Red Line
A Matt Sinclair Novel
by
Brian Thiem
New York
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Brian Thiem
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-62953-194-6
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-62953-373-5
e-ISBN: 978-1-62953-207-3
Cover
design by Jennifer Canzone
Crooked Lane Books
2 Park Avenue, 10th Floor
New York, NY 10016
First Edition: August 2015
For
The brave and dedicated men and women who carry a badge and gun for a living.
And for
Cathy
For your love, support, and understanding during the countless hours I sat in my study writing make-believe stories about my imaginary friends.
The man heard a gasp from the backseat as he turned onto Fifty-Second Street. The girl named Samantha opened her eyes in a sudden panic. The eyes of the other girl in the backseat darted back and forth several times, as if she were trying to figure out where she was.
The man slowed the Cadillac Escalade at the parking lot of the emergency room. The lot was empty except for an ambulance, its back doors open toward the building. He spotted a camera and then a second one pointing downward, covering the parking lot and the wide glass doors that opened into the ER.
He jabbed the brake and stopped.
A uniformed security guard sat inside at a small desk. The man backed into the empty street and continued to the traffic light at Martin Luther King Jr. Way. A wide grass median divided the six-lane thoroughfare into northbound and southbound lanes. Above, the elevated tracks for BART rested on huge concrete pedestals that looked like giant gray mushrooms in the fog that rolled in nightly from the San Francisco Bay. Traffic was light. The digital clock on his dash read 4:02.
He turned right and stopped at the bus stop just north of the corner. A Plexiglas shelter covered the bus bench. He climbed out of the driver’s seat and jogged around the front of the SUV to the passenger side, opened the back door and lifted the older girl, Jenny, from the car seat, wrapping his arm around her to hold her up, and placed her on the ground. He shuffled her to the bench and sat her down, then returned to the car and brought Samantha to the bench in the same manner. Samantha leaned against her friend, resting her head on the other girl’s shoulder, her eyes locked open in a zombie-like stare.
The man slipped Samantha’s cell phone out of her clutch purse and turned it on. He scrolled to
Mom
and pressed the number.
“Sam, where have you been? You’ve had me so worried.”
He spoke slowly. “Ma’am, Samantha is with a friend named Jenny. They can’t talk right now, but they need your help.”
“Who is this? Is this some kind of joke?”
“Please listen carefully. The girls have taken some drugs and need to go to the hospital. Get something to write with and I’ll tell you where they are.”
“Who is this?” she demanded.
When he didn’t reply, her voice softened. “Okay, I have a pen.”
“Outside Children’s Hospital in Oakland, at a bus bench on Martin Luther King Way, just up from Fifty-Second Street. If you can’t get here fast, you might want to call the hospital and have them pick up the girls.”
“I got it. Now, who is this?”
“A friend.”
He pressed the end button, wiped the phone on his jacket lining, and returned it to Samantha’s handbag. He scanned the area to ensure no one was watching. A car zipped by without slowing, and the driver didn’t look his way.
“Girls, stay here,” he said. “Your parents are on the way.”
Samantha seemed to focus on him for a second, but then her eyes resumed their distant, Rohypnol stare.
He drove a block up the street and pulled to the curb. In his rearview mirror, he saw one of the girls poke her head out of the front of the shelter.
“Go back and sit down,” he said under his breath.
She stood, looked straight ahead, and wobbled onto the sidewalk. She paused at the curb, and then stumbled, straight-legged into the street.
“No, no,” he muttered.
A pair of headlights in his mirror grew larger, and car tires screeched on the asphalt. Then he heard the thud.
He jumped out of his SUV. The car stopped and two people got out. They bent over the form in the street. One yelled something. Seconds later, people dressed in blue, pink, and green hospital scrubs ran toward the accident.
He climbed into the Cadillac and drove off.
Thirteen Months Later
Sergeant Matt Sinclair parked his unmarked Crown Vic behind the line of black-and-white Oakland PD cars. He stepped out of the car, swept his black suit coat back with his right hand to keep it from hanging up on the Sig Sauer .45 worn in a holster on his belt, and stood there, taking it all in.
A dozen uniformed officers occupied the street and sidewalk in front of him, some talking with citizens and others huddled in groups of two or three, pens and aluminum clipboards in hand. Sinclair glanced at his watch on his left wrist, slid a yellow pad from his folio, and wrote,
0552—Arrived at scene. Cool, clear/fog, dry, dark—but full moon, street lighting.
He took a deep breath, tried to relax the knot in his stomach, and then strode toward the uniforms.
A heavyset man with sergeant stripes on his sleeves hurried toward him. His bald head glistened under the streetlights. “Matt, good to see you back in a coat and tie,” Jim Clancy said.
“Good to be back,” said Sinclair. “How many more days to go?”
“Three months, eight days, two hours—but who’s counting.”
“Not gonna stick it out for thirty?”
“The day I turn fifty, I’m outta here. Twenty-six is plenty. What about you?”
