The Fall (23 page)

•  •  •

O
FFICER
J
ANINE
Mc
DOUGAL
was twenty-eight years old, and for three of those years she had been a uniformed patrol cop in San Francisco. At about one-fifteen
A.M
., with her partner, Don Cortes, she had been patrolling a godforsaken bit of turf in the Western Addition when Dispatch had alerted them to the 911 on Turk and Webster—an unidentified young woman, perhaps a victim of a hit-and-run, lying in the street. Janine and Don beat the ambulance there, and Janine rode with the victim out to General Hospital, while Don followed in their cruiser.

Janine didn’t know if there was a distinctive pattern of injuries consistent with hit-and-run victims, but in her time on the force, she had gained an unenviable familiarity with the injuries seen in cases of domestic violence. After a good preliminary look at this woman, she felt pretty sure she was viewing a very serious beating that the victim had suffered, probably at the hands of her mate, spouse, boyfriend, whatever. Once the EMT crew had arrived, and even with all of her experience in these situations, she was appalled to hear the medical techs say that regardless of whether the woman had been beaten, they would bet she’d also been
run over by a car, probably to kill her for sure and keep her from identifying her assailant.

The victim was obviously tougher than that. By the time they got her to General Hospital, where her condition was pronounced critical by the ER, Janine felt certain that this would turn out to be a homicide.

But it wasn’t yet. And she was a cop, and she was here. And she had her tape recorder.

She couldn’t call Homicide until the woman was dead. Well, she could, but because of the late hour, it would not be appreciated. The first time she had called for a victim who was still alive, the Operations sergeant had told her drily that the Homicide protocol was for completely dead people, not almostees. So she told Don she was going to stick around, if he could spare her, and try to talk to this victim if she regained consciousness.

At 4:51, against all predictions, that’s exactly what the victim did.

Now, forty-one minutes later, Honor was dead and Janine was talking by phone to Devin Juhle. She felt as nervous as she had at her first prom—her career goal was Homicide inspector—and this was her first dance. “I told Operations this was a homicide. They said they would send the on-call inspectors, but because of what the victim told me before she died, I thought you might want to know right away, so I had them call you and give you my number in case you wanted to talk to me right now. I hope I’m not wasting your time.”

Juhle, sounding like the soul of patience, finally got a word in. “It sounds like you handled everything perfectly, Officer. So start from the beginning. What did she say?”

“She said her name was Honor. She said it two or three times. Honor, as in honor thy father and thy mother, last name Wilson. I’m pretty sure that’s it, or sounds a lot like it. As I say, I’ve got it on tape, and I figured we could run her driver’s license and see if we got lucky, find out where she lived, and so on.”

“Excellent. But that’s not why you called me. What else did she say?”

“Well, when she came to, I told her it didn’t look good, that she might not make it, and this was her chance to say what happened. I asked her if she could tell me who had beaten her.”

“That was good thinking.”

“Thank you.
Again, between the drugs and the condition of her mouth, the name didn’t come out crystal-clear, but she really seemed to want us to know who had done this to her, so she came back to it a couple of times, and eventually, I think we got it. A Royce Utlee.”

“Her killer’s name from her deathbed? It doesn’t get better than that, Officer. Good work. And though I don’t want to sound impatient, that’s great stuff for the inspectors, but again, why are you calling me?”

“There was more, and I think it’s important.”

“What’s that?”

“She said this Royce Utlee also killed Anlya Paulson, the tunnel girl.” After fifteen or twenty seconds, Janine said, “Lieutenant, did you copy that? I said—”

“No, I heard you. She said he killed Anlya Paulson. Did she give any further details about that second murder?”

“No, sir. Just the bare fact of it.”

“How did she know about it?”

“She didn’t say. She just came out and volunteered the information.”

She heard Juhle sigh at the other end of the line. “Anlya Paulson,” he repeated.

“Isn’t that trial going on right now, sir?”

“I believe it is, yes.”

“Is the suspect Utlee? Is he out on bail? Wouldn’t that be odd in a murder case? I mean, could he have . . . ?”

