Marcia Muller - Trophies And Dead Things

As is customary in such cases, the mayor's office had offered a reward for information leading to the apprehension of the murderer. The usual false leads, extortion attempts, and crackpot calls (including one in which the caller claimed the shootings were the work of her husband, who had then flown off in a UFO) had been phoned in to the police hot line. Unlike killers such as Zodiac, the perpetrator did not contact either the press or the police. If the snipings continued, the public outcry would become louder, and panic would ensue; political pressure on the department, already heavy, would increase.

I skimmed the files devoted to each individual, then turned to Hilderly's, curious to see where he'd been on the night of his death. There was a statement from his employer, Gene Carver of Tax Management Corporation, saying that Hilderly had worked late that evening. I frowned; he'd been shot only the week before last, long after the busy income-tax season. Why the late hours? Then I read on; Hilderly and his boss had been preparing for an IRS audit of one of their major clients. Carver stated that he himself had left the office at one A.M. and offered Hilderly a ride home; Hilderly declined, saying he wanted to finish with what he was working on.

I sighed and leaned back in Greg's chair. I could understand why the police had been thus far frustrated by the killings. The only links among the victims of the sniper that they'd been able to establish were the circumstances under which they'd been shot and the matching bullets. Apparently none of them had known one another, and there were few commonalities. Of course, little was known about the restaurant worker, who appeared to be even more of a loner than Hilderly, but the fact he'd been more or less a drifter whose history could not be fully established removed him a step further from his fellow victims. The shootings were random, all right. I didn't envy Greg this one.

After a moment I looked at my watch, saw it was nearly two. Greg-who had been called away to a meeting with his unit's deputy chief-obviously wouldn't be back for some time. I used his phone to check in at All Souls, found there were no messages of any importance, and decided to go grab a burger before running by KSTS-TV. As I hurried through the busy squad room toward the elevators, I waved to Inspector Wallace. He motioned for me to come over, but I shook my head and pointed to my watch. My stomach was making a hollow plaint; if I was to have any lunch at all, I'd better do so quickly.

At close to three I arrived at the TV studio on the Embarcadero, virtually in the shadow of the Bay Bridge, and only blocks from the proposed site for a new downtown athletic stadium. The building was bulky, red brick with a flat roof sporting an antenna and various other broadcast gear-the former plant of a bakery that had gone belly-up in the seventies. Tracks from a railroad spur ribbed the pavement in front of it; across the boulevard that rimmed this side of the city along the bay were three piers-no longer used for shipping, but instead devoted to such enterprises as architects' and real-estate brokers' offices. To their right was the SFFD's fireboat station.

The roar of cars and trucks on the bridge and its approaches drowned out other sounds; the massive concrete facades of the piers all but blocked my view of the water. The day-at least in this part of the city-had turned warmish and sunny. On the wide promenade beyond the fireboat station people sat on benches or leaned against the seawall, looking out toward Treasure Island; joggers pounded along, most of them appearing oblivious to the attractiveness of their surroundings. After I got out of my car I watched one of the harbor pilot's boats churn by, then turned and went into the TV studio's lobby.

The lobby was decorated in high-tech gray and black, with blown-up photos of KSTS personalities on the walls. As I waited for the receptionist-who was answering phones, putting people on hold, getting back to other callers-I studied the picture of Jess Goodhue. The anchor-woman had a pert, almost elfin face, with sleek dark brown hair that swept back from her forehead and ears, its ends curling under just above her shoulders. In spite of her youthful cuteness-which she probably found a liability- the photo exuded a forceful presence. Her eyes met that of the camera candidly; their direct gaze and the set of her mouth showed determination and intelligence. Even before seeing her in person, I sensed Goodhue was a woman who demanded respect-and got it.

The receptionist finished with the last of the waiting callers. "May I help you?" he asked.

I told him I wanted to speak with Goodhue and handed him one of my cards. He dialed an extension and spoke into the phone, then said to me, "She wants to know what this is in reference to."

I said it was in reference to an inheritance left her by an All Souls client.

He spoke into the phone again, then replaced the receiver. "She says she's got to review a couple more scripts but if you want to talk afterward, while she's doing her makeup, that's fine with her."

"Fine with me, too."

"Okay, why don't you-" He broke off and waved to a young woman who was entering from the street, bearing a grease-stained bag of what looked and smelled to be Chinese carry-out. "Hey, Marge, would you take this lady back to the newsroom and point her toward Jess?"

Marge nodded and motioned for me to follow her; the receptionist buzzed us through an interior door near his desk. The newsroom was the first on the left off the long hall beyond it.

My initial impression was of noise: voices, telephone bells, the clatter of typewriters, the squawk of police-band radios. A half dozen TV monitors were mounted on one wall, pictures turned on, but sound muted. Silent spectral images moved across their screens: Woody Woodpecker, a hand-wringing soap-opera heroine, Oprah Winfrey, earnest individuals extolling the virtues of baby diapers and spray wax and deodorant.

Marge said, "First cubicle to the right of the assignment desk," and went back into the hall.

Directly ahead of me was a long desk on a raised platform. Three men and a woman sat at it-talking on phones, scribbling notes, scrutinizing the monitors. I looked to the right and saw a row of modular cubicles. As I started over there I had to dodge a woman who rushed through the door behind me dragging a bulky tote bag by its strap and flashing a victory sign toward the assignment desk.

There were two people in the first cubicle: a dark-haired woman seated in a swivel chair at the desk and a tall, angular man who loomed over her, stabbing his finger at a typewritten page. The woman's face was not visible, but I assumed she was Jess Goodhue. I moved away from the opening of the cubicle and leaned against its wall, idly observing the activity in the newsroom. The woman I'd nearly collided with was at the assignment desk talking with a bald-headed man. After a moment she hurried to one of a row of smaller desks on the far side of the room, plunked her tote bag down, and began rolling paper into a typewriter while still standing. The bald-headed man got up and went to a board that resembled an airline arrivals-and-departures schedule mounted on the wall behind him. He rubbed out a couple of notations with the side of his hand, then used a blue crayon to enter new ones.

A voice came from inside the cubicle-Goodhue's, not so carefully modulated as it was on her newscasts. "No, Marv, that's got to be rewritten. I don't see how we can compare Barbara Bush to Mother Teresa." Marv said something that I couldn't quite make out. "No, I am not expressing a political bias. This is one I think even Babs would agree with me on."

The man left the cubicle without another word and stalked toward the row of desks on the other side of the room.

"That's a Republican for you," Goodhue said. I glanced into the cubicle, saw she was paging through a script, and stepped back.