Wendy Hornsby - The Color of Light

I called 911 again, filled in the dispatcher who answered, and told her where the intruder was and that the front door was locked. I asked her to tell the officers that I was coming down to open the door for them. She told me to wait, but already the noise from the radios on the shoulders of the two patrolmen who walked up onto the porch had alerted the person in the den. I heard him unlatch and open a window.

I flipped on the stair lights, and holding up my hands so the police looking in through the windows could see they were empty, ran down the stairs and unlocked the door.

“He was in the den,” I told the officers, pointing the way. “He may have gone out the window.”

There was a sudden cacophony of neighborhood dogs behind our house, the growing ruckus a good hint about the direction the intruder had taken. I was told very firmly to stay put by one officer while the other radioed for backup as he rushed into the den. Lights came on inside. And I stayed put.

Porch lights went on next door at the Lopers’, too. I muttered, “Shit,” and turned on ours as well, as two more black-and-whites pulled up to the curb, light bars flashing.

Before anyone got around to talking to me, there was a circling chopper overhead, lighting up the neighborhood with its big night-for-day spotlights. After explaining what all the boxes were about, and after agreeing not to touch anything, I was asked to look around the den to see if anything was missing.

Several of Dad’s desk drawers had been left hanging open.

“I emptied the desk earlier today,” I said. “There was nothing to find except maybe a stray paperclip.”

Mystified about what anyone would want in that room, I pointed to the stack of boxed books the university had selected. “Some of those books have value for a few connoisseurs, but they weren’t touched. The computer is a good one, but it’s a few years old. And it’s still here. The TV, ditto. I have no idea what anyone would want in here. Unless it was someone who was just shopping and got interrupted before he could look elsewhere.”

“You didn’t see anyone?”

I shook my head. “I saw his-or her-shadows, and saw that he had a flashlight, and I heard him. But, no, I didn’t come down the stairs and introduce myself.”

“Were the doors and windows locked?”

“The doors all were,” I said. “I thought all the windows were, but I can’t swear to it.”

The questioning officer, Bo Peng, just nodded as he looked around.

Right away, I thought of Larry. But Kevin knew already that he had been coming into the yard, so I decided that it was best to answer Officer Peng’s questions without volunteering anything, and trust that Kevin would know what to say about Larry.

The search moved outside very quickly, following the intruder’s escape route across the backyard and probably over the fence, then, according to the first barking dogs, down the flood control ditch behind our house, headed toward the bottom of the hill. Once the police arrived, it seemed that every dog in the neighborhood had joined the chorus.

Officers searched the entire house and yard, making sure the intruder wasn’t there. When they were certain he was gone, and hadn’t left a friend behind, Officer Peng checked all the doors and windows again, wished me good night and left.

For the rest of the night, sleep eluded me except for short naps full of bad dreams. I was hyper-aware of every sound, until about five when the neighbors began to stir. Comforted by the gentle racket of garage doors, the paperboy, and the heels of early dog walkers along the sidewalk, I fell into a deep sleep that lasted only until the trash trucks came up the street about two hours later.

First thing that Friday morning, I went for a run to clear my head. The day was still young, but already heat was building in the East Bay, drawing ocean air over San Francisco like a cold, gray shroud. Berkeley, in the north, was clear and it was still cool enough for an uphill sprint. I ran across the bottom of Grizzly Peak and over the few blocks to Indian Rock Park, where Mrs. Bartolini’s body was found.

Indian Rock Park is a volcanic outcropping of stark gray granite that juts up out of the middle of a green hillside neighborhood; it is barely one block square. We used to play there as kids. Great for hide-and-seek and climbing, and sometimes just for hanging out. I knew from the Polaroid I found in Dad’s desk that Mrs. Bartolini had been dumped near one of the park entrances. At that place, there are a park sign, a bike rack and a drinking fountain. A set of steps hewn into the granite rises from that point to give rock climbers access to the tallest of the volcanic towers. Though Mrs. B lay only a few yards from the street, she had been placed in a sort of bowl formed by large boulders so she would not have been visible to passersby.

During weekends, the park is packed with rock climbers and kids and family picnics. But on a school day, it would have been deserted except for the occasional dog walker, or soul looking for a place for quiet contemplation, or kid ditching school. There are no rest rooms and there are vigilant neighbors close by, so the park is not attractive as a haven for homeless people.

We had continued to play among the rocks after Mrs. Bartolini died, though never alone. I don’t remember anyone being afraid as much as titillated when we saw some blood on the dirt where her body had been. There wasn’t very much blood and it disappeared soon after, probably washed downhill during the next rainstorm. With great ceremony, we built a small stone cairn as a memorial at the place where the blood had been, and for a while remembered to lay flowers on it. At some point, the cairn was dismantled by some boys playing caveman war, and no one rebuilt it. I won’t say that we forgot her, because we didn’t. But I think we began to forget to remember her link to the place.

I took a drink from the nearby fountain and walked over to the site, scuffed the dirt with my toe, expecting what? A magic clue? Nothing turned up except some buried cat droppings.

The steps cut in the granite took me up to an overlook. From the top, I could not see the base of the rock where our cairn had been, but I could look down into the yards of several of the houses below. People in those yards, though they could see the taller towers and might have seen people coming and going on the street, would not have been able to see Mrs. Bartolini.

On my way down, I saw a cross chiseled with care and precision in the granite directly above her resting place. Someone had made an effort. Someone remembered.

A fresh breeze came up off the Bay. Chilled, I started for home. When I turned onto the top of our street, I saw Chuck Riley in full security guard uniform with his shoes shined and his service Beretta fastened on his belt, walking down the hill in front of me, going toward his house. Out for a little morning stroll, a visit to a neighbor’s house before work, passing out Mary Kay catalogues for his wife, in full regalia? Why not, I thought. Once a cop, always a cop.

A car came down the hill behind me. The driver-I don’t know who it was-called out, “Morning, Maggie” as it passed me. Chuck heard, turned, and headed back up the street toward me.

“Out for a run, huh?” he called out. “Nice morning for it.”

“Very nice,” I said, slowing to a walk. “You on your way to work?”

“Pretty soon.” Chuck reached the end of our front walkway before I did and waited for me. “What was all that excitement up here last night?”

“I had a break-in,” I said, still breathing hard.

“I’ll be damned. They take anything?”

“Other than my peace of mind, no, not that I’ve found,” I said, sopping up my face on my sleeve. “But there isn’t much left in the house that’s worth taking.”