People should lead productive lives, pursuing-if never catching-the myth of happiness. They should not be made to feel so powerless and victimized that in turn they attempt to become the powerful, the victimizers. They should not die senselessly-either on the battlefield or the city streets. And they should not be driven so insane that they either become an attacker or self-destruct.
Of course I knew that the way things are is an entirely different matter. All of those should-nots happen, over and over again. As a people we profess to hold lofty ideals- equality, peace, stop the killing, save the whales-but given what I'd seen in my career, I'd begun to wonder how many of us truly believe them. Or believe in their feasibility, the human animal being what it is…
The sky was lighter now, but the fog showed no signs of lifting. I could make out the rocks where the sea lions raised their heads and bellowed, but not the line of the horizon. Although it promised to be a gray Friday, I kept sitting there, waiting for some hopeful sign. After a while, when none was forthcoming, I got up and took myself home for a couple hours of sleep.
My sleep was restless and when I woke around nine, I felt even more depressed-a victim both of the persistent fog and the dreadful events of the night before. Unlike last Saturday morning, the dream I'd had before waking came back immediately, with disturbing clarity.
I'd been seated among a crowd in a large auditorium, and on the stage a distinguished man in scholar's robes was giving out diplomas. Perry Hilderly stepped up to the podium, dressed not in the traditional cap and gown, but in a glittering suit of gilt armor. The man presented his piece of parchment, praising Perry's intelligence. Then Perry faced the crowd and held the diploma aloft; the parchment was tattered around its edges. Instantly I knew it had been gnawed by rats.
As I recalled the dream, my flesh rippled unpleasantly, and I drew my quilts higher against the chill in the room and within myself. I ought to check my paperback on dreams to figure out what this one was all about. But did I really want to know?
Fortunately I had little time to dwell on dreams this morning. It was already late, and I wanted to call the hospital to check on Hank. Then I needed to go to the Hall of Justice and sign the statement I'd given Greg in the car the night before; he'd said it would be ready by ten. And after that I wanted to track down my private investigator friend, to see if he had indeed been the one who looked into Jenny Ruhl's background for Jess Goodhue.
So many places to go, so many things to do. So many ways to keep my mind off worrying about Hank.
Twenty-One
Patient Information told me that Hank was still in intensive care, his condition critical but stable. That covered too wide a range of possibilities to offer me any reassurance, so I tried unsuccessfully to reach Anne-Marie. No one at All Souls knew any more than I did. In the end I set off for the Hall of Justice in an apprehensive frame of mind, with a headache from too little sleep and a case of the shakes from too much coffee.
McFate was not in the squad room, even though his suit coat-a blue pinstripe today-hung on the foolish little rack beside his desk. That, I thought, could be considered the first positive circumstance of the day. I had nothing to say to the inspector, but I was sure he would have had plenty to say to me-most of it barbs about my abilities as a bodyguard, and none of it praise for apprehending the sniper.
As promised, Greg had my statement on his desk. I read through it slowly, made a couple of changes, initialed them, and added my signature.
I said, "There it is, all wrapped up. I kept thinking it had some connection with Hilderly and his will, but it didn't."
Greg was shuffling papers, his brow creased in annoyance, and didn't reply. I got up to leave.
"Wait a minute," he said, motioning for me to shut the door.
I did so, then sat down again.
"How're you coming on the Hilderly matter?" he asked.
"I located all the heirs, and then one was killed-but you know that."
"Grant."
"Right. I told McFate I thought there might be a connection between his death and Hilderly's will. Didn't he mention that to you?"
"Only to say he'd found it wasn't relevant. Apparently he's seriously looking at a couple of Grant's clients." Greg paused, his frown turning to a scowl. "Brief me on what you've found out about the heirs' connection to Hilderly."
I did, trying not to omit any details, however tenuous. Greg made a few notes as I talked, then studied them before speaking.
"Interesting thing," he finally said. "That gun you brought in for identification-the lab called about it yesterday evening. Technician who owes me a favor processed it on overtime. I initiated a check on the serial number, and the information's come back."
"And?"
"Gun's one of a half dozen that were stolen from a shop in the Outer Mission in February of sixty-nine. Four of them were found on the persons of a radical group that attempted to bomb the weapons station at Port Chicago the next August: Taylor, Ruhl, and Heikkinen. A fifth was used in the suicide of Ruhl several months later."
I drew in my breath, let it out in a long sigh. "And Hilderly had the sixth. I wonder if they actually stole them?"
"Our data's not complete enough to tell."
"Doesn't really matter. What I'd like to know more about is that bombing attempt and the trial. FBI made the arrests?"
Greg nodded.
"And it would have been a federal prosecution. Probably it would be easier and quicker if I did some library research than if I persuaded you to request information through channels."
"That's really out of the scope of your investigation for All Souls, isn't it?"
I shrugged. "It'll keep my mind off worrying about Hank."
"Well, as long as you're determined to research it, keep me posted. McFate's probably right about Grant being killed by a disgruntled client, but I still don't like him not following up on all lines of inquiry."
"And if he's wrong about it being irrelevant, you'll use it as ammunition against him."
"Something like that."
"Well, I'd better let you get back to work." I stood up and Greg walked me out the door. "By the way," I added, "how did McFate take my collaring the sniper?"
"Not too well. Huffed about civilians treading on departmental territory-as if it mattered who collared him. Actually he seemed relieved that the Hilderly slaying was solved; maybe he didn't completely believe in the lack of relevancy of that will to Grant's death. And right after that he took off." Greg glanced across the squad room, where McFate's suit coat still hung on the brass rack. "Frankly, I'm getting annoyed at the way he keeps disappearing."
"Where do you suppose he is?"
"Not far away. Usually he puts on his jacket just to go to the can."
"Well, I think I'll get out of here before he comes back."
Greg grinned and went back into his office. I rode the elevator down to the lobby and joined the line in front of the bank of pay phones.
The lobby was crowded and noisy, the sounds of footfalls and voices reverberating off the marble walls. Cops in uniform passed by, going to the elevators or the Southern police station, housed just beyond the security station at the entrance. Attorneys in sober suits and carrying briefcases strode toward the municipal courtrooms on the building's eastern side. A poorly dressed man on the uncertain edge of sobriety was eating a sandwich on one of the marble benches. The roles of the other participants in the unfolding drama of justice were less easy to define: Was the sharply dressed black man over by the concession stand a pusher, pimp, or parole officer? Was the woman in the smart black business suit a prosecution witness or a defendant facing charges of prostitution? I spotted another woman with punked-up purple hair wearing tattered jeans and a dirty T-shirt, and recognized her as a nark Greg had once introduced me to.