"And you," I said to Hank, "are going back to All Souls?"
"I have to. As I said, an emergency came up."
"Why don't you stay there tonight?"
"Where? On the couch? I tried that last winter when Anne-Marie and I were broken up, and hardly slept for nights. The case I'm trying is winding up tomorrow; I have to get a decent rest."
"Okay-go to All Souls, then. But don't leave until I get there."
"And then what do you intend to do?"
"Act as your bodyguard on your way home."
"Shar, that'll make me feel like an old man being helped across the street by a Girl Scout."
"Like it or not, that's the way it's going to be."
Hank merely nodded, once again cowed by my obvious irritation.
I stood up and stuffed the legal pad into my briefcase. "There's one other thing I want both of you to do: keep thinking about the hawkish element in that bar. Try to recall confrontations, threats. Try to remember names. I'll check with you later about it."
As I started for the door Hank asked, "Where're you going now?"
"To talk with Greg Marcus. I have an idea that may help him identify the sniper."
Eighteen
Greg said, "Damn, you may have something there."
I reached for the cup of coffee I'd set on the edge of his desk and waited for him to go on.
After a moment he added, "The motive might sound farfetched, but I've encountered stranger ones. Let's hear your theory on who's responsible."
I replaced the cup and began enumerating items on my fingers. "First, I assume we're in agreement that we're dealing with a seriously disturbed individual."
He nodded.
"Second, given the length of time that's elapsed, there has to have been some event that triggered the shooting spree."
"I'm not sure that's a given. Sometimes people brood for years-decades, even-and then just tip over the edge."
"But usually with a nudge from some event or situation- however minor."
"I'll agree with that if you stress the minor."
"All right." I got up and began to pace about the cubicle, allowing the regular motion to lend order to my thoughts. "Let's assume the person is a man. He's disturbed. He's probably a Vietnam vet."
"Not necessarily; two of his victims weren't, but they were still in Cam Ranh at the same time he was."
"For the sake of this particular argument, let's assume he is. Suppose he's been receiving psychiatric treatment as an outpatient. Where in this area would he go?"
"Letterman."
"Where Mary Johnson Davis worked in psychiatric counseling before she went to Children's Hospital. And where John Owens probably received medical care for his disability."
Greg nodded. "So our perp is at Letterman and he runs into Davis. Maybe she's even the counselor assigned to his case. Whatever the circumstances, that's the nudge."
"And he also spots Owens. Now he knows they're both living in San Francisco. From then on it's easy to stalk them, learn their habits, wait for the right moment."
"That's fine. And I can see why he would have been able to locate Hank and Willie-but what about Hilderly?"
"Hilderly was Hank's friend. They met for drinks fairly frequently."
"And Bob Smith?"
I sat down again. "Smith's the one who didn't seem to fit the pattern originally, and at first glance he doesn't fit this one too well, either. But that pizza restaurant where he worked when he died is only a couple of blocks from Willie's store, and I looked in there on the way over here. It's the kind where the kitchen is only separated from the dining area by a counter; you can watch the people preparing the food. Our man's coming across Smith could have been circumstantial. If it happened after he saw Davis and Owens at Letterman, he might have been on the alert for familiar faces."
"But why go after Smith before the others, in that case?"
I shrugged. "Opportunity. Smith was a loner, easier to stalk."
"Okay." Greg leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin, eyes trained on a point above my head. Once again I waited.
Finally he said, "The time lapse bothers me. I know we've said Davis or Owens, or the combination thereof, pushed him over the edge, but surely in twenty years there would have been other nudges. Why didn't he go after his victims long ago?"
"I've thought about that. There's an additional factor-and fortunately, it's one that may speed an identification. I think he might have been in a mental institution most of that time. Perhaps he'd only recently been released."
"Good point." Greg's gaze remained focused on the distance as he considered. "What we've got here," he said, "is a lot of conjecture, if you want to know the truth. But it's better than any lead I've developed. And obviously the place to start investigating is at Letterman. As it happens, I've an acquaintance in the CID at the Presidio who will expedite requests for information." He reached for his Rolodex and thumbed through it.
I asked, "Do you still have a man on Willie's house?"
"No. We're so damned understaffed. But I'll try to get one back on, plus another on Hank."
"I don't think you need to worry too much about Willie; he told me he was going home and not coming out until it was all over. And I'll take care of Hank, at least for tonight."
"You sure you want the responsibility?"
"I don't mind. It's a calculated risk. The sniper's pattern has been to fire when the victim's alone. Even when he shot at Willie, Rae was way down by the corner."
"Well, be careful. I don't want to lose either of you."
"You won't."
Greg picked up the phone receiver and punched out a number. "Busy, dammit."
I stood and shrugged into my jacket. "I'd better get over to All Souls."
"I'll phone you there when I have something." Greg came around the desk and walked me to the door of the cubicle. Then he paused, his hand on the knob. "And Sharon- thanks for your cooperation. The chief's been on my case since Willie was shot at, as the mayor's office has been on his. This comes at a time when nailing the sniper could make my career-and failing could break it."
I looked up at his face, somber in the neon light that glared down from the ceiling fixtures. "How so?"
"A captaincy is opening up-Narcotics. I'm the major contender for it."
"Greg! Congratulations!"
His answering smile was wistful, and I knew why. The captaincy was a desk job, one in which he would juggle paper, policy, and politics. There would be no actual field investigations, no more satisfaction of personally piecing together a solid case against a perpetrator. And yet, it was time…
"You want the promotion, don't you?"
He sighed. "Yes and no. But I know it's the only logical step. And I'm tired, Sharon. I'm tired of being called out in the middle of the night to crime scenes. I'm sick and tired of violent death. And I'm sick of dealing with scum, of being reminded at every turn of how vile people can be."
"You think you won't be in Narcotics?"
"Maybe I just need another brand of vileness." He paused, his lips quirking up mischievously. "Besides, my appointment will really piss off McFate. He was recently passed over for lieutenant."
"In that case, I hope it comes through fast. And speaking of McFate…?"
"Probably over at the Intelligence Division again. He seems to prefer his cronies on the old detail to those on Homicide." Greg glanced through the door. "Well, what a surprise. Maybe now I'll actually get a report on the Grant case out of him." He motioned to a desk on the far side of the squad room. A pearl-gray suit jacket was draped precisely over a silly-looking brass garment rack that was more appropriate to a bedroom, and I could see the back of McFate's head.
"You know," I said, "even though I need to talk with him, I was kind of hoping he wouldn't be here."
"I know how you feel. Good luck."
I crossed the noisy, cluttered room, avoiding boxes of files, misplaced chairs, and even someone's bowling bag. When I stopped next to McFate's desk, he kept his eyes on the report in front of him. Moments later, he looked up, expression going glacial when he saw me. "Ms. McCone," he said, "what may I do for you?" McFate didn't ask me to sit down, so I remained where I was. His gaze moved up and down my body, taking in my jeans, sweater, and suede jacket in a manner that stopped just short of being contemptuous. A slender needle of irritation pricked at me, but I adopted a businesslike tone. "I have some information pertaining to the Grant case." He smoothed his luxuriant brown mustache-surely it wasn't real; could one purchase a fake, like a toupee?-with his index finger. "Yes?"