Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“Fitz.”

She looked up from the edge of the cement area. Saw what he saw.

This was where their victim, their Jane Doe, had probably spent her last moment alive.

Undoubtedly, Sydney thought, as she stood there surveying the picnic area, Mr. Big Belt Buckle had failed to locate this as part of his crime scene.

Carillo called Dixon to let him know what they found, and to request the Evidence Response Team to come process the scene. “And tell the ERT to bring a panel truck, something large enough to haul off an entire picnic table. Looks like the asshole stabbed her so hard, the knife went right through to the wood.”

He disconnected. Eventually they moved into the car to get out of the constant wind, and Sydney knew she needed to act like her head was in the game, and not miles and years away on her father’s case. She took the time to write up her notes on the scene, draw a sketch of the picnic area and what they’d found and where. It wasn’t until they were driving back to the city that Carillo looked over at her, asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah. You know, thinking about the case. What we found out there.”

He shook his head, no doubt recalling the grisly scene at the picnic table.

Back at their office, they booked their evidence, wrote up their reports for Dixon. Sydney intended on staying to finish the overdue Harrington case. Carillo was giving his report one last read-through before printing it off, when his phone rang. “Hey, Scotty… Yeah, working late. Picked up a Jane Doe from Hill City.”

She listened with one ear as he told Scotty about the case and what they’d found at the crime scene. In the empty office, with Carillo’s desk only four cubicles down from hers, she couldn’t help but hear his side of the conversation. What she couldn’t hear was Scotty’s side of things, and for a while there, it seemed Scotty was doing all the talking, as Carillo merely said, “That right?” or “No kidding.” She did not hear her name once, she thought, and for that she was grateful. A few minutes later, Carillo was walking past her desk to turn in his reports. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat across the street. You want anything?”

“I’ll get something later,” she said. “See you in the morning.”

“We should hit Golden Gate Park pretty early to go over the Tara Brown crime scene, see if we can’t dig up any more evidence.” He rapped his knuckles on her desk. “By the way, thanks for your help today. You did good.” He continued on to Dixon’s office, turned in his reports, then retraced his steps, stopping long enough to pick up his overcoat, his keys. He stood there a moment, eyeing her. “You’ve been pretty quiet. Even for you. Something up? Something you want to talk about?”

She hesitated, not used to Carillo showing empathy. Maybe she should have tried to talk to him weeks ago when she first realized he didn’t like working cases with her. “Just the work. Wondering how I’m going to get it all done.”

He held her gaze a moment, nodded. “Know that feeling. See you around.”

Maybe it was the quiet of the office, or even the thought that she didn’t want to go home just yet, be alone. Just as he reached the door, she called out, “Carillo?”

He stopped, looked at her.

She thought of every reason why she shouldn’t say a thing, the fact he was friends with Scotty being foremost in her mind. “I think I’ll go get that sandwich with you, after all.”

“So there is something you want to talk about?”

“Yes-no. I mean, I want to, I’m just not sure I can.” She sounded like an idiot, she knew that. But when it came to her father and his murder, she was an emotional mess. “It’s… sort of personal.”

“Is this another one of those things where I’m gonna have to be nice and pretend I’m interested and all that?”

“You need alcohol for that?”

“Copious amounts.”

“I’ll buy.”

Sydney grabbed the manila envelope from her top desk drawer, and she and Carillo walked to the Chili’s across the street, took a corner table by the kitchen, because they could both sit with their backs to the wall, and the waitress who worked that section knew Carillo. Without asking, she brought them a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and said the appetizer was en route.

“So what’s on your mind?” Carillo asked as he poured the beer and handed one to her.

“No small talk first?”

“Guess that depends on how much of it you want me to remember,” he said, lifting up his glass. “So feel free to proceed at will.”

“Ground rules, first. This stays between us, without being pipelined to Scotty.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“My father’s murder,” she said, figuring it best to just come out with it.

“He was killed in a robbery, right?”

“So it was reported. I went to San Quentin and spoke with the man who allegedly killed him. He’s due to be executed within a week, I don’t think he did it, and there’s this stuff about my father’s military background that isn’t making sense, and only came to light after the suicide of a nominee for the administrator for the Office of Federal Procurement Policy.”

“Okay… Nothing complicated there. But just to keep this simple, remember, I’m drinking here, so start with your old man’s murder.”

She gave him a rundown on her father’s case as she recalled it, ending with Wheeler’s arrest, and then her recent interview of him. She stared down into her beer glass, shaking her head, again feeling as though what Wheeler had told her sounded so inadequate, inconsequential. “I can’t help asking myself what if he didn’t do it?”

“Do what? The murder? Are you nuts?”

“No,” she said, taking a sip of her beer. “I am not nuts. And I am definitely having doubts.”

“I’ll admit I’m not completely familiar with the case, other than what Scotty told me,” he said, refilling his glass. “But even so, you can’t be serious that a ten-minute conversation with the convicted killer could change your mind.”

“Just added a new perspective. Especially in light of everything else that’s come about recently.”

“Perspective?” He held the pitcher over her glass, but she waved him off. “Then clue me in, because frankly I’m lost.”

“The prosecution said he’d lied about being friends with my father, that he’d made it all up to cover for the robbery. That this church who gave Wheeler’s name to my father never existed. They based their case on that. But what he said in there, he could only have known if my father had befriended him. They were private things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the canister under the counter.” And she told him about what she’d done as a kid, taking the money to play video games.

“You’re feeling guilty, is all. You took some money, blamed yourself, and now you’re trying to justify that guilt so that you don’t have to-”

“Trust me. When it comes to psychoanalyzing something, I’ve got the market cornered. It’s more than that. He knew about the twenty under the till, and why my father kept one there after he closed out each night.”

“Not enough.”

“And my father told him to pay him back on Tuesday. That meant it was a gift.”

“Okay. That one I definitely don’t get.”

“Popeye?” she said. “Wimpy?”

“Your point?”

“Wimpy was my father’s favorite character, always begging for money, offering to gladly pay on Tuesday for a hamburger today? If my father told someone they could pay him back on Tuesday, it meant he didn’t expect the money back.”

“Hate to tell you this, but you’re not giving me anything earthshaking.”