Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (36 page)

Still, if Foster was among that 4 percent, he didn't deserve to die…

I sighed. "My week off is almost over. I was getting bored, anyway."

Jack sighed, too—in relief. "Thanks. I appreciate it. After we
finish eating, we'll go back to All Souls and I'll turn over the files
and that video I mentioned." He paused. I glanced at him, saw his eyes
had clouded. "I've got to warn you," he added, "you're not going to
like what you hear."

"I got her out the car, and I drop her
there on the edge of that
hollow. Then I give her a push, and she roll away down the hill."

"Did you go down there with her? Try to
hide the body?"

The first voice belonged to the young black man with the weary,
strained face. The other was Inspector Ben Gallagher's, but I couldn't
see him or his partner; the video camera was fixed on Bobby Foster as
he made his confession.

"No, man, I didn't want no part of her
no more. She just dead meat
to me. Just dead white meat, something to throw away."

"Go on."

"That's it, man. I told you all of it."

"What about the blood? There was a lot
of blood in the car. Was
there any on you?"

Foster looked blank momentarily. Confused, I thought.

"Blood. Yeah. On me, all over me."

I got up and switched the VCR off. Foster's face turned into that of
a commentator reading the midnight news on the cable channel. It was
the second time I'd viewed the tape—more than enough. I shut off the TV
too and went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Comfort food, I
thought wryly.

The tape had been grim—stomach-turning in parts. Foster had admitted
to kidnapping Kostakos with the intention of holding her in an
apartment in the Western Addition until he could collect the ransom
from her wealthy parents. He'd offered her a ride to her improv session
in a car he'd earlier stolen off the Café Comedie lot, knocked her
unconscious, and driven there. But once inside, she'd come to and tried
to escape. In the struggle that ensued, he'd stabbed her repeatedly;
then he'd raped her lifeless body. Finally he'd loaded it back in the
car, driven south to the mountains, and dumped it in a ravine. The
details were particularly grisly because of the flat, unemotional
manner in which he related them. Still, there was something that didn't
quite ring true. Many things…

I went back to the living room, curled up on the couch, and studied
the legal pad that I'd filled with notes. There were inconsistencies in
Foster's confession: he claimed the car he'd stolen was green, rather
than blue; that he'd been absent from the club all night, rather than
returning shortly before the two-o'clock closing, as his fellow valets
had testified; that he'd abandoned the car by the side of the road,
rather than in
another ravine. From the trial transcript I'd learned that he'd been
unable to lead investigators to the place where he'd disposed of the
body. The location of the apartment where he'd killed Tracy had never
been pinpointed, nor had the "dude who hangs out at the club" who had
sublet it to him ever been identified. And there was the question of
the quarrel he and Kostakos reportedly had on the sidewalk in front of
the club: if he'd merely offered her a ride, why had they fought?
Altogether I had several pages of notes on the holes in the case
against Foster.

The fingerprints in the car, for instance: if it was one Foster had
parked earlier, it would seem natural for his prints to be there. And
the fact that he'd never followed up on the ransom demand: he had
nothing to lose by doing so. True, there were damning facts in the
confession, but he could have gleaned those during the hours of
interrogation before the videotaping began. The others—the grim but
unverifiable details of what he had done to Kostakos—could have been
the product of an overactive imagination. And it bothered me that the
chief investigating officer, Ben Gallagher, had seemed to prompt
Foster's responses. The suspect had repeatedly employed the phrase
"like you say," which led me to believe Gallagher had put quite a few
ideas into his head.

Too bad I couldn't ask Ben about that. He'd been shot to death the
previous month by a speed freak resisting arrest after murdering his
wife and small son.

I yawned and realized my comfort drink had done its magic work. But
I couldn't go to bed, not yet. I had to call Jack, who—fortunately—was
a night person and would be up for hours yet.

Still, I hesitated, running my eyes over the list that Jack had
provided of precedents in no-body cases: People v. Alviso, People v.
Clark, People v. Ward and Fontenot… Cases tried from 1880 to 1985, in
which proof of the corpus delicti had been "legally inferred from such
strong and unequivocal circumstances as produce conviction to a moral
certainty."