“The suspect isn’t Royce Utlee. It’s Greg Treadway.” Juhle sighed again. “Okay, after she gave you Anlya’s name as somebody else Utlee killed, what happened next?”

“She flatlined, sir. And they weren’t able to bring her back.”

A
T WHAT
W
ES
Farrell considered the truly obscene time of 6:50 on Friday morning, he spotted Devin Juhle at one of the back tables near the corner at the Irving Street Café, which was about midway between their two houses. He wound his way through the crowd and took a chair across from the red-eyed, heavy-lidded Homicide chief.

Farrell’s face registered pure disgust. “Well, ain’t this a fine kettle of fish?” he asked. Sitting back in his chair, he let the waitress fill his coffee cup, then thanked her and said to Juhle, “Have you gotten anything else since we talked?”

“Actually, quite a bit, although I can’t guarantee you’re going to like it.”

“What a surprise. Hit me.”

“The girl’s name is, in fact, Honor Wilson. Both Waverly and Yamashiro knew all about her. She lives in Anlya’s group home, at least that’s the address on her DL, although there seems to be some question if she was still there.”

“What about this Utlee guy?”

“We don’t have much of a handle on him yet. This will shock you, but he’s not at the address on his DL, which is suspended anyway. He’s got a one-strike sheet with a Two-eleven as an adult, but I’m betting it’s got more than that robbery charge if you count juvie time. They’ve pulled a warrant on him based on Honor’s deathbed ID, but for the moment, he’s nowhere to be found, although my guys are heading out to Anlya’s house even as we speak and hope to talk to some of the other girls about what, if anything, was going on there. But last time, with Anlya’s death, nobody knew nothing. The usual.”

“Shit.”

“That’s what
I thought. More important, what are we going to do about the Anlya Paulson thing?”

Farrell drank some coffee, made a face, dropped a couple of sugar cubes into his cup, and stirred. “First off,” he said after a more acceptable sip, “you can set your mind at ease about Anlya, because it’s hearsay and it’s not admissible. It’s just this Wilson girl’s statement.”

“Deathbed statement, though. A dying declaration.”

Farrell shook his head. “Nope. A dying declaration has to be about the cause and circumstances surrounding the death. So Utlee killed me, admissible. He killed somebody else, inadmissible. And not to quibble, there’s also no foundation. We have no idea why she thinks this Royce Utlee killed the tunnel girl. We don’t know if he confessed to her, if she saw it, or if her dead cat came to her in a dream and told her. We can’t prove she has personal knowledge. It’s not admissible. Maybe when you find this guy, you can sweat him and get a confession or something else you can use, but unless you do, the girl’s statement is worthless.”

“Okay,” Juhle said, “that’s the legal answer. But that’s not really my question.”

The waitress came by and interrupted to take their orders—eggs over easy, bacon, the best hash browns in the city, English muffins, and orange juice for both of them—then promptly disappeared again.

“So,” Juhle tried again, “Greg Treadway?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s an issue.”

“How about, since you say it’s absolutely inadmissible, we just don’t mention it?”

Farrell grinned at that one. “I love the way you think, Dev. But it would take a fairly tortured interpretation to conclude that this doesn’t have shit-all to do with the Treadway prosecution. Beyond that, speaking of legal, if we don’t tell the defense, that would be the prosecution hiding evidence that could exonerate the defendant, which would be about the clearest
Brady
violation I could imagine. They’d automatically win on appeal. And by the way, every lawyer involved could lose their ticket to practice law. The short answer is we’ve got to tell them.”

“And then what? Mistrial? We can’t just let Treadway go.”

“Wouldn’t Liam Goodman love that? Another suspect we couldn’t convict. Will it ever end? But no, we’re not just letting Treadway go. I
promise you that. I think we have to prepare ourselves, though, to have this officer who took Honor Wilson’s statement show up on the defense witness list. And I predict that will not be a pretty moment for the home team. So far, I don’t think the jury is going to hear the statement, but the judge could change that in a New York minute. Meanwhile, it might be helpful if your guys could get their hands on this Utlee character.”

•  •  •

R
EBECCA HAD TAKEN
her father’s advice the previous night, and when the telephone rang in her kitchen at seven-forty-five, she was already wide-awake, having slept nearly ten hours. She felt terrific. “Hello,” she all but sang into the receiver.

