asked.
Hunched forward in his chair, Daniel studied his hands. “Better than Marisol Vargas.”
Seconds after the killer’s retreat, the cops had blown into Marisol’s apartment to find Daniel standing with the butcher knife at his feet, arms raised, his back still to the wall. He’d been brusquely cuffed and shoved into a chair, where he’d waited, ineffectively explaining himself and enduring glares from an endless torrent of uniformed officers until Dooley finally arrived to clarify matters. She let him call Cristina who was, by now, frantic.
As Daniel was led out, he glimpsed the body through the huddle of crime-scene investigators. Thin black notch in the throat—the death cut—matched by dueling slits beneath each eye that drained tears of blood down Marisol’s cheeks, a gut-twisting depiction of coerced crying. He halted, transfixed by the stiff, painted doll face until Dooley gently prodded him along.
She brought him down to the Hall of Justice at 850 Bryant Street, a city-block slab that housed SFPD headquarters, Southern Station, and the courts and jail. The edifice, thrust up from a scattering of bail-bond shops, overpriced parking lots, and pretzel stands, was less than a mile from Daniel’s workplace.
A noise kept reverberating off the walls of his skull. Slit. It was the sound of a person being killed a few feet from where he’d stood. And the heart-stopping pop of that flash. It had done more than merely blind him in the moment. It meant that Daniel’s face was now preserved in the killer’s camera. For what future use?
His adrenaline had ebbed, finally, leaving him spent. The muscle of his left forearm twitched irregularly, a stress reaction he’d not encountered before. He’d been gripping his elbow to make it stop. It finally dawned on him that his nails were digging through his skin, and he looked down at his clawed hand, told it to relax.
In the cramped space of the Homicide Division on the fourth floor, Dooley’s office was small and virtually unadorned. Schoolroom-size desk, two chairs, bookshelves housing brittle binders, and a single poster on the wall featuring the SFPD badge, backlit like a superhero logo. No personal photos in evidence, no stained coffee mug, not even a fake fern. Dooley sat on the edge of her desk facing him, her shoulders tugged forward as if bearing weight. Through the bleary, rain-spotted window, early morning leaked over the horizon.
“That’s the problem with living in a nice ’hood,” Dooley was saying. “No police station nearby. We just couldn’t get there in time.”
Daniel gave a little nod.
“Marisol’s bedroom phone was left off the hook—probably by the killer. That’s why none of our calls to warn her got through. He covered his bases. We were late by a sliver.”
“So was I.” Daniel realized that his hand had again fastened onto his forearm. “I shouldn’t have hesitated in the dining room. I should’ve just charged straight into the kitchen—”
“This is an organized, highly aggressive killer,” Dooley said. “If you’d barged in, we’d be dealing with two murders tonight.”
A tightness clutched Daniel’s neck, threatened to force a shudder. “Same request on all those letters. ‘Admit what you’ve done.’ So why Marisol Vargas? Why Jack Holley?”
“We haven’t linked them yet. Quite a range on demographics between those two. Our girl Vargas is a professor at San Francisco State who lives in … well, your neighborhood. Jack Holley was a former rent-a-cop who lived in the Tenderloin. As you know, ain’t nuthin’ tender ’bout that ’hood. They both got the same knifework, though. The bleeding tears. Our boy, he likes making them cry.”
“I have a question.”
Dooley rubbed her eyes. “Just one?”
“It looked like there was a struggle in the foyer. But the door wasn’t kicked in. Marisol had deadbolts, everything. How’d he get her to open the door?”
For the first time, Theresa’s face
Hunched forward in his chair, Daniel studied his hands. “Better than Marisol Vargas.”
Seconds after the killer’s retreat, the cops had blown into Marisol’s apartment to find Daniel standing with the butcher knife at his feet, arms raised, his back still to the wall. He’d been brusquely cuffed and shoved into a chair, where he’d waited, ineffectively explaining himself and enduring glares from an endless torrent of uniformed officers until Dooley finally arrived to clarify matters. She let him call Cristina who was, by now, frantic.
As Daniel was led out, he glimpsed the body through the huddle of crime-scene investigators. Thin black notch in the throat—the death cut—matched by dueling slits beneath each eye that drained tears of blood down Marisol’s cheeks, a gut-twisting depiction of coerced crying. He halted, transfixed by the stiff, painted doll face until Dooley gently prodded him along.
She brought him down to the Hall of Justice at 850 Bryant Street, a city-block slab that housed SFPD headquarters, Southern Station, and the courts and jail. The edifice, thrust up from a scattering of bail-bond shops, overpriced parking lots, and pretzel stands, was less than a mile from Daniel’s workplace.
A noise kept reverberating off the walls of his skull. Slit. It was the sound of a person being killed a few feet from where he’d stood. And the heart-stopping pop of that flash. It had done more than merely blind him in the moment. It meant that Daniel’s face was now preserved in the killer’s camera. For what future use?
His adrenaline had ebbed, finally, leaving him spent. The muscle of his left forearm twitched irregularly, a stress reaction he’d not encountered before. He’d been gripping his elbow to make it stop. It finally dawned on him that his nails were digging through his skin, and he looked down at his clawed hand, told it to relax.
In the cramped space of the Homicide Division on the fourth floor, Dooley’s office was small and virtually unadorned. Schoolroom-size desk, two chairs, bookshelves housing brittle binders, and a single poster on the wall featuring the SFPD badge, backlit like a superhero logo. No personal photos in evidence, no stained coffee mug, not even a fake fern. Dooley sat on the edge of her desk facing him, her shoulders tugged forward as if bearing weight. Through the bleary, rain-spotted window, early morning leaked over the horizon.
“That’s the problem with living in a nice ’hood,” Dooley was saying. “No police station nearby. We just couldn’t get there in time.”
Daniel gave a little nod.
“Marisol’s bedroom phone was left off the hook—probably by the killer. That’s why none of our calls to warn her got through. He covered his bases. We were late by a sliver.”
“So was I.” Daniel realized that his hand had again fastened onto his forearm. “I shouldn’t have hesitated in the dining room. I should’ve just charged straight into the kitchen—”
“This is an organized, highly aggressive killer,” Dooley said. “If you’d barged in, we’d be dealing with two murders tonight.”
A tightness clutched Daniel’s neck, threatened to force a shudder. “Same request on all those letters. ‘Admit what you’ve done.’ So why Marisol Vargas? Why Jack Holley?”
“We haven’t linked them yet. Quite a range on demographics between those two. Our girl Vargas is a professor at San Francisco State who lives in … well, your neighborhood. Jack Holley was a former rent-a-cop who lived in the Tenderloin. As you know, ain’t nuthin’ tender ’bout that ’hood. They both got the same knifework, though. The bleeding tears. Our boy, he likes making them cry.”
“I have a question.”
Dooley rubbed her eyes. “Just one?”
“It looked like there was a struggle in the foyer. But the door wasn’t kicked in. Marisol had deadbolts, everything. How’d he get her to open the door?”
For the first time, Theresa’s face
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