The Keeper by John Lescroart Page A

mayor. The sheriff of San Francisco County was elected by the voters. With a visiting dignitary or demonstration or riot, the agencies might cooperate, but for the most part, they had separate jobs.
    The sheriff supervised the bailiffs who were responsible for the safety and security of the courthouses, the guards who ran the jails, and the jails themselves. The department’s only other function was eviction, which had become something of a higher-profile responsibility in recent years, when the number of home foreclosures in the city had gone through the roof. The common perception was that the eviction deputies were not always the souls of sensitivity during these difficult exercises.
    SFPD was responsible for all the other law enforcement in San Francisco, including homicides. In the case of a jail death, both agencies had jurisdiction. SFPD would handle any possible criminal implications in the death. The sheriff would run an internal investigation on how someone in custody could have died.
    “Here,” Elliot continued. “Here’s what I mean. The latest, a week and a half ago. ‘Inmate Dies Following Arrest.’ You read about this?”
    “Probably, though I don’t remember specifically. It’s common enough that I didn’t pay much attention.”
    “Most people don’t. Who cares about inmates? But look, it’s the sixth inmate death this year and the third in three months. This one was an overdose. And those six deaths don’t even count the overdoses where guys didn’t die, or serious injuries from other causes. The jail might be the most dangerous neighborhood in town.”
    “That’s what I mean by common enough.”
    Elliot leaned forward and read from the screen. “Angel Deloria. Forty-seven years old, doing ninety days on a probation violation. No apparent signs of foul play or suicide. Heroin overdose.”
    “Your point is? What’s this got to do with Hal Chase? Or his wife?”
    “Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. As I said. But if you want to scratch around Hal Chase, I could pretty much guarantee that if you talk to him about what’s going on at the jail, about the culture of the place, you’ll get a few surprises. Anything Burt Cushing’s involved in probably has dirt sticking to it someplace.”
    This abrupt segue to the sheriff himself brought Glitsky up short. “Do we know that Hal Chase knows Cushing, other than he’s his boss’s boss, or something like that?”
    “No.” Elliot sighed and pushed back his wheelchair again. “It’s probably wishful thinking on my part.”
    “What is?”
    “Thinking your guy Chase might be the way to get inside over there, to find out what’s really happening.”
    “And ‘over there’ is where?”
    “The Sheriff’s Department. I figure there’s got to be a crack in the armor someplace, but three or four years now, I’ve been waiting and watching and hoping—you should see my files—and nothing ever seems to develop into a real story, which in my soul I believe is a big one. Have you met our good sheriff personally?”
    “Couple of times at law enforcement events. If I remember, he gravitated toward the political side. I never had a conversation with him.”
    “Probably just as well. He’s one of those guys, if his lips are moving, he’s lying. Anyway, I was thinking that if you’ve got a legitimate reason to talk to your guy Chase, he might say something about how things are going, in a general way, at the jail and environs. If he did that, and you thought it smelled funny, maybe you could relay some of that back to me.”
    Glitsky sat back and crossed his legs. “What are you looking for?”
    Elliot pointed at his computer. “Let me show you something. These files I’ve been keeping.” A few keyboard strokes, and he leaned in to read his screen. “Here’s last October. Another inmate, Alanos Tussaint, died of blunt force trauma to the head, suffered when he evidently slipped and fell in a holding cell at the jail. In a jail full of