospital’s given me carte blanche on overtime for anything connected to these incidents. I can put a team on it around the clock and make you a copy of any incident the least bit suspicious.”

Sinclair left his card and made his way to human resources. An obese sixty-year-old woman with ultrashort hair listened to their request, made three phone calls, and peered at the two detectives over reading glasses perched on her nose. “Lance Keller resigned last week in lieu of termination. He was caught stealing narcotics for his own use.”

“Did he work around Doctor Caldwell by any chance?” asked Sinclair.

“Nurse Keller worked in emergency. It seems he had been shorting patients their painkillers and using it himself. The mother of a patient saw him inject half a syringe of Demerol into her child’s IV and then drop the syringe in his pocket. She reported it to the ER physician who went into the nurse’s break room and found Keller with the needle in his arm.”

“Any idea where he’s working now?” asked Braddock.

“He was escorted out that night. The nursing department sent a report to the state the next day to suspend his license. There’s a long process including drug treatment and probation before he’ll ever work as a nurse again.”

The woman handed Braddock a stack of papers from her computer printer. “I’ve included his employment
application, a print version of our electronic personnel file, and the report of the incident with the Demerol.”

“Looks like Keller’s got a reason to be pissed off at Children’s Hospital,” said Sinclair, as they walked down the corridor to the elevator. “But is it enough to kill for?”