Catherine Crier: Final Analysis

“What is it that you’re reporting?”

“Um, I just need to talk to an officer there,” Gabe said.

“Okay, about what, sir,” the dispatcher asked.

“Do I need to tell you?”

“Yes, you do. You called me on 911. We don’t give out numbers on 911. It’s for emergencies only, and I can maybe help you on this line depending on what you need to report.”

“Fine, I’ll just call the police department,” Gabe said.

“Okay, thank you.”

Grabbing a flashlight, the teen went back downstairs with the phone number for the Orinda police department tucked in his dark-colored shorts. On his way out the door, his mother stopped him.

“Why did you call the police?” she asked.

“I didn’t call the police!” Gabriel snapped, and continued outside to the upper carport where his mom kept her car. The house had two driveways; Susan preferred the one at the top of the property that was reached by a neighboring street, while Eli and Felix used the lower one that was accessible from Miner Road. Gabe wanted to check Susan’s Volvo wagon for any traces of his father. A grisly thought had crossed his mind: maybe his mother had used the car to transport his dad’s dead body somewhere. But upon inspection, the car yielded nothing out of the ordinary.

“What are you doing?” his mother yelled out to him.

“Nothing,” he called back. Gabriel was barefoot and shirtless as he walked down the steps to the cottage in an attempt to hide from his mother. With the main door locked, he went to another door that faced the house, entering through the galley kitchen and proceeding down the narrow darkened hallway to the balcony area that overlooked the living room. Shining his flashlight into the blackened space, he saw his father lying on the ground with blood covering his near naked body.

The sight was too much for the fifteen-year-old boy, who quickly left the cottage and shut the door behind him.

Gabriel’s heart raced as he returned to the main house. Without saying a word to his mother, he rushed to the bedroom, grabbed the cordless phone and ran back outside, sprinting up the path that led to a hidden area of the property where the family kept the trashcans. He could hear his mother calling as he ducked behind the wooden carport that housed her Volvo. He dialed 911.

Barely seven minutes had passed since he first called that number. He recognized the female dispatcher’s voice when she answered.

“Uh, murder,” he blurted out.

There was a moment’s hesitation, as if the dispatcher was processing the declaration. “Where at?”

“At 728 Miner Road.”

“Okay, what happened?” she asked, switching on the police radio to alert units in the field. Orinda is one of five unincorporated cities in the county that contracts patrol services from the Contra Costa Sheriff’s Department.

“Um, I think my mom… my mom shot my dad.”

“You think your mom shot your dad?” the dispatcher repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, stay on the phone, I’m going to connect you to the fire department. Do not hang up,” the officer instructed.

There were several beeps, and then ringing, as the call was transferred to the fire department’s emergency line.

“It’s a possible shooting,” the sheriff’s dispatcher said, briefing her counterpart at the Contra Costa Fire Department.

“Okay, what’s your name, sir?” the fire dispatcher asked Gabe.

The teen spelled it twice.

“Where’s your mom at now?”

“She’s still in the house,” the teen responded breathlessly.

“Does she still have the gun?”

“I believe so.”

“Where is your dad at?”

“He’s dead,” Gabe shot back.

“Where is he at, do you know?”

“He’s in my cottage.”

“In your cottage?”

“Yeah.”

“Does your mom still have the gun?”

“I believe so.”

“Do you know when this happened?”

“No, no idea.”

“Do you know where your mom is in the house?”

“No, I don’t.”

“How do you know she’s still in the house?”

“Because I was just in the fuckin’ house,” the teen’s voice was beginning to waver, as though he was fighting back tears.

“Okay, where are you now?”

“I’m outside,” Gabe’s voice grew softer.

“Okay, what’s your mom’s name?”

“Susan. She’s got a mental illness.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Polk.”

“How old is your mom?”

There was no response.

“Gabe. Gabe? Are you still there?” The dispatcher asked.

The line went dead.

Gabriel’s attention had shifted to the sound of a door opening. He could tell it wasn’t coming from the main house. Peering around the carport, he was certain that it was his mother opening then closing the door to the guesthouse.

“Hey, did you see that?” she yelled up to him.

Gabe didn’t respond. He wanted to get as far away as possible. Bolting down the hill and onto Miner Road, he flagged down an arriving fire truck. Panting furiously, he remained with the firemen until police units arrived just after 10:15 PM.

It was after 1 AM on the morning of Tuesday, October 15, 2002, when Contra Costa Sheriff’s officers Jeff Moule and Jeffrey Hebel finally sat down with Gabriel Polk in a small interview room at the Field Operation’s Bureau in Martinez. They had left the teen alone in the tiny space for nearly thirty minutes, watching and recording his movements on the hidden video camera in the ceiling. Gabriel still had no shirt on.

The officers who would be interviewing him were members of the county’s Criminal Investigative Division (CID). They were responsible for follow-up investigation of all reported felony offenses in the 521 square miles of the unincorporated areas in the county. Before placing the visibly shaken teenager in a patrol car, they performed a gunshot residue test on him to determine whether he had recently discharged a firearm. The test was negative, and now they needed some answers from the distraught teen.

Gabe told the officers that his mother was “crazy and delusional,” and that she had tried to buy a shotgun after threatening Felix during the Montana trip. Although Gabriel was pointing the finger at his mother, the officers were reserving judgment. It was standard protocol to look at everyone in a homicide investigation, and the teenager was no exception. He was not under arrest, but he remained under scrutiny.

Officer Moule took the lead role in questioning the boy. He started with some background information.

“Right now, you are going to, what’s the name of the school you are going to?” The teen was sitting hunched in a chair with his elbows resting on a small round table; his head cradled in his hands. Without making eye contact, he explained that he was currently attending the Del Oro continuation school in Walnut Creek.

“Did you go to Del Oro the whole time you lived in Orinda?”

“No, I went to Miramonte,” the teen replied, referring to the city’s public high school.

“How come you dropped out?”

“My mom encouraged me to stay home from school,” Gabe replied in a mumble.

“Why did she want you to stay home from school?”

“She is crazy, and so she thought that all the teachers were like, against me, or something. And so I missed a month and a half at the end of the year.”

Taken aback, Officer Moule repeated the boy’s explanation. “She kept you home?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” the officer said, shooting his partner a look. “Have you been in trouble with the law?”

“No,” Gabriel replied. Officers would later learn that the teen was not being completely truthful. While he had never been arrested, Gabriel, like his two older brothers, had been in his share of trouble over the years.