Strong and unequivocal circumstances?

Maybe. Maybe not.

I reached for the phone and punched out All Souls' number. Jack
answered; in the background I could hear the mutter of the TV, probably
tuned to an old movie.

I said, "Did you get my name added to Foster's list of authorized
visitors?"

"Yes, when I went up there this afternoon. I talked to him about
you, so he'll know who you are and why you're there."

"Good. I'll go in the morning."

"What did you think of the material I gave you?"

"You were right—the confession's damned brutal. And I didn't like it
one bit. But…"

"But?"

"There's something about it that makes me want to reserve judgment
until after I talk with him."

By the time I arrived at All Souls' shabby Bernal Heights Victorian
that Thursday after returning from San Quentin, I had put aside the
remainder of my reservations about the Foster case and was eager to get
to work on it. I seemed to be the only person around there in a working
mood, however: no clients waited in the front parlor, and the doors to
the offices and law library stood open, the rooms' interiors dark. Ted
Smalley, our secretary, sat at his desk, but his computer keyboard was
covered, and he was idly perusing one of those tabloids that are trying
to outdo the National Enquirer.

As I came in, he murmured, "What will that madcap Sean Penn do next?"

"Pardon me for interrupting your studies," I said.

Ted raised the paper so I could see the headline: CRAZED KILLER
CANNIBAL PLANNED TO COOK NIXON. He knows his passion for
sleaze irritates me, so he takes every opportunity to flaunt it. "What
can I do for you?" he asked.

"Is either Rae or Jack around?"

"Jack, no. Rae's in the attic."

It was an unlikely place to find my assistant, Rae Kelleher. "What
on earth is she doing up there?"

"You'll see." He smiled mysteriously. "You coming to the New Year's
Eve party?"

"Yes. I even have a new dress for it."

"So do I."

I looked more closely at him, to see if he was serious.

"Not really," he added. "This is a pretty off-the-wall outfit, but I
think most people would frown upon me showing too much decolletage."

"You never know. I for one would find it amusing." I headed for the
stairs, and Ted went back to his sleaze.

I dropped my coat, bag, and briefcase in my office at the front of
the second floor, then followed a series of banging noises,
interspersed with curses, to the attic. The noises came from the rear
of the cavernous, drafty space; the cursing voice belonged to Rae
Kelleher. I stopped and smiled, listening. Rae's typical expletives
were along the lines of "Oh, rats!" I'd never realized she possessed
such a colorful vocabulary. As I made my way back to her, I weaved
through assorted cartons, trunks, suitcases, and mismatched
furniture—things that staff members who lived in the small second-story
rooms couldn't squeeze in, plus the castoffs of others no longer in
residence.

Rae stood by the rear dormer window, holding a hammer and sucking
her thumb. She is a tiny woman with curly auburn hair, who dresses with
a ratty artlessness that never ceases to amaze me. Today she had
outdone herself: candy-striped, paint-stained pants with the widest
bell-bottoms I'd seen since 1970; a baggy purple sweater covered with
those balls of fuzz I call sweater mice; a yellow polka-dot bandanna
holding back her hair. There was a big streak of dirt on her forehead,
and a bigger scowl on her round, freckled face. When she saw me, she
took her thumb from her mouth and said, "Dammit, why did my mother
teach me to sew instead of how to
hit nails right?"

I looked around. There was a stack of Sheetrock leaning against one
wall; insulation had been stapled between the exposed studs. "What in
God's name are you doing?"

She stuck the thumb back in her mouth and said around it, "Making a
room for myself. I'm sick of living in my office."

In September, Rae had separated from her perpetual-student husband
and moved into All Souls. All the rooms were occupied, so she set up
housekeeping in her office—my former one—which is really nothing more
than a converted closet under the stairs. Being crowded was okay with
her, she'd said. It was only a temporary arrangement—until a room
opened up, or the couples counseling worked and she and Doug got back
together.

I sat down on a rolled-up rug and said, "I take it your Christmas
trip to see Doug's parents didn't go too well."

