“I know. Okay. No, no issues. And no, he didn’t take anything else.”
I believed that she believed it.
I could have challenged her; shown her the bottle of Risperdal; asked her about Louis Vannen. But to what end? I play two roles, and I’m constantly balancing my need for information against my duty to console.
I said, “Officer Schickman told me you tried to do CPR.”
“I started to.” A beat. “Then I saw his face, and...”
She fell silent.
“It’s important for me to know how much he was moved,” I said.
She nodded listlessly. “Not much. I...” Her lips began to tremble and she flattened them against her teeth. “He’s heavy. For me.”
She was reliving it: wrestling with her father’s body, the sheer physical frustration, a horrifying and unasked-for intimacy.
I said, “Let’s talk about what you said, about him being pushed. What makes you think that?”
“Because it’s happened before,” she said.
I looked up from writing. “What has.”
“This.”
“Okay,” I said.
“See? You don’t believe me.”
“Can we back up, please? Something happened to your father—”
“Not him,” she said. “His student.”
“Student...?”
“Grad student. Here. At Cal.”
“Name?” I asked.
“Nicholas Linstad. He and my dad ran a study together. One of their subjects ended up going out and murdering a girl. At the trial my father testified against him. They both did.”
“When was this?”
“Early nineties. I was six, I think. Ninety-one or ninety-two.”
“All right. Your father and his student testify against an individual. What’s his name?”
“They never released it. He was a minor. Disturbed. The whole thing was awful.”
“I’m sure.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “My father — it ruined him. Then they go and let this homicidal maniac out of prison. He’s walking the streets, my father helped convict him. You’d think somebody would warn us. It’s completely irresponsible. A month later, Nicholas falls down a flight of stairs and dies.”
“He fell?”
“He was pushed,” she said.
“Was anyone charged?” I asked.
“They said it was an accident. But I mean, come on. It’s not, like, a puzzle.”
I nodded. “What about Mr. Linstad’s death, when did that occur?”
“About ten, twelve years ago. I don’t remember the exact date. I wasn’t living in Berkeley then. I do know that my father was completely freaked out.”
I thought about the gun in Rennert’s desk. “You shared this with the police.”
“What do you think? Apparently it’s all a big coincidence.”
“Did they say that?”
“They didn’t need to,” she said. “I could tell from the way they were looking at me.” Her bag buzzed. “The same way you are now.”
She bent, snatched up the phone, swore quietly.
“There’s traffic on the bridge,” she said, texting. “She’s stuck.”
What did I believe, at that point? What did I assume?
It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked by a relative to accept the most sinister interpretation of a scene. Grief makes conspiracy theorists of us all. But in my experience, when death haunts a family, there’s usually a banal explanation.
Bad genetics. Bad environment. Alcohol. Drugs.
I once met a woman who’d lost three sons, each of them shot. It fell to me to notify her that her fourth son had been stabbed and had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. In her face I saw sorrow. Weariness. Resignation. No real surprise, though.
A clatter: Zaragoza at the back of the van, readying the gurney.
Tatiana finished her text and dropped the phone in her bag.
I said, “I understand your frustration. Right now the goal is to gather as much information as possible. That includes everything you’re telling me.”
“Fine,” she said. “So what next?”
“The autopsy’s the first priority. It’ll give us a clearer picture of what happened.”
“How long does that take?”
“Middle of next week at the outside. Once that’s done, we can issue a death certificate and release your father’s body. If you tell the funeral home he’s with us, they’ll take care of the rest.” I paused. “Did you have a specific funeral home in mind?”
It was this question, the bleak practicality it demanded, that overwhelmed her at last. She pressed at her temples, shut her eyes against tears.
She said, “I don’t even know where to look.”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s not something people think about.”
I gave her a moment to just be.
She wiped her face on her sleeves. “Who do I call?”
“I’m not allowed to make recommendations,” I said. “But in my experience most of the ones around here are very good.”
“What about the bad ones?” A short laugh. “Can you tell me those?”
I smiled. “Unfortunately not.”
“Whatever. I’ll figure it out.” She wiped her face again, regarded me soberly. “I’m sorry if I lost my temper.”
“Not at all.”
“He’s dead, and I feel like nobody’s... No excuses. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She gazed up at the house. “It’s so fucked up. I don’t know if he has a will. I can’t reach my brothers. Nobody’s picking up at the studio, they’re expecting me in twenty minutes.” She breathed out sharply. “It’s a mess, is what it is.”
“Did your father have an attorney?”
“My mom might know. If she ever gets here.”
“We can notify your brothers, if it’d help.”
“No, thanks, I’ll do it.”
“Before I forget,” I said. “I have some of your father’s possessions, his wallet and his phone. They might yield additional information, so we’re going to take them with us. Do you happen to know the passcode for the phone?”
She looked lost.
“Don’t worry if not,” I said. “Usually it’s a birthday, or—”
“You can’t just, like, crack it?”
“Knowing the code would be a lot faster.”
“God. Okay, try these.”
I scribbled as she rattled off numbers.
“If none of those work, let me know,” she said.
“Will do. Thanks. Anything else you want to tell me? Other questions?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
I gave her my card. “That’s my direct line. Think of me as a resource. Here if you need me, not if you don’t. This can be a confusing process, and one of our goals is to make it easier for you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Of course.” My turn to look at the house. “Some people find it tough when we bring the body out. You might want to hang out elsewhere temporarily.”
She didn’t reply. She was studying my card.
I said, “Even if you just want to go down to the street for fifteen or twenty minutes. Or you could drive over to your work.”
She put the card in her pocket. “I’ll stay.”
Zaragoza had left the gurney collapsed by the front door, laying out sheets in the foyer next to the body. He glanced up, spiking an eyebrow as I entered carrying brown paper bags and zip-ties.
We bag hands for trace evidence but only in suspicious cases.
I said, “Can’t hurt.”
Читать дальше