Walking slowly through the house, Jim noted that Innelman and Deak had been here. There were traces of black dusting powder on the inside doorknob, on both white bathroom drinking cups. The impound list on the counter said that three wineglasses sitting here were now in Evidence at the County Crime Lab. Three glasses, he thought: three drinkers? He saw that Ann’s address book, which always hung by a ribbon beside the kitchen phone, had been carted off to Evidence, too. Likewise, the message tape from the answering machine. There was a sprinkle of safecracker gray on the floor in front of the refrigerator, where they’d dusted the black plastic handle and door. He followed their thinking: Ann had come home, changed, been confronted here and forced to drive. Not likely, he thought. It didn’t feel right.
Two drawers in Ann’s bedroom chest were partially open, as was the closet door. He stood there in her room for a moment, a room redolent with the smell of her perfumes and lotions, feeling confronted by her presence, half-expecting her to speak. Such a trampling of you, he thought. I’m sorry. He shivered inside the jacket.
More fingerprint powder beside the table lamp in Raymond’s study, cabinets ajar, a Polaroid film envelope lying on top in the wastebasket. Straws, he thought: Ann never came back here. She got in her car and drove to wherever it was she was planning to go. Dennison is desperate for a break. How many times had Raymond stood amidst such a scene, he wondered. Did he dream that someday such props of tragedy would be his own?
He went back to the kitchen, took Malachi Ruff’s interview from the briefcase, and smoothed it out before him on the wobbly kitchen dinette. The questioning had been done by Innelman at eight the morning of Tuesday, May 16. It was written in the usual police English, and contained nothing of importance that Dennison hadn’t already told him. Basically, a drunk named Mackie Ruff had heard a scream, seen someone run along the bay, seen a cop car speed away, then fallen back asleep. Dense fog, dark, much booze inside him. Innelman noted on the report that “Ruff has an outspoken dislike of law enforcement” and that “Witness Ruff was intoxicated at time of alleged incident. Because of dense fog and considerable alcohol, Ruff could not determine age, race, dress, or attitude of possible suspect. Suspect disappeared northbound. Approximately thirty seconds later, Ruff heard a car door open and shut, then an engine start. He reportedly walked back up to Galaxy Drive to observe a white four-door car in motion southbound. Ruff states ‘it was a cop car.’ Upon further inquiry, Ruff elaborated that the ‘emblem’ on the car’s side indicated it was a police patrol unit. Ruff was not close enough to determine any details concerning this alleged ‘emblem.’ ”
Innelman noted, too, that Ruff had no permanent address but could sometimes be found at Frankie’s Place, the Porthole, or the Eight Peso Cantina, all located near the ferry landing on the Balboa Peninsula.
Weir remembered finding Mackie Ruff knee-deep in the chilly water of the Back Bay one winter, dragging a shopping cart behind him. The cart contained an old car tire and a massive tangle of fishing line. Mackie said he was after lobster. Jim had aimed him back toward dry land after Ray gave him five bucks for some food. How trustworthy was Ruff as a witness? Jim noted, too, that Ruff had been placed in custody but not charged. Of course, he thought: If the DA needed him, why bust him, and why admit he was drunk?
Weir smiled humorlessly, set aside the interview, and brought out the chiefs personnel information, the Dispatch tape and transcript, and a small cassette player that Dennison had been thoughtful enough to include.
First task, he thought, is to consider the interim police chief, and Sergeant Cruz.
Dennison was fifty pounds heavier than the 175 pounds estimated by both Robbins and Innelman. He had an O positive blood type; Ann’s killer was B. Dennison had short reddish-brown curly hair; the hair found on Ann’s blouse was straight, medium brown, almost two inches long — male Caucasian between thirty-five and forty-five. Dennison was fifty-one. Brian had told him this morning that he was asleep beside his wife between midnight and 1:00 A.M., and Marlene Dennison had vouched for him. Above it he wrote, HOUR IN QUESTION, and underlined it twice.
Raymond’s stats were even more contradictory to evidence: type A blood; wavy black Latino hair. Raymond was left-handed. He weighed ten pounds less than the Crime Lab estimates, and Weir knew from buying him a pair of swim fins one Christmas that Ray wore shoes a full size smaller than their man did. He could remember with perfect clarity telling the Dive Shop owner that he wanted a pair of black rubber Scuba-Pros for a man’s eight and a half. Funny, he thought, how some things stick in your mind. Becky had stood beside him and quipped something about the Fellini film. Eight and a fucking half, he thought, pushing the Dispatch tape into the player. Pretend for a minute that Ray’s physicals matched up. Let’s see if he has an alibi. He ran the tape forward toward midnight, then slowed it down, found his place on the transcript to read along, and listened to the entire hour in question.
Raymond communicated twelve times with Dispatch. He was patrolling the Corona del Mar beat, which left him almost three fog-clogged miles from the peninsula where Ann was likely picked up. One shortcut — the ferry that shuttles between Balboa Island and the old neighborhood — closed down at midnight. Raymond took three interviews between midnight and one; wrote two traffic citations — both for speeding in Corona del Mar — and made no arrests. The Activity Log and Citation Book carbons enclosed by Dennison showed that Ray had written the tickets at 12:10 and 12:50. He had done field interviews at midnight, 12:20 and 12:35. Jim checked the photocopy of Raymond’s time card. He’d clocked back in at the station at 1:00 A.M., exactly on time. Just like Raymond, he thought: on the dot, and by the book. And no more than six consecutive minutes unaccounted for at a time, either by voice or on paper.
Hard to believe, he thought, leafing through the file, that Ray is a fifteen-year veteran already. Raymond’s career flew before him: eight commendations from two different chiefs; six citations from the city for outstanding performance; others from Lions, Kiwanis, the Chamber of Commerce, the Latino Studies Department at Cal State, Fullerton. He had been named Officer of the Year three times. He had gotten a special Certificate of Meritorious Conduct for collaring a burglar in the home of a ninety-two-year-old former city councilwoman, and a special Community Service Award for helping deliver a baby in his patrol car. He had resuscitated a waterlogged boy on the Twelfth Street beach one summer evening, performing CPR until paramedics arrived through the peninsula traffic. The kid pulled through. Weir could still remember the headlines. As he read on in the file, he realized how well Raymond had done, for an unentitled kid from the neighborhood — taking a bachelor’s degree in sociology before choosing law enforcement, finishing high in his classes at the Sheriff Academy, making sergeant at thirty, and lieutenant at thirty-five. He had enrolled in law school just after getting the promotion — the same year Weir quit the Sheriffs to seek his fortune — and now had just two more semesters to go. We all have our treasures, he could hear Becky say.
Now Raymond was adrift, he thought, untethered and on his own. If he meant what he said about executing Ann’s killer, then he was risking more than his career — he was risking his life. Maybe mine, too, thought Jim, if the man we’re after is a cop.