Every Move She Makes (5 page)

"No. What do you have?"

"Looks like the Soma Slasher, though I didn't think he's ever struck
north of Market. Victim's in the front seat," he said. "Pretty bloody.

We haven't touched anything. We don't even know who it is. Vehicle's
just how we found it. Engine running, lights on. No record of VIN," he
said, referring to the vehicle identification number. "Car's too new,
not registered yet." I eyed the paper plates that read CN-YWIDE FOREIGN

CAR SALES. The hairs prickled on the back of my neck as I saw RANGE

ROVER emblazoned across the tailgate. Between the rain and the glare of
all the police lights, I still couldn't tell the vehicle's color. All I
knew was that I didn't want it to be green. Please, Lord, any color but
green.

I approached the driver's side window and looked in.

The glass was smeared with blood, so I went around and looked through
the windshield. It too was blood splattered, but in a split second of
light, I could make out the victim's profile. Bile rose to my throat.

Like a surrealistic dream, each flash of the police unit's strobe burned
into my mind the lifeless face of Dr. Patricia Mead-Scolari. Her head
hung limply, her forehead and nose pressed against the glass of the
driver's side window. With her throat slit, she was barely recognizable,
and if Scolari and I hadn't talked about the new Range Rover, I never
would have made the connection and identified her. Majors started toward
me, moving as if in slow motion across a disco dance floor, except it
was raining and we were staring at a dead body. "Turn off the lights," I
said.

"What?"

"The damn three-sixties. Turn them off." Majors gave the order, and a
moment later normalcy returned to a scene that was far from normal. No
more strobe, no more red and blue flashing lights. Only the steady
spotlights and rain sluicing down. I felt sick to my stomach, dizzy. I
looked around. All eyes were on me, and I knew a number of them expected
me to lose it-as they had from the day I entered Homicide. I took a
breath, pulled myself together, pushed back the urge to cry from the
unfairness of the doctor's death.

"You okay?" Majors asked.

"Where's Scolari?" Majors raised a brow at my curt tone. "He should've
been paged the same time as you."

"It's Patricia," I said. "His wife."

Majors stilled, disbelief filled his gaze. He took his Streamlight and
shined it into the windshield at her head.

"Son of a ..." --I backed up a step, looking as sick as I felt.

"You need to call the Op Center. I can't investigate this case," I said.

"Scolari's my partner." Lord, don't let him be a suspect, I ' thought.

Please let this be some random thing. But I recalled the way he'd stared
at the coffeepot, so emotionless, like he'd given up.

Suicide, I'd thought.

Murder never entered my mind.

The lieutenant pulled his radio from his duty belt.

"Three-David two-hundred," he said into it.

"Three-David two-hundred," came the response.

"You got an ETA on Scolari? 2) "Negative." There were a few seconds of
silence, then, "No answer to the page or land line." Majors keyed the
radio, and ordered dispatch to notify the Operation Center. "Advise them
we'll need Management Control out here. And the Medical Examiner. Code
Two." "Ten four." The Op Center would notify everyone necessary,
including my boss, the crime scene investigators, Management Control,
and the DNS office, who would send out their own investigators. That
done, Majors retreated to his patrol car. Dr. Mead-Scolari had been a
longtime family friend of his wife, a nurse at San Francisco General
Hospital. I saw him on the phone, and I suspected his wife was on the
other end. He blinked his eyes, and I turned away, giving him the
privacy I wished for myself "You," I said to an officer standing
openmouthed at the sight of his lieutenant's vulnerability. "Get on the
air.

I need tarps, Code Two. After that, start a crime scene log.

I want the name and division of every person who shows up or who's been
here."

"Me?" His face registered momentary surprise at my orders.

"Yes, officer. You." He looked back at the lieutenant, then me, before
nodding and heading to his patrol car to make the necessary calls. I
could understand his confusion. Majors should be out here doing this.

But until he composed himself, and until I was relieved, I would do it
for him. The news of the doctor's death spread quickly, and it wasn't
long before the press arrived, their cameras capturing our every move.

One or two reporters at the scene was understandable, they monitored the
scanners. But the sheer numbers of reporters present told me they were
aware that this was no simple homicide. I wondered who had notified
them. Immediately I enlarged the perimeter of my crime scene, calling
for additional units to cordon off the area with yellow tape, keeping
the reporters at bay. Surveying the area, I realized there were still
two officers standing in the midst of the taped-off area. I wanted the
parking lot empty of all officers. I didn't want the scene contaminated.

Coming up behind them, I tapped each on the shoulder, indicated they
should follow me. Rookies. The taller of the two didn't even look old
enough to shave. I recognized him from the warehouse. Robertson, the
officer who reminded me of my brother. "Weren't you working day shift?"

I asked him when I'd gotten them away from the Range Rover and out of
sight of the cameras. "Overtime." Judging from the pallor of his face, I
was surprised he got that much out. Seeing a frozen body was one thing,
a fresh murder another, especially to the uninitiated. It wasn't that
experience brought immunity; rather, that I'd learned to shift into
autopilot. I figured what he needed was a task to keep busy, keep from
picturing the morbid scene. He'd see it enough when he went to bed. "I
want each of you to get your notebooks, canvass the area, and write down
every license number and VIN on every vehicle within a two-block radius.

