Still pacing, I saw the small circle of blood that stained the concrete just inside the service door.
Logically, it was the murder’s blood.
As I was about to go through the service door, I heard someone call my name. Turning, I saw Parrington, from the police lab, and Walton, from the coroner’s office. Both men stood in the doorway of the storage pantry, waiting for permission to enter the area. Each man carried a satchel. I told them to stay where they were, and asked Parrington for a piece of chalk. I marked off a “safe” corridor that led to the rear of the garage. Walking between the chalk lines, the two men followed me to a six-foot circle that I chalked on the oil-stained concrete. As we assembled inside the circle, a police photographer ventured into the open doorway. I waited for hum to join us before I explained to the three men what I expected from them.
“Especially,” I finished, “there are three things I want you to do. First—” I pointed toward the service door. “I want that blood typed. It might not be Booker’s. Second—” I pointed to the package of Camels, then turned to the photographer. “I want to make sure those cigarettes show up clearly in the pictures. I think they might’ve belonged to the suspect. And also—” I turned to the lab man. “Also, I want that cigarette pack fingerprinted by the best man available. Which means you. Clear?”
Parrington was young and eager. He wasn’t able to surpress a smile at the cryptic compliment. Perhaps to conceal the smile, he solemnly nodded.
“That’s clear,” he answered. “What’s the third thing?”
“The third thing is the bullets. I want every square inch of this place searched for expended bullets.” I pointed to the automatic. “That gun’s been fired. I want to know where the bullets are.”
“One of them might be inside the murderer,” the coroner’s man said laconically. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “That’s what I think.” I edged past them and walked between the parallel chalk lines to the door. Then I turned back. “When you’re ready to move the body, let me know. I’ll be in the hallway, probably. Don’t hurry, though. I requested you men for this job because I want it done right. The reason I want it done right is obvious.” I pointed to the dead man. “We’ve got a victim who wore hundred-dollar shoes and who was a good friend of the woman who owns this house. And the woman who owns this house is a very important person — as I’m sure you’ll be reading in tomorrow’s papers.” I looked at each man in turn. “Clear?”
They nodded.
8
I was yawning as I unlocked my office door the next morning. Canelli and I had arrived at the murder scene about seven-fifteen the previous evening. The technicians hadn’t arrived until quarter to eight, and hadn’t finished the first phase of their investigations until almost nine. They were still on the premises when the second wave arrived: the D. A.‘s man, the light crews and the additional lab men who would search inch by inch for evidence. At the same time, three men from my own squad arrived, called from their homes. Their responsibility was the interrogation of witnesses. I put them under Canelli’s command while I performed the on-site investigation’s final ritual. Before witnesses, I moved the body and searched his pockets. I found sixty-three dollars in cash inside his wallet, together with the usual credit cards and identification. He’d carried his wallet in his hip pocket. In another pocket I found less than a dollar in loose change and a Swiss Army knife. A third pocket yielded a key ring and ten .32 caliber cartridges. None of the keys fitted any of the locks in the Cappellani house or garage. However, when I searched the victim’s shearling coat, still in the study, I found a separate key to the front door. At about ten P.M. I told the D. A.’s man that, based on my tentative appraisal of the physical evidence, I’d concluded that Booker had arrived on the premises at about four-thirty, driving his own car. He’d probably been alone. Using a key, he’d entered the house through the front door. He’d bolted the door behind him and gone directly to the study, where he’d possibly waited for an hour and a half. At about six, he may have heard someone entering the garage through the service door. Since we’d found no jimmy marks, we assumed that the intruder’s entrance had been effected by a key — unless he’d come through the overhead garage door, using an electronic door opener.
The assistant D. A. had been satisfied — and anxious to return to a Friday-night party. My next problem was the reporters: one each from San Francisco’s two daily papers, and two TV reporters. I made them wait until the body had been taken away, then allowed them to photograph the scene of the crime. An informal press conference had taken three-quarters of an hour. By that time, additional information had been developed. One neighbor thought she heard a shot “sometime during the six o’clock news.” At about the same time, a teenage boy had seen a man run from the garage and get into a compact car. At the place where the teenager said the car was parked, we’d found the blood. Because of the fog and the gathering darkness, the boy hadn’t gotten a license number.
I’d stayed on the scene until eleven-thirty, then left Canelli in charge. His responsibility hadn’t ended until everyone in the neighborhood had been interrogated and every foot of the house and grounds searched.
Thursday night, thinking about Ann, I’d gotten less than five hours’ sleep. Last night, thinking about the Booker murder, I hadn’t done much better.
Now, at eight-thirty Saturday morning, I dialed Parrington, in the lab. My muscles ached with fatigue. My eyes felt hot and dry.
“Do you have anything?” I asked.
“Yessir,” he answered promptly. “I don’t have it written up yet. But I can tell you about it.”
“Fine.”
“Everything we found more or less confirms what you thought, Lieutenant. The blood inside the garage was two different types, for instance. And the blood beside the service door matched the blood on the sidewalk. We got some real good prints off that cigarette package, too — just like you thought. I calibrated the prints and put them into the computer about an hour ago. With luck, Identification could have something for you before too long.”
“Good.”
“I also found some clothing fibers caught under the victim’s fingernails. The fabric was brown polyester, and it didn’t match anything the victim was wearing or anything in the house. Which makes me think that he ripped open one of his attacker’s pockets. That would account for the stuff spilled on the floor — all of which, incidentally, had latent prints that matched the prints on the cigarette wrapper.”
“Did that ‘Twospot’ note have the same prints too?”
“Yessir.”
“What about the gun and bullets? Anything conclusive?”
“It’s a Beretta .32 caliber. I just called Sacramento for an ownership printout on it, but I haven’t heard anything yet. The victim’s prints were on the gun, but no other prints. They were on the bullets, too. If the magazine was fully loaded, and there wasn’t a cartridge in the chamber, then he fired two shots. Which also adds up, assuming he shot his attacker. We found one bullet in the wall of the garage.”
At that moment, I heard a quick double knock on my office door. I knew that knock. It was Pete Friedman, my senior co-lieutenant. I called for Friedman to come in, and thanked Parrington for his work. Either he’d been up most of the night, or he’d started working at six-thirty this morning. Or both.
I watched Friedman enter my office and sink down into my visitor’s chair with his customary grateful sigh. It was Friedman’s long-standing contention that my visitor’s chair was the only one in the Department that could comfortably accommodate his considerable bulk. Therefore, according to Friedman, it was only in my visitor’s chair that he could properly formulate the ideas we needed to solve the city’s homicides.