I said to Stevens, “Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant. I’m Lindsay Boxer. My partner, Rich Conklin.”
Stevens said, “I recognize you, Boxer. You look like your father.”
“I guess I do.”
“I met you when you were this high. Marty used to bring you to Robbie Crusoe’s, sit you on the bar top while we watched the games outta Candlestick. You didn’t like beer.”
I smiled. “I do now.”
“Like I said, you take after your father.”
I didn’t recognize Stevens and I didn’t want to think about Marty Boxer. My father hadn’t been the worst cop in the world, but he had been a degenerate gambler and worse. He had left my mother with terminal breast cancer when I was thirteen, my sister six years younger. He didn’t reenter our lives again until I was out of college. I’d seen him a couple of times after that, and he’d been in touch with my sister; but just when I might have forgiven him for past crimes and misdemeanors, he stood me up for walking me down the aisle at my wedding.
As far as I knew, Marty Boxer was dead. At any rate, he was dead to me.
Conklin told Stevens, Moran, and Hallows, “We’ve been here for about an hour and can fill you guys in on what we found.”
Stevens said, “Okay, shoot. But before you do, what brings you to our crime scene?”
I jumped back into the debriefing.
“Same as when I spoke to you the last time,” I said. “A citizen phoned me about a street person who had been shot dead and left for the buzzards.”
Conklin shot me a warning look. Stevens smirked and said, “Maybe your informant was the doer. Didja think of that?”
My partner cleared his throat and continued with his report.
“Boxer and I arrived at eight thirty to find four uniforms holding down the scene—two at the western perimeter, two standing watch over the body. They had a witness statement but no ID on the witness, and he left the scene. One bystander identified the victim as Laura Russell. Her family members are right over there, by their SUV.
“I did an area search with Officers Baskin and Casey. We found a perfectly good man’s coat in a trash can on the Embarcadero. A witness who may have seen the shooter told the uniforms that he was wearing a nice coat. So the coat we found qualifies as nice, and there were gloves in the pockets. Maybe it was dumped by the shooter. We handed it off to CSI Hallows.”
Moran asked about the victim, and Hallows told him
that she had been shot twice in the chest. No casings on the ground. No ID on her person. No phone. Twenty-two dollars and thirty-eight cents in her coat pocket.
“I’ll have more for you after the lab goes over her clothing and after the ME signs off.”
Stevens said to Hallows, “You’ve got my number.”
I told Stevens I’d send him a copy of my report. He said, “Okay, Boxer. You’ve done your good deed. We can take it from here.” He turned his back.
You’re welcome.
Conklin and I headed to our cars, making way for the coroner’s van, which was just rolling through the perimeter. We stood outside the tape as the ME’s techs moved in and prepared to remove the body.
We could hear Stevens joking with Moran, saying that it was a good night for an unsolvable murder. That maybe the seals had seen the action go down.
Moran said, “Yeah, but no one is barking.”
Their banter gave me a headache. Someone had been murdered in a tourist area. The crime scene had been contaminated by passersby. The shooter and any witnesses to the crime had fled.
Stevens and Moran just didn’t care.
CHAPTER 28
THE WIND WAS to our backs as Conklin and I unlocked our cars.
I said across the roof, “Here’s a thought, Richie. They’re padding their time sheets. I wonder how many hundreds of man-hours they can bury in a case with no witnesses. The more dead ends, the better.”