That means every driveway, parking lot, alley, and anywhere else a car
is parked." Robertson's hand went to his back pocket, feeling for his
notebook. "VINS too?" he questioned, undoubtedly thinking of the extra
time. "If the suspect vehicle's out there, they could've changed plates.

We won't know until we run them all." I glanced across the lot to a
narrow, dark walkway that led to Yen King's, a Chinese restaurant
Scolari frequented. At the autopsy, his wife had mentioned they were
meeting for dinner. Knowing it would be done anyway, I assigned two more
officers to canvass each of the surrounding businesses, including Yen
King s. It wasn't long before they came back with the news that Scolari
had been there, and ordered takeout dinner for two. As a result, Majors
deployed several radio cars to swing by Scolari's apartment to see if
he'd been there. After they left, and while I waited for the crime scene
investigators, I turned on my Streamlight and began a search of the
parking lot for anything that might have evidentiary value. I found a
beer bottle beside a Dumpster at the back of the building. Closer to the
car a rain-soaked cigarette butt lay on the ground about four feet from
the front passenger door. I left both items where they were.

The CSIS would videotape them first, then take photos.

Inch by inch I went over the parking lot, then turned my attention to
the car. On tiptoes, I aimed the beam on the vehicle's roof. Clean and
wet. The hood as well. I circled the car. On my first round, I noticed
that the lens for the left rear turn signal was broken. Scolari always
said his wife couldn't drive worth a damn. As I circled again, it came
to me that if the situation weren't so horrific, at her wake someone
ought to mention her driving. Here she was with a car three days old,
and it was already damaged. Even she had once joked about it. "The
traffic division keeps a whole file drawer dedicated to my fender
benders alone," she told me. The memory caused me to look up at her
through the window, as if that would bring her back to life. It was then
I discovered that the door was locked. All the doors, I realized,
shining my light at each one in turn. Why would someone bother to lock
all the doors after they'd just committed murder? it would take a
conscious act. Murder, then pause to hit the lock button? It didn't fit.

The first investigators arrived, and I was more than ready to relinquish
the scene. The tarps were nearly in place. Sergeant Kent Mathis from
Management Control approached with my ex-husband. "Are you okay?" Reid
asked. "Do you think you can talk about this right now?" I told him I
could, and Mathis questioned me while Reid looked on. He asked how I
recognized Dr. Meadscolari, where Sam was. All routine questions. If
Reid guessed that any of this had something to do with me canceling out
on our Napa trip, he said nothing. When the interview was over, Reid
handed me a cup of coffee and walked me toward my car. "You need a ride
home?"

"No."

"I'm sorry," he said, his hand on my shoulder. "Go get some sleep. We'll
finish tomorrow." My fingers were frozen, my clothing soaked through,
and I clutched my coffee cup, moving it to my numb lips, trying to sip
the tasteless brew. I could see the news cameras on the other side of
the tape near where my car was parked, and again I wondered who had
tipped them off. "There was nothing for it but to wade through them. I
turned back to say goodbye to Reid, but he had already disappeared. I
wanted to go home, to mourn in the privacy of my own room, not before
thousands of viewers eager to see what dirty laundry was waved their
way. I tossed my cup into a trash bag one of the evidence techs had set
up, then I strode down the street. As I lifted the tape and stepped
beneath it, cameras pointed in my direction while reporters surrounded
me. "You're Inspector Gillespie," a petite woman said, holding her
microphone in front of me. I paused, surprised anyone would recognize
me. She must have sensed it because she said, "Beth Skyler, Channel Two.

I did that story on you. First female homicide inspector?" "Yes," I
said. "I remember." What I recalled is that she seemed to know about the
transfer before I'd even made it public. At the time, I figured the
mayor or chief had clued her in for publicity reasons. "Is it true that
the deceased is a pathologist at the Medical Examiner's office? Doctor
Patricia Meadscolari?" It seemed that everyone there was waiting on my
answer. "It's not my case. You'll have to speak to the Press Officer."

"But isn't it true you made an identification?" Skyler continued. Now,
that smacked of definite leaking. I wanted to ask who had told her that,
but to do so would almost confirm her question. "No comment," I said,
trying to move past her. "Inspector," she said, scooting around until
she was in front of me again, her microphone inches from my face. "Can
you tell us if there's a connection between this case and the Soma
Slasher? I understand Dr. Meadscolari's throat was slit. Isn't that the
same MO?" Several flashes went off as photographers snapped their
pictures. "No comment," I said, forcing my way to my car. I didn't know
how they came by that information, and I certainly didn't want to be
seen on "TV or quoted in the paper confirming or denying anything. As I
unlocked and opened my car door, Skyler continued her pursuit. I kept my
back to her. "Inspector," she said. "Is it true that Dr. Meadscolari's
husband is the suspect in her death? That he's being looked at as the
Soma Slasher?" Her question shocked me more than anything I'd seen
tonight. Speechless, I turned to face her, trying to keep my expression
neutral. I had to know where she came by that information, and how. She
was lost in a sea of cameras, microphones, rain and blinding lights. "At
this time, we are not aware of any connection between Dr. Mead-Scolari's
death and the Soma Slasher victims. "But what about her husband?