She snorted. "That's putting it mildly. His whole family blames me
because the asshole made that fake suicide attempt last fall. His
mother had the nerve to tell me if I paid more attention to him, it
wouldn't have happened. It was cold in Ohio, and neither of us brought
enough warm clothes. So his mother went out and bought her Dougie two
new sweaters, but nothing for me. Then I found out he hadn't even told
them we weren't living together anymore. When I corrected that
impression, his father lectured me on a wife's duties to her husband.
Never mind a husband's duties—little things like respecting his wife's
rights or being truthful. Oh no, those things don't apply to their
Dougie. No wonder he turned out the way he did!" She paused, suddenly
shamefaced. "Sorry. I know I shouldn't rant like that. But every time I
think about it, I just… fulminate!"

"I don't blame you." Rae had come a long way in a few months: from a
woman who neglected her job to rush to her husband's side every time he
snapped his fingers, to a full-scale fulminator. I motioned around us.
"Does this mean you're
divorcing him?"

"Yeah. The couples therapy has proved to me that we can't go on.
Every week more and more things come out about both of us. Perfectly
swinish things about Doug, and things I don't like much about myself,
either. I can work to improve my bad character, but there's nothing I
can do about his."

"So when are you filing?"

"Soon. Trouble is, I've only got twenty-nine dollars in my checking
account." Momentarily she looked glum, then brightened. "But Hank
loaned me a book about how to do your own divorce, and even offered to
help me. I guess I can scrape together the filing fee."

I considered offering to loan it to her but decided against such
partisan behavior. I'd long ago learned to stay out of friends' marital
hassles; whenever I'd taken sides, they'd reconciled, and I'd ended up
the villainous party.

"Hank's been awfully helpful," Rae added. "I was afraid he wouldn't
want me putting in a room up here, but he said yes right away and even
talked the owner into paying for the insulation and Sheetrock."

Hank Zahn, founder and nominal leader of All Souls, was great at
talking people into all sorts of things. Too bad, I thought, he wasn't
any good with a hammer. And speaking of marital hassles… "Has Hank been
around this week?" I asked.

"Not much."

"Anne-Marie?" Anne-Marie Altman, our tax attorney, was my good
friend and Hank's wife.

"Haven't seen her, but I only got back from Ohio on Monday."

"Well, I suppose they'll be at the party Saturday night."

"If they're speaking to each other."

"You've noticed, too."

"Can't help but. Frankly, I think what they need is separate houses.
There are some people who love each other but can't live
together."

"Maybe," I said, thinking of my former relationship with a certain
police lieutenant. "Anyway, I need to talk to you about a case. I hate
to interrupt this… project, but—"

"Don't worry. I need a break. I only have one more thumb, you know."
She sat down next to me on the rolled-up rug.

I told her about the Foster case, pointing out what I thought were
holes and inconsistencies.

When I finished, Rae was silent for a moment. "Oh boy," she finally
said, "twenty years old and on death row! What sort of a kid is this
Bobby Foster, anyway?"

I restrained a smile at her use of the word "kid"; Rae herself was
only twenty-five. "He's okay, once you get past the tough-guy
attitude—which is understandable, given where he is. Grew up in the
projects—Potrero Annex. One of seven kids, father skipped out before he
was born, mother's had two other husbands, both gone now, too. She's an
activist—organized a watch program for her building and was
instrumental in establishing the Potrero Medical Clinic."

"I've heard of it. Didn't they just get some big foundation grant?"

I nodded. "Mrs. Whitsun—Leora Whitsun—works at the clinic now, doing
intake and records. She's getting a pretty good salary and wants to
move her younger kids out of the projects. Her connection with the
clinic has bearing on the case, too. The club owner I mentioned, Jay
Larkey, was a dentist before he turned to stand-up comedy, and he still
keeps his hand in. He volunteers two afternoons a week at the clinic,
which is how he met Mrs. Whitsun and came to hire Foster as a parking
attendant when he got out of the CYA."

"And he was in the CYA for…?"

"He'd been running drugs since he was nine. The last time, he was in
for assaulting a dealer who had cheated him. There were other offenses
relating more to his violent temper than to drugs. Right before
Kostakos disappeared, though, he'd begun
to turn his life around. His mother's a very gutsy woman, and
underneath it all, Bobby has the same basic toughness."