He fished a pair out of his pants. Of course he had some. He probably had a complete crime-scene kit in those cargo-pants pockets. I reluctantly slid them on and opened the evidence envelope.
The wallet was blue nylon with a Velcro seam. It was dated only by its design and materials. Otherwise, it was in surprisingly good shape for being so old. I already knew what it held before I pulled it open and saw Tom Frazier’s driver’s license. He had dark hair and the card said he was six feet, two inches, two hundred pounds, brown eyes.
“He’s not so different from your build,” Melton said. “About the same age. He had lost his mother, his last family member. You only had your grandmother at that age.”
He had done his homework on me. I didn’t like that.
I made a quick inventory of the other contents: an emergency medical technician card issued by the state, an Associated Ambulance employee identification, thirty-two dollars in currency signed by Donald Regan. No credit cards, but hardly anyone that age back then would have qualified for one. No photos.
Other things seemed missing, too: dirt or sand from the desert, and faded material from being out in the sun.
I said, “Where did you get this?”
“Are you interested in the case?”
“Mildly.”
He leaned forward. “Enough to have a conversation with the person who found the wallet?”
“I’m a historian,” I said. “That’s the way I approach cases. It seems like you need a real homicide detective who works cold cases.” I mentioned a couple of names.
“So what’s the difference between a historian and a detective?”
I had been asked this so many times, thought about it when Peralta first brought me aboard, that I should have had a neat elevator speech. But I didn’t.
Good detectives and historians had much in common. They wanted to find the “how” as well as the “why.” Both gave heavy weight to primary sources—whether witness interviews documents, diaries, and other reminiscences of the people actually involved in the event—as opposed to secondary sources such as newspaper accounts. Both were mindful of bias.
There were important differences, too. A good historian wanted to understand causality and complex underlying social and economic forces and pivotal personalities, not merely assemble evidence. He or she was open to new interpretations as fresh scholarship emerged, formerly secret archives were opened and key players who had kept silent decided to talk.
Understanding history meant acknowledging when the facts didn’t go your way, when they challenged or undermined your thesis. Some detectives would cherry-pick facts to assemble a case. Only shoddy historians did that. History was an argument without end. A criminal investigation resulted in a conviction that was rarely overturned, even if the suspect was innocent.
History was especially about distance and objectivity. Unfortunately, I had lived part of this history, being the first deputy on the scene.
“Sounds good to me,” Melton said. “Sounds like what I need here. But don’t worry about footnotes.”
The man had such a wry wit.
I said, “What about the chain of command?”
“You’ll report directly to me,” he said, “like you did with Peralta.”
That was good. Melton had brought in or promoted thugs to the highest ranks of the department. Hard asses with a history of brutality complaints who relished his campaign against illegal immigrants and poor people in general. And as a former academic, I had never really been welcomed by many of Peralta’s commanders, either. The only thing they hated worse than a meddling professor was a reporter.
“You can’t help him, you know. That’s an FBI case, and you can only get in the way. Or worse. You could be charged with obstructing if you start digging around. These feds, believe me I know, they see the suspect’s friend meddling and they don’t like it. It might even cause them to think you’re an accessory.”
I nodded. “How do you know I’m not?”
“Because I’ve checked you out. I know your work. I trust my gut.”
“And you blackmailed me over Lindsey.”
He shook his head and blew out a breath. “No, David. I was trying to help you. I’m going to help you and Lindsey.”
My ass, I thought, wondering about his real motivations besides self-aggrandizement. Sliding the wallet back in the evidence bag, I asked him about forensics.
“I’m going to send it to the lab to test for latest prints and DNA,” he said. “It’s hard to know what we’ll find. But there are photos of the wallet and its contents in your murder book.”
I folded my hands and leaned back. “What’s next for me?”