“Shit, Jim, I got fourteen years ’til I hit the big five-oh.”
“Fourteen years—assholes don’t get that much time for murder.”
Sinclair raised his notebook and prepared to write. “Did you drag me out of bed at oh-dark-thirty just to bust my balls?”
Clancy pulled a stack of assignment cards from his back pocket and looked at the notes he had scratched on the back of the cards. “An X-ray tech from Children’s is walking to the parking garage after an overtime shift and sees a kid slumped on the bus bench. Thought it didn’t look right. You know, white kid, not dressed like he belongs in Oaktown after dark. Calls to him, shakes him, gets no response, so he calls nine-one-one as well as a nurse buddy in the ER. We get the call at zero-four-fifty-eight. First unit arrives the same time as paramedics at five-oh-four. I get here about ten minutes later. They pronounce him at the scene. Body was cold. Paramedics figure he’d been dead at least an hour.”
Sinclair looked up from his notepad. “Are you leaving out the obvious just to fuck with me?”
“No apparent cause of death—no GSW, no stab wounds, no obvious trauma. Don’t even know it’s a homicide. Right now, we’re writing it up as an SC Unexplained Death.”
“Great,” said Sinclair.
He preferred callouts where the bodies were peppered with a half-dozen gunshot wounds to SC, or “suspicious circumstance,” deaths. These they had to handle like homicides, which they sometimes turned out to be, but just as
often, after spinning his wheels and wasting days of work, he’d get a call from the coroner saying the death was natural or accidental.
Clancy put his notes away. “We called homicide because someone tied the kid’s wrists and ankles together with flex-cuffs. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Cars containing early morning commuters slowed to check out the activity and then sped off. The eyes of every officer followed Sinclair. He was an average-sized cop. Six feet tall, with a slender, athletic build. This used to be one of his favorite moments, like walking the red carpet. He remembered his first homicide scene as a young patrol officer thirteen years ago—street people yelling, friends and family of the victim wailing, suspects in the rear of marked cars pounding on the windows. Then two homicide sergeants pulled up—older men, nearly his father’s age, dressed in dark suits and starched white shirts. They walked with a bit of a swagger, and their faces showed not a trace of worry, the sense that they had absolutely no doubt they would solve the case. At that moment, Sinclair knew he wanted to work homicide, to feel that confidence, to inspire that sort of respect, admiration, and awe.
Today, Sinclair felt like running back to his car and driving as far away as possible. What was he thinking when he’d asked to return to the unit? Was he fooling himself that he could go back as if the past year never occurred? He hoped the officers at the scene couldn’t sense his anxiety. Cops could detect fear in people the way dogs did.
An officer raised the yellow tape, and Sinclair slipped underneath. The Plexiglas bus shelter was ten feet long and open to the street. It sat six feet back from MLK Way and a hundred feet north of Fifty-Second Street. A green
metal bench filled half the enclosure. Behind the bus stop, a gray multistory parking garage for Children’s Hospital took up most of the block.
Sinclair surveyed the concrete in front of him to make sure he didn’t trample on any evidence and stepped into the shelter. The bus schedule was on one wall: Route 18, last bus at 11:32 p.m., first one at 6:28 a.m. A milk ad,
Help Me Drink Healthy
, hung beside it.
The victim was slumped sideways on the seat, his head resting against the side wall of the shelter. Sinclair tried to recall the position of the rape victim who’d been left on the same bench last summer. Arquette, Samantha, female, white, fourteen. Coincidence? Maybe, but the details of that investigation were lost somewhere in the fog of booze that surrounded him back then.
This boy was young, smooth-faced, wearing a black Stanford University T-shirt, blue jeans, and white sneakers. He looked to be about the same age as the older of the two girls from last summer.
“Little cool to be wearing just a T-shirt,” said Sinclair.
“Sure is. It was already down in the fifties when I came on at eleven,” said Clancy. “A lot warmer on the other side of the hills, though.”
Sinclair leaned toward the body. “The flex-cuffs the department issues are a lot thicker than these things on his wrists. These look like electrical cable ties, like what you buy at a hardware store. We got an ID on him?”
“We didn’t want to search the body until the coroner got here, but I had YSD check missing persons,” said Clancy, referring to the youth services division. “He fits the physical—same clothing too—of a seventeen-year-old juvenile missing from Danville since about midnight. Danville
PD faxed the report and photo to us, and I got an officer en route to pick them up.”
Too many patrol sergeants, especially the younger ones, thought simple tasks, like having YSD check the state missing persons system, was something only detectives could do. Clancy was old school and did whatever was needed to get the job done. “You got a tech and coroner on the way?” Sinclair asked.
“The tech is up the street scouring for evidence. Should be back in a minute, and I was waiting for your okay before calling the coroner.”
“Do it,” said Sinclair.
Clancy pulled out his cell phone, and Sinclair returned to his scene notes as a familiar voice behind him chirped, “Good morning, Sergeant Sinclair. We’ve missed you on these scenes.”