“Good morning, and it is a very good morning,” her father said. “I just got a call from Wes Farrell, who, sadly, is not having as good a day as you and I are by a long shot. You’re not going to believe this.”

“What? Tell me.”

Hardy told her. By the time he’d finished, Rebecca had boosted herself up onto her kitchen counter. It seemed to her as though a large weight had been lifted from her chest. “God,” she said, “that is such fantastic news. To say nothing of the fact that it proves Greg didn’t do it after all.”

“Hadn’t you always believed that?”

“Most of the time, although I had my moments. But now . . .”

“Not to dim your enthusiasm, Beck, but it doesn’t prove anything about Greg one way or the other.”

“Maybe more than you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“You remember last night I was going to hear from Wyatt? He told me he had talked to Anlya’s brother, Max, who had a whole story about Honor Wilson and Royce Utlee and why they might have wanted to get Anlya out of the way.”

“Did he say anything that puts this Utlee guy physically close to her the night she died?”

“I don’t know, but at least we’re going to have a strong alternative theory of the case for the jury to hear.”

“Maybe not quite that.”

“Of course that. What do you mean?”

“I mean, it would be strong if we can get it in.”

“How
can we not get it in? The judge couldn’t decide to leave it out. It’s obviously relevant. In fact, it’s major. It’s a whole new prime suspect for the same crime.”

“It’s also inadmissible hearsay, for starters.”

The Beck didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “If using it against Utlee would be admissible, this is damn close to the same situation.”

“That’s your argument for the judge, but I’d prepare myself that he might not go for it.”

“Jesus. That would be so not fair.”

Hardy chuckled. “If anything, it’s too fair. Somebody says somebody else did something. How credible is that?”

“But a dying declaration? An explicit exception to the hearsay rule?”

“True. Maybe as to Utlee. But as to Treadway, don’t count your chickens. It’s not detailed enough to show she was doing anything more than repeating a rumor. After all, she never said how she knew what she knew. What proof did she offer?”

“Okay, but why would she finger him if she didn’t know he did it?”

“Wrong question, Beck. The question is: Did she have personal knowledge, or was she repeating something she heard? I can think of some reasons why she might just make it up. And so can the judge, I’m betting.”

Rebecca drew a breath, let it out. “For a minute there, you almost had me happy.”

“You should be happy. This is a huge deal. For your client and how you feel about him, if nothing else. And maybe they’ll get ahold of Utlee soon and he’ll confess, or they’ll find Anlya’s purse at his house or in his car or something. Then you’d really be talking.”

“I’m not seeing how, if they won’t let it in.”

“Something will shake out, you watch.”

•  •  •

D
EVIN
J
UHLE AND
Wyatt Hunt, high school baseball teammates and best friends, had reconnected about ten years ago, when Hunt was working
with Child Protective Services and Juhle was a uniformed cop. Just before Juhle had taken the job as Homicide chief, Hunt had offered him employment as a private investigator and equity sharer in his firm the Hunt Club, but Juhle had turned him down.

Nevertheless, the two saw each other at various gatherings at least twice a month, and met for lunch at Lou the Greek’s somewhat more often than that. Juhle had been best man at Hunt’s wedding seven months ago, and his kids called Hunt Uncle Wyatt.

So, though they often found themselves on different sides in criminal cases, including Greg Treadway’s, it was nowhere near unheard of for them to share information, so long as it did not jeopardize either investigation. And especially in a case like the one this morning, when Hunt could actively help out Juhle’s inspectors and they in turn might uncover something that could prove pivotal in the defense of Greg Treadway.

Now Hunt sat at a folding chair across the desk from his old pal on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice. One of the quirks of Juhle’s office, inherited from Abe Glitsky’s tenure on the job, was the magically never-ending stash of peanuts in the top right-hand drawer, and Juhle had shoved a small pile of them over in front of Hunt, who cracked and ate them in a thorough, methodical fashion.

“What was it that you had to see me about?” Juhle asked.

“Really? You can’t guess? Does the name Honor Wilson ring a bell? Or Royce Utlee?”