The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club 17)

I was finally going to have a shot at taking a bite out of the killer’s spree. This shooting was going to get a first-class investigation, which I hoped would end with the doer in an orange jumpsuit, looking at life without parole.

Twenty-two minutes after Brady’s call, I pulled up to a crime scene that was eerily lit by the mistrimmed flashers and headlights of a dozen cruisers lined up at the curb. Unis had set up a perimeter, closing off Mission in both directions for two blocks down to Beale, with barricades at the cross streets.

This was more like it. Thank you, Brady.

I parked, ducked under the tape, and asked a uniformed cop to point me to the first officer.

“That would be Sergeant Nardone. Over there. With the body.”

I knew Bob Nardone. He was meticulous and irreverent, and I was glad he was on the scene. I called out to him and he lifted his hand. I pushed through the loose grouping of units to where he was standing by the victim.

As first responding officer, he was responsible for cordoning off the street, sequestering witnesses, keeping bystanders from trashing the area, and briefing investigators.

Nardone said, “Sergeant Boxer? What brings you out on a night like this?”

“It’s my turn to howl at the moon. What’ve we got?”

“Elderly woman, looks to me like she was down on her luck, and that was before someone pumped about six rounds into her.”

“ID?”

“See the strap? Her bag is under her body. Officer Anthony is talking to the guy who called it in. Tourist in the right place at the wrong time. He saw the body from his car.”

Headlights sent shafts of light across the body. I turned on my torch and Nardone guided me in.

I stepped around the pool of blood outlining the victim, who had fallen onto her side. I snapped photos with my phone, which would do until CSI came in with halogen lights and German lenses.

I heard Conklin calling my name and turned to see him materialize out of the gloom.

I told him what Nardone had told me. He bent to the body and peeled the dead woman’s green hat away from her face.

He said, “Awwww, shit.”

I looked over his shoulder. What I saw was like a hard punch to my heart.

“Oh, no, Rich. No fucking way.”

He said, “Proof that no good deed goes unpunished.”

This was just wrong. How could Millie Cushing, a kind and gentle soul, be dead?

I had to come in for a closer look. Her face and hair were soaked with blood. She’d taken one shot to her forehead and innumerable slugs to her body. The killer had stood close. He’d looked into her face and she’d looked into his. And he’d shot and shot and shot some more, until he was sure she was dead.

This execution was overkill. Overkill meant rage or that the murder was personal—or both.

Millie had come to me because of a wave of murders that had gone largely unnoticed. I’d encouraged her. I’d asked for her help. Standing over her body, I felt literally sick with sorrow and guilt. Had Millie been killed because she was working with me?

“Is this my fault?” I asked Conklin.

Conklin said, “Come on. No. Lindsay, here’s CSI. Let’s give them some room.”

I heard a van door slide open and looked up to see Charlie Clapper step out onto the street. I was so glad that our forensics chief, my good friend, was on the job.

Clapper said to me, “How is it we’re both pulling night shift?”

“I know the victim, Charlie. Millie Cushing. She was my CI. Maybe the killer found out.”

“Or he was looking for a victim,” said Conklin, “and she just happened to cross his path.”