The room went black when Finn killed
the lights. He switched on a purplish blue foot-long wand of ultraviolet light
and held it to the wall.
“See, it looks like your suspect dipped a gloved finger in Hooper’s
blood to do this.”
Sydowski slipped on his glasses and an eerie glow reflected on his
face.
Scrawled in Hooper’s blood, the killer had written one word in
ten-inch letters: Why?
TWELVE
The towers of St. Ignatius Church jutted
from a hilltop some two miles south of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Near Golden Gate Park, next to the University of San Francisco.
Its classical baroque architecture was lost on the news crews, who
kept a respectable distance, and the unseen police surveillance teams, who
recorded everybody attending Cliff Hooper’s funeral.
Molly Wilson and Hooper’s sister, Andrea, clasped hands as they
entered the church after his casket was removed from the hearse and wheeled
inside.
It was placed in the sanctuary and bathed in the sunlight descending
through the Holy Spirit depicted in the stained glass dome. The low soothing
hum of the organ and the smells of incense, candles, and fresh flowers wafted
over the gathering.
Molly sat next to Andrea and her husband. Next to Molly sat Hooper’s
partner, Ray Beamon.
Given that Hooper had not died on duty, the service did not entail a
full police color guard. Several hundred mourners were there. Scores of
dignitaries. Among them: the chief of police, the mayor, the commissioner,
justice VIPs from Sacramento, Sydowski, Turgeon, everyone from the homicide
detail, along with police officers from across the bay, the state, and the
country.
Tom and Ann Reed sat with Della Thompson, Acker, Violet Stewart,
Simon Lepp, and other friends from the San Francisco Star who’d come to
pay their respects. Irene Pepper sat at the back along with scores of other
reporters and editors from Bay Area newsrooms who knew Molly.
She wore pearl earrings and a matching necklace. A gift from Hooper.
Running her fingers tenderly over the single gem on her gold chain, Molly
remembered when he gave it to her. They’d gone to Golden Gate Park
for an afternoon. He’d joked about wanting to give a lasting gift, like carving
her initials into a tree, he kidded. But he was too law-abiding. Besides, he
wanted her to have something she could keep with her at all times. So he teased
her by scrounging in his pockets. “Let’s see.” He grinned at possible tokens of
affection: a paper clip, gum, change, then a small jewelry box. “What’s in
here?” Cliff was so sweet. Molly thought of his smile as the music trailed
away. The congregation shuffled their funeral cards and the officiating priest
went to the microphone at the small podium to commence the service. “Everyone
who knew Hoop loved him,” he began, summarizing the life of Clifford James
Hooper, a fifteen-year veteran of the department who died at age forty-one.
“He was born and raised in Lodi, California, where he’d worked
relentlessly at realizing his dream of becoming a detective. When he was a boy,
he’d written in his journal: ‘I want to be a police officer so I can catch bad
guys by using my brains, like Sherlock Holmes.’ ”
Some chuckled softly. The priest smiled and went on. “After earning
a degree in criminology, he joined the San Francisco Police Department,
graduating with third-highest average scores. His first detail was in Ingleside
where after one year on the street he was decorated with the Medal of Valor for
disarming a mentally disturbed, knifewielding man who was holding his
twelve-year-old daughter hostage. Both are alive and well and living good lives
thanks to Cliff.”
The priest continued highlighting Hooper’s rise within the
department, ending with Homicide. Then he listed the others at the service who
were going to pay tribute. Molly touched her eyes with a tissue and fidgeted
with her sheet of paper on which she’d written what she was going to say. It
was
the lights. He switched on a purplish blue foot-long wand of ultraviolet light
and held it to the wall.
“See, it looks like your suspect dipped a gloved finger in Hooper’s
blood to do this.”
Sydowski slipped on his glasses and an eerie glow reflected on his
face.
Scrawled in Hooper’s blood, the killer had written one word in
ten-inch letters: Why?
TWELVE
The towers of St. Ignatius Church jutted
from a hilltop some two miles south of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Near Golden Gate Park, next to the University of San Francisco.
Its classical baroque architecture was lost on the news crews, who
kept a respectable distance, and the unseen police surveillance teams, who
recorded everybody attending Cliff Hooper’s funeral.
Molly Wilson and Hooper’s sister, Andrea, clasped hands as they
entered the church after his casket was removed from the hearse and wheeled
inside.
It was placed in the sanctuary and bathed in the sunlight descending
through the Holy Spirit depicted in the stained glass dome. The low soothing
hum of the organ and the smells of incense, candles, and fresh flowers wafted
over the gathering.
Molly sat next to Andrea and her husband. Next to Molly sat Hooper’s
partner, Ray Beamon.
Given that Hooper had not died on duty, the service did not entail a
full police color guard. Several hundred mourners were there. Scores of
dignitaries. Among them: the chief of police, the mayor, the commissioner,
justice VIPs from Sacramento, Sydowski, Turgeon, everyone from the homicide
detail, along with police officers from across the bay, the state, and the
country.
Tom and Ann Reed sat with Della Thompson, Acker, Violet Stewart,
Simon Lepp, and other friends from the San Francisco Star who’d come to
pay their respects. Irene Pepper sat at the back along with scores of other
reporters and editors from Bay Area newsrooms who knew Molly.
She wore pearl earrings and a matching necklace. A gift from Hooper.
Running her fingers tenderly over the single gem on her gold chain, Molly
remembered when he gave it to her. They’d gone to Golden Gate Park
for an afternoon. He’d joked about wanting to give a lasting gift, like carving
her initials into a tree, he kidded. But he was too law-abiding. Besides, he
wanted her to have something she could keep with her at all times. So he teased
her by scrounging in his pockets. “Let’s see.” He grinned at possible tokens of
affection: a paper clip, gum, change, then a small jewelry box. “What’s in
here?” Cliff was so sweet. Molly thought of his smile as the music trailed
away. The congregation shuffled their funeral cards and the officiating priest
went to the microphone at the small podium to commence the service. “Everyone
who knew Hoop loved him,” he began, summarizing the life of Clifford James
Hooper, a fifteen-year veteran of the department who died at age forty-one.
“He was born and raised in Lodi, California, where he’d worked
relentlessly at realizing his dream of becoming a detective. When he was a boy,
he’d written in his journal: ‘I want to be a police officer so I can catch bad
guys by using my brains, like Sherlock Holmes.’ ”
Some chuckled softly. The priest smiled and went on. “After earning
a degree in criminology, he joined the San Francisco Police Department,
graduating with third-highest average scores. His first detail was in Ingleside
where after one year on the street he was decorated with the Medal of Valor for
disarming a mentally disturbed, knifewielding man who was holding his
twelve-year-old daughter hostage. Both are alive and well and living good lives
thanks to Cliff.”
The priest continued highlighting Hooper’s rise within the
department, ending with Homicide. Then he listed the others at the service who
were going to pay tribute. Molly touched her eyes with a tissue and fidgeted
with her sheet of paper on which she’d written what she was going to say. It
was
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