Without turning, he replied, “Hey, Joyce, how’s my favorite tech?”
Short, squat, and with bleached-blonde hair, Joyce Talbert looked nothing like the tall, leggy CSIs on TV, and although she had plenty of seniority to work the day shift, she had worked as a civilian crime scene technician for fifteen years on the midnight shift by choice.
“I wish I had something for you, but I haven’t found any evidence to point to a suspect. I snapped loads of photos of the vic and the scene. I’ll print the Plexiglas around the body. Maybe we’ll get lucky and our killer leaned against it and left a perfect palm print.”
“We can dream,” said Sinclair.
“I’ll go through the trash before I leave and see if there’s anything interesting.” She nodded at a green metal trashcan just south of the bus stop.
“Just in case our man left a beer can in there with his prints on it or a Kleenex with his DNA?” Sinclair said.
“Right, and when I find it, I’m sure the lab will have your suspect’s name before lunch.”
With the criminalistics section’s backlog of DNA cases, Sinclair knew that even if they were fortunate enough to find DNA evidence, they’d be lucky to get results in a month. “Any profound insights?”
“Me? You’re the legendary homicide detective,” she said, a grin spreading across her face.
The legend Sinclair once was had begun dissolving four years ago in the streets of Baghdad and Fallujah. The military had called him back to active duty with the Army Criminal Investigation Command. A year later, he returned to homicide a changed man. The department welcomed him home as a war hero, but he didn’t see it that way. The values of duty, honor, and country, which the Army had instilled in him years ago, seemed quaint and idealistic. His wife saw his change—mood swings, sleep problems, hypervigilance—yet stuck by him as long as she could. When she suggested he get help, he insisted there was nothing wrong with
him
and packed his stuff and moved out. Six months later, she filed for divorce. He didn’t care. He stopped caring about everything last year after he killed a murder suspect he chased into an abandoned house when he should have waited for back up. Once he stopped caring, it was easier to justify hitting the bar instead of working his cases, easier to jump in his car when he was so drunk he could hardly walk.
As Sinclair scanned the faces of the uniforms at the crime scene, he knew everyone welcomed him back with no ill feelings. Maybe he was the only person he needed to seek forgiveness from.
Clancy ducked back under the crime scene tape and announced, “Coroner’s ETA is ten minutes. We’re still holding onto the X-ray tech who found the vic. You wanna talk to him?”
Sinclair skimmed the handwritten statement taken by one of the officers. He didn’t know anything more. “No, let him go.”
“We’ve pretty much finished the canvass of the area. The only open business nearby is the hospital, and we talked to the folks in the ER and security. The people in the houses down the street were asleep and saw nothing.”
A tall, lean officer made his way toward Clancy and handed him some papers. Clancy paged through the missing person report to a photocopied picture and held it alongside the victim’s face. “Well, at least we know who our victim is.”
Sinclair shuffled to the back of the taped-in crime scene area to get out of the commotion and read the report:
Missing Person: Caldwell, Zachary W., male, white, 17, 5'11", 145, blond, blue. Last seen by his parents at 2030 hours when he left his house to meet some friends for coffee. His school night curfew was 2200, and according to his mother, he was never late. His mother, Brenda Caldwell, called the Danville Police at 2230 when he didn’t come home or answer his cell. Brenda called the police again at 2400 when Zachary had not yet returned, and they dispatched an officer to take a report.
The Danville officer had met with Brenda and Zachary’s father, Paul Caldwell, at their residence. Brenda’s occupation was listed as homemaker, and Paul was a surgeon at Oakland Children’s Hospital. The parents described Zachary as a straight-A student who never drank or used drugs. He was also a school athlete—lacrosse, swimming, and golf. He never missed curfew on weekends, when he was
allowed out until midnight, and they said there were no indications of any personal issues that would prompt Zachary to run away. The report listed three boys who met him at Starbucks, but all three said he left alone at about 2145 to return home. Officers searched the area around Starbucks and found Zachary’s car, a black 2010 BMW 328i convertible, parked on a side street a block away.
Sinclair got the Danville watch commander’s number from the YSD desk officer and punched the numbers into his cell phone. “Your missing person’s report says you guys found the BMW. What did you do with it?”
“Nothing so far,” replied the watch commander.
“I need you to tow it with a hold for OPD and search the area between where it’s parked and Starbucks.”
“Search for what? Did you find our missing juvenile?”
“Yeah, we found him.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, dumped in our city but probably killed elsewhere, so look for any evidence that might relate to an abduction or homicide.”
“Nothing good ever happens when I talk to you fellas in Oakland,” the Danville officer said. “Whenever one of our citizens ends up in your city, they’re raped, robbed, or shot.”
“Job security,” said Sinclair. “Do me a favor and keep this quiet. I want to be the one to tell his parents.”
“You think they did it?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Sinclair.
