“When was this?”
“Early nineties. I was six, I think. Ninety-one or ninety-two.”
“All right. Your father and his student testify against an individual. What’s his name?”
“They never released it. He was a minor. Disturbed. The whole thing was awful.”
“I’m sure.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “My father — it ruined him. Then they go and let this homicidal maniac out of prison. He’s walking the streets, my father helped convict him. You’d think somebody would warn us. It’s completely irresponsible. A month later, Nicholas falls down a flight of stairs and dies.”
“He fell?”
“He was pushed,” she said.
“Was anyone charged?” I asked.
“They said it was an accident. But I mean, come on. It’s not, like, a puzzle.”
I nodded. “What about Mr. Linstad’s death, when did that occur?”
“About ten, twelve years ago. I don’t remember the exact date. I wasn’t living in Berkeley then. I do know that my father was completely freaked out.”
I thought about the gun in Rennert’s desk. “You shared this with the police.”
“What do you think? Apparently it’s all a big coincidence.”
“Did they say that?”
“They didn’t need to,” she said. “I could tell from the way they were looking at me.” Her bag buzzed. “The same way you are now.”
She bent, snatched up the phone, swore quietly.
“There’s traffic on the bridge,” she said, texting. “She’s stuck.”
What did I believe, at that point? What did I assume?
It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked by a relative to accept the most sinister interpretation of a scene. Grief makes conspiracy theorists of us all. But in my experience, when death haunts a family, there’s usually a banal explanation.
Bad genetics. Bad environment. Alcohol. Drugs.
I once met a woman who’d lost three sons, each of them shot. It fell to me to notify her that her fourth son had been stabbed and had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. In her face I saw sorrow. Weariness. Resignation. No real surprise, though.
A clatter: Zaragoza at the back of the van, readying the gurney.
Tatiana finished her text and dropped the phone in her bag.
I said, “I understand your frustration. Right now the goal is to gather as much information as possible. That includes everything you’re telling me.”
“Fine,” she said. “So what next?”
“The autopsy’s the first priority. It’ll give us a clearer picture of what happened.”
“How long does that take?”
“Middle of next week at the outside. Once that’s done, we can issue a death certificate and release your father’s body. If you tell the funeral home he’s with us, they’ll take care of the rest.” I paused. “Did you have a specific funeral home in mind?”
It was this question, the bleak practicality it demanded, that overwhelmed her at last. She pressed at her temples, shut her eyes against tears.
She said, “I don’t even know where to look.”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s not something people think about.”
I gave her a moment to just be.
She wiped her face on her sleeves. “Who do I call?”
“I’m not allowed to make recommendations,” I said. “But in my experience most of the ones around here are very good.”
“What about the bad ones?” A short laugh. “Can you tell me those?”
I smiled. “Unfortunately not.”
“Whatever. I’ll figure it out.” She wiped her face again, regarded me soberly. “I’m sorry if I lost my temper.”
“Not at all.”
“He’s dead, and I feel like nobody’s... No excuses. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She gazed up at the house. “It’s so fucked up. I don’t know if he has a will. I can’t reach my brothers. Nobody’s picking up at the studio, they’re expecting me in twenty minutes.” She breathed out sharply. “It’s a mess, is what it is.”
“Did your father have an attorney?”
“My mom might know. If she ever gets here.”
“We can notify your brothers, if it’d help.”
“No, thanks, I’ll do it.”
“Before I forget,” I said. “I have some of your father’s possessions, his wallet and his phone. They might yield additional information, so we’re going to take them with us. Do you happen to know the passcode for the phone?”
She looked lost.
“Don’t worry if not,” I said. “Usually it’s a birthday, or—”
“You can’t just, like, crack it?”
“Knowing the code would be a lot faster.”
“God. Okay, try these.”
I scribbled as she rattled off numbers.
“If none of those work, let me know,” she said.
“Will do. Thanks. Anything else you want to tell me? Other questions?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
I gave her my card. “That’s my direct line. Think of me as a resource. Here if you need me, not if you don’t. This can be a confusing process, and one of our goals is to make it easier for you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Of course.” My turn to look at the house. “Some people find it tough when we bring the body out. You might want to hang out elsewhere temporarily.”
She didn’t reply. She was studying my card.
I said, “Even if you just want to go down to the street for fifteen or twenty minutes. Or you could drive over to your work.”
She put the card in her pocket. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter 5
Zaragoza had left the gurney collapsed by the front door, laying out sheets in the foyer next to the body. He glanced up, spiking an eyebrow as I entered carrying brown paper bags and zip-ties.
We bag hands for trace evidence but only in suspicious cases.
I said, “Can’t hurt.”
He shrugged agreeably and we moved the body to the center of the sheets, knotting handles in the fabric. We’ll use whatever happens to be in the van, but at that particular moment I felt grateful that it was sheets and not a body bag; sheets move more naturally and are less likely to wrench you in the wrong direction. Ever since the second flight of stairs I’d had a low-level hum in my knee — what I call leg nausea.
Whoever said there’s no point worrying about what you can’t control clearly had a poor memory, a poor imagination, or both. I take precautions. I ice. I stretch. I get to the gym whenever possible. Still, I worry. I have a decent imagination and an excellent memory.
As I squatted down, braced, put my weight on my heels, I wondered, as I always do: is today the day my own body fails me?
“One,” Zaragoza said, “two, three, up.”
He rose.
I rose.
The body rose.
No disaster today.
We crossed the foyer, moving slowly to minimize the swinging. As we stepped outside and eased the body down onto the gurney, wrapped it in blankets, and buckled it in, I was aware of Tatiana watching us from a distance, those sharp green eyes.
I went over to Schickman and told him we were releasing the scene to him.
“We’ll let you know what canvass turns up,” he said.
“Just to put it on your radar, the daughter said her father had a colleague who died under similar circumstances.”
Schickman nodded. “She told me, too. I tried to ask her about it but she got kind of pissed off. Told me I wasn’t listening. Why. You think it means anything?”
I make judgments based on observable facts. Only rarely does a person’s history play a role in deciding the manner of death, the main exception being suicide.