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CHAPTER 3

I PHONED MY boss, Jackson Brady, from the car to let him know that Claire had called me to a murder scene at Golden Gate Park. “She wants me to see the body in situ in the park, ASAP.”

Brady said, “Check in with me when you get there. I don’t know squat about this homicide.”

I copied that and strapped in. I took a quick detour on my way to the park, stopping at the car pool in front of the Hall of Justice just long enough to exchange my blue Explorer for a squad car. I translated Claire’s urgency as Code 3, meaning all lights, sirens, and maximum speed.

The street that accessed the park’s Lily Pond was blocked by three squad cars, and both the Forensics unit and the coroner’s van. I pulled up to the curb, disembarked, and followed a spur of pavement to a parking area that was cordoned off with yellow barrier tape—a warning to joggers and curiosity seekers to stay the hell out.

I badged a uniform named Maggie Cannon. She held up the tape and gave me a warning look, like I was headed toward a five-car pileup. I didn’t question her, just ducked under the tape and kept going. I found Claire standing with four uniformed officers inside a smaller taped-off perimeter within the larger one. Even from a dozen paces, I could see that the victim was lying face down in a pool of blood.

“Who’s in charge?” I asked.

“I just spoke to Brady,” said Claire. “You’re it.”

I knew two of the uniforms protecting the scene: sergeants Nardone and Einhorn. I texted Brady to give him an update and gloved up.

Einhorn handed me a pair of booties, and Nardone said, “Lean on me,” which I did as I slipped the booties over my shoes.

I entered the smaller perimeter and looked at Claire. She shook her head and said of the victim, “I just can’t believe this. It’s … it’s so bad …” Her voice cracked.

I didn’t understand what she’d said. “Are you okay, Claire?”

She didn’t answer me, just looked down at the dead man, whose face was turned away from me. I could see that he had bled profusely from wounds in his lower back, and from a ragged tear halfway around his neck and face. The only other things I could really determine from where I stood was that he was a gray-haired white man dressed in camouflage pants, a matching sweater, a tactical vest, and rubber-soled shoes. A CSI flag was next to a pair of binoculars lying just outside the tape, half hidden in the shrubbery. Was this guy a bird-watcher?

Claire’s primary investigator, Sage Dugan, had stooped beside the body and was taking photos. Since Claire seemed unresponsive, I asked Dugan, “Did he have a camera?”

“If he had one, it’s gone,” she said. “Just a cell phone. And the binoculars are not the photographic kind.”

“Any sign of the murder weapon?”

The CSI held out a plastic evidence bag with a knife inside. It was a KA-BAR and it was made for killing. The blade was sturdy, good for jabbing and slashing. The handle was equal in length to the blade, rounded for a firm grip and designed for bludgeoning.

I remembered that there’d been some holdups in this neighborhood. A masked robber, or a pair of them, had stolen expensive camera gear—thousand-dollar cameras with German lenses—but nothing more violent had been reported than shouts of “Don’t make me hurt you! Hand over the camera!”

“We’ve got his wallet?” I asked.

Claire spoke up. “No wallet. Had some loose cash and credit cards, and an ID in his vest pocket. He’s carrying, too, but the gun is still in his waistband.” She paused, then said, “Linds. This is going to hurt.”

I don’t know the victim—do I? Something was trying to break through the smoke screen obscuring much of my working memory.

Claire called my name, and I turned to her.

“What is it, Claire? Who is the victim?”

She sputtered, then said, “It’s Warren Jacobi. He was … killed.”