“Did you order reinforcements?” Marsten asked.
“Yes. But I told them to stay in their cars until they get orders. I don’t want them behind us, shooting.”
Speaking in whispers, we were standing in front of the gate.
“Ready?”
Marsten nodded calmly. He looked ready.
I slowly pushed open the gate, standing to the left as the gate swung wide to the right.
The terrain beyond the gate was similar to that higher on the hilclass="underline" a wild, twisted tangle of low-growing underbrush and stunted trees. In the heart of San Francisco, I was facing a wilderness. To my right, a ragged line of tall pines ran down the hill, ending abruptly at a man-made cliff that had been blasted away to allow construction of the street below. To my left, the sheer concrete wall of an elegant high-rise apartment building rose fifty feet from the ground. The wall extended almost to the cliffside, with a cyclone fence running to the very edge — and even extending beyond, protection against prowlers. Two sides, then, were secure. He couldn’t climb the wall, wouldn’t have gone over the cliff. The third side, marked by tall pines, was bounded by another high wire-mesh fence. The fourth side — the uphill side where I stood — was bordered by three private pieces of property. One of the lots ended in the privet hedge. The second lot was bounded by a brick wall. A wooden fence secured the third piece of property. The enclosed tract of overgrown land measured about two hundred feet square.
“If he’s in there,” Marsten said, “we’ve got him. He can’t get out. But the cover’s so thick, you should order a helicopter.”
The remark was typical of Marsten. He was always suggesting, always pushing. Always bucking. I turned deliberately away from him and moved a few paces down the steep slope and into the cover of the first small, twisted trees. For a moment I stood alone, eyeing the wooden fence that adjoined the brick wall. The fence was no more than five feet high.
Howard could have escaped over the fence, the weakest point.
If he’d escaped, and I ordered a ’copter, I’d look like a fool. Once every three months, the departmental comptroller called each unit commander into his office for a “cost of operations” review. For all of us, it was a dreaded moment of truth.
And a helicopter was charged out at three hundred dollars an hour.
I drew a deep breath. “All right, Howard,” I called. “Come on out. Bring the gun with you. Throw it on the ground when we tell you to do it. You’ve got one minute.”
Except for a woman’s head thrust out of a nearby window, there was no response. I called again, louder. Nothing.
By now, I knew, two black and white units were standing by, parked on Greenwich Street. I switched on my walkie-talkie and ordered the uniformed men to come down the stairs — with their units’ shotguns. And flack vests and helmets, if they had them.
Less than a minute later, with all of us crouched like jungle soldiers among the low-growing trees, I was explaining the problem to the four uniformed men, two of whom I knew by name, two by sight.
I pointed to the uphill perimeter: toward the hedge, the brick wall and the wooden fence. “Two of you guard that line,” I ordered, indicating the two men I didn’t know by name. “If he’s going to break out, he’ll probably try to go over one of those fences, or else through the hedge, maybe.” The two men were young and nervous. Both wore khaki-colored Army flack vests and big white helmets with S.F.P.D. stenciled in front. The bulky vests made their arms look frail and spindly. The helmets made their necks look scrawny. Both swallowed hard — then nodded in unison. They looked like boys playing war, dressed in their fathers’ combat gear.
“The rest of us will spread out,” I said. “We’ll work our way downhill to the cliff, through the trees. Each of you will carry a shotgun. Marsten, you take the far side—” I pointed uphill, toward the pines and the cyclone fence. “I’ll take the left. Let’s try and keep a line. And let’s not shoot each other.”
The two young patrolmen tried to smile — but couldn’t make it. Holding his shotgun high, Marsten began forcing his way through the underbrush. Watching the decisive, bull-shouldered way he moved, I realized that Marsten hoped to find Howard first — and kill him.
I drew my revolver and moved to my left, toward the towering concrete wall of the apartment building. The wall was blank, with only a series of vent holes, probably marking bathrooms on each floor. I counted eight balconies overhanging the cliff, one for each floor. On four of the balconies, figures had come to the railing, watching the show below. Sirens and flashing lights and screams and drawn guns attracted them: the rubberneckers, the impassive ghouls. They assembled silently, coming from nowhere — and everywhere. When it was over, when the sirens finally faded away and the blood was drying on the pavement, they silently disappeared.
I turned to my right, looking along the line. Three men with shotguns were working through the tangled trees. Two men with drawn pistols guarded the upper line of fences and walls and hedges.
“This is your last chance, Howard,” I called. “It’s the hard way or the easy way — your choice.”
Nothing.
The silence threatened a fiasco — an assault team assembled against an enemy long gone. Thank God I hadn’t called for the helicopter.
“All right,” I called out, “let’s get him out of there — slow and easy.”
In unison, the four of us entered the underbrush. Immediately I was surrounded by foliage. Here there were no tunnels burrowed by playing children. There were only bramble branches, tearing at my clothing. That morning, realizing that I would be interrogating the affluent Cappellanis, I’d have chosen one of my best suits. Now I was sorry. I should have—
A flicker of movement came from my right. Crouching low, I brought my revolver up — and saw the blue of a police uniform over my sights. I lowered the gun just as I heard a shout from my left, above.
“Policeman. Hey.” It was a high-pitched voice. A child’s voice, from high above me. From one of the high-rise balconies. Looking up, I saw two small arms waving.
“Policeman. Hey. I see him. By the fence, there. Right down there. Right down below me, there.”
And ahead something moved — something brown, not blue. Through close-growing tree limbs I saw a trouser leg — a shoe — a hand.
And a flash of metal, bright among the branches.
“Over here,” I shouted. “To your left. Here. He’s…”
A shot cracked — and another shot. I flinched, then plunged ahead. I couldn’t see him now — so he couldn’t see me, either. So he couldn’t hit me if he shot again.
“Policeman. Hey. He’s climbing over the fence. Hey.”
Arms flailing, legs pumping, feet slipping and sliding, I fought free of the foliage, staggering into a cleared strip of rocky ground that paralleled the building.
He was climbing up the eight-foot wire mesh fence that ran from the apartment building to the edge of the cliff. Incredibly, he’d almost reached the top.
“Howard—” I raised my revolver, shot in the air — then lowered the gun, aiming at the desperately climbing figure. A part of my mind registered the image of a frenzied ape, trapped in his chain-link cage. The distance between us was less than thirty feet. If I squeezed the trigger, I couldn’t miss.
He threw his right arm over the top of the fence — then his right leg.
“Howard.” I took careful aim at the dangling left leg, and fired.