interrupted. “The girl on the bus bench a year ago?”
“You know the case?”
“Phil assigned it to me last month.”
“I dropped the ball on that one,” said Sinclair. Along with a few others around that time, he thought.
The way he’d been assigned Samantha Arquette’s death eight months ago had pissed him off. Plenty pissed him off back then. Ever since he killed Alonzo Moore, Sinclair had been coming to work with a hangover nearly every day. The fog in his head finally cleared around ten, about the same time the fog burned off over San Francisco, and by three or four, all he could think about was getting off work and having a drink. Lieutenant Maloney had called him into his office at 3:30. Officer Kyle Newman, a sexual investigator, was there and told him about the Arquette case. Fourteen-year-old Samantha and her mother, Jane, were visiting Jane’s old college roommate, Donna Fitzgerald, in San Francisco. Samantha and Donna’s daughter, fifteen-year-old Jenny, went to Berkeley for the day. Early the following morning, an unknown male left the girlson a bus bench, and Samantha walked onto the street and was hit by a car. She suffered numerous fractures, internal injuries, and a serious head injury.
The hospitals found a cocktail of drugs—Ecstasy, animal tranquilizer, and Rohypnol—in both girls as well as evidence of vaginal rape. Because of the date rape drugs in her system, Jenny had little memory of the events. Samantha never regained consciousness. A month later, still in a coma, she was transferred to a hospital in New York, where she died. Sinclair knew the felony murder rule meant a death that occurred during the commission of certain felonies, such as rape and robbery, even if not directly caused by the suspect, was first-degree murder, and since the transportation of the girls after the rape—known as asportation in legal terms—was part of the crime, the rapist was accountable for consequences that occurred during that transportation. And the victim didn’t need to die right away; the death was a homicide as long as she died from her injuries within a year and one day of the act.
Although technically a homicide, it was a shit case. Newman had worked it for five months and got nowhere. Even if Sinclair busted his ass and was lucky enough to make an arrest, the suspects would probably turn out to be juveniles or college kids with no prior record. They’d claim—in words supplied by their lawyers—that young people have sex when partying. They would say that the girls seemed older and that, when the girls later passed out, they did the right thing and took them for help. Sure, they made mistakes, but the death was accidental. It wasn’t as if they grabbed some girl off the street, raped her, and cut her throat. Although not a defense for the crime, the mitigating circumstances would play with a judge and jury. Even ifSinclair identified the suspects, the DA would likely plead them out to a few years at most. Sinclair had plenty of other cases to work, ones with promising leads, ones that would land the killer in prison for twenty years or for life.
During the subsequent months, Sinclair had done little more than go through the motions on the Arquette case. His heart wasn’t in it. Each night after work, he’d down a dozen drinks at the Warehouse or polish off a fifth of bourbon at home. Mrs. Arquette called him several times a week, always first thing in the morning. He was in no mood to listen to her reminisce about her daughter and beg him to do more. Hers wasn’t his only open case. It wasn’t the only one he wished he could solve. It wasn’t the only one he felt guilty about for not doing more.
After he crashed his car and went through several days of detox at the treatment center, his head began to clear. But the guilt remained.
Braddock dropped her salad container in the trashcan and pulled the Samantha Arquette case packet out of her desk. “The case was cold by the time
“You know the case?”
“Phil assigned it to me last month.”
“I dropped the ball on that one,” said Sinclair. Along with a few others around that time, he thought.
The way he’d been assigned Samantha Arquette’s death eight months ago had pissed him off. Plenty pissed him off back then. Ever since he killed Alonzo Moore, Sinclair had been coming to work with a hangover nearly every day. The fog in his head finally cleared around ten, about the same time the fog burned off over San Francisco, and by three or four, all he could think about was getting off work and having a drink. Lieutenant Maloney had called him into his office at 3:30. Officer Kyle Newman, a sexual investigator, was there and told him about the Arquette case. Fourteen-year-old Samantha and her mother, Jane, were visiting Jane’s old college roommate, Donna Fitzgerald, in San Francisco. Samantha and Donna’s daughter, fifteen-year-old Jenny, went to Berkeley for the day. Early the following morning, an unknown male left the girlson a bus bench, and Samantha walked onto the street and was hit by a car. She suffered numerous fractures, internal injuries, and a serious head injury.
The hospitals found a cocktail of drugs—Ecstasy, animal tranquilizer, and Rohypnol—in both girls as well as evidence of vaginal rape. Because of the date rape drugs in her system, Jenny had little memory of the events. Samantha never regained consciousness. A month later, still in a coma, she was transferred to a hospital in New York, where she died. Sinclair knew the felony murder rule meant a death that occurred during the commission of certain felonies, such as rape and robbery, even if not directly caused by the suspect, was first-degree murder, and since the transportation of the girls after the rape—known as asportation in legal terms—was part of the crime, the rapist was accountable for consequences that occurred during that transportation. And the victim didn’t need to die right away; the death was a homicide as long as she died from her injuries within a year and one day of the act.
Although technically a homicide, it was a shit case. Newman had worked it for five months and got nowhere. Even if Sinclair busted his ass and was lucky enough to make an arrest, the suspects would probably turn out to be juveniles or college kids with no prior record. They’d claim—in words supplied by their lawyers—that young people have sex when partying. They would say that the girls seemed older and that, when the girls later passed out, they did the right thing and took them for help. Sure, they made mistakes, but the death was accidental. It wasn’t as if they grabbed some girl off the street, raped her, and cut her throat. Although not a defense for the crime, the mitigating circumstances would play with a judge and jury. Even ifSinclair identified the suspects, the DA would likely plead them out to a few years at most. Sinclair had plenty of other cases to work, ones with promising leads, ones that would land the killer in prison for twenty years or for life.
During the subsequent months, Sinclair had done little more than go through the motions on the Arquette case. His heart wasn’t in it. Each night after work, he’d down a dozen drinks at the Warehouse or polish off a fifth of bourbon at home. Mrs. Arquette called him several times a week, always first thing in the morning. He was in no mood to listen to her reminisce about her daughter and beg him to do more. Hers wasn’t his only open case. It wasn’t the only one he wished he could solve. It wasn’t the only one he felt guilty about for not doing more.
After he crashed his car and went through several days of detox at the treatment center, his head began to clear. But the guilt remained.
Braddock dropped her salad container in the trashcan and pulled the Samantha Arquette case packet out of her desk. “The case was cold by the time
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