Hall of Justice brass craved resolution, dreading an ugly, drawn-out investigation that they feared would uncover massive SFPD corruption and end careers.

  Two weeks after the massacre, Phong recanted, signed a written statement saying he made the whole thing up to try to get a lighter sentence.

  He went to trial in December. The Hall of Justice buzz was that the politicians made a deal. Two things added fuel to the fire: Then-police chief Frank Flanagan and the district attorney endorsed each other in the November elections. And prosecutors went easy on Phong – they practically presented the defense’s case, painting him during trial as a nervous kid who just meant to scare people and got carried away, not a cold-blooded triggerman.

  Phong got twenty-five-to-life, not the death penalty.

  Frank Flanagan avoided an ugly scandal and got a political endorsement that kept his career on track.

  Wayne Bordelay quietly retired from the force and disappeared.

  A week into his life sentence, Phong was stabbed to death by a fellow inmate at Pelican Bay State Penitentiary.

  Marko staked out ghosts on Pacific Street, and wondered what Walter knew.

  He started the car. Shook his head to bring himself back to the present.

  Walter had agreed to help with the Roland Solorzano case, and he was interviewing Roland’s family and associates to find out whether anyone might have wished to do him harm.

  But that meant nothing. Busywork.

  Marko knew there was one man who had the answers.

  It was time to talk to Mayor Frank Flanagan.

  Chapter 12

  “Inspector Yancey, do you want some tea? It’ll give me something to do while the images download. It’s chamomile, by the way.”

  San Francisco County Medical Examiner Vicky Talib flashed a dazzling smile that felt like the most welcome sight Karen had seen in 48 hours.

  “That would be nice,” Karen said, smiling back. “And please, call me Karen.”

  “Only if you call me Vicky.”

  Vicky Talib turned to fill a mug with water, then opened the door of the microwave next to her desk and slid the mug into it. Karen took the opportunity to stare at her, which she’d been tempted to do since walking into her office a few minutes before. She noticed the scooped neckline of her sweater, which revealed a long and graceful neck, and her curly brown hair cascading past her shoulders.

  Karen’s hand went reflexively to the back of her own neck as she touched her much shorter hair, imagining it growing, and imagining some future visit at which Vicky Talib would compliment her on her new style. Maybe Vicky would even smile at her again.

  Vicky started to turn back toward her and Karen quickly dropped her hand back into her lap, feeling ashamed of her moment of fantasy.

  What was she doing? She had a strange feeling in her stomach, one she hadn’t felt since summer camp as a teenager, when she’d gotten lightheaded in the cafeteria line as a counselor named Cindy put her arm around her absent-mindedly while they were waiting. She didn’t think much of it, and went through the motions of dating boys, chalking up the out-of-body experience of sex to normal teenage awkwardness. She wasn’t boy-crazy like some of her friends were, that was for sure.

  She told herself she just hadn’t found the right guy.

  It continued in college and well into adulthood — a series of relationships that left her feeling empty, despite her best attempts to find the secret key that would unlock romance for her.

  Then there was Brian. They had been together for two years, and he was in many ways perfect. He was handsome, athletic and ambitious, and he treated her well. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something missing. It was something Brian picked up on. Three months after she moved into the downtown condo he had secured for them in their new town, they had a huge fight, and he blurted out that maybe her moving in with him was a mistake. That maybe she didn’t even love him.

  She left the condo in tears, but as she descended in the elevator she dried her eyes and felt lighter than she had felt in months. She was relieved. Something about Brian had left her cold. She liked and admired him, but he had never excited her physically, and the thought of being with him for the rest of her life felt like a death knell.

  As the days and weeks passed and she avoided his phone calls until they stopped altogether, she began to think that maybe it had nothing to do with Brian. Maybe it had to do with her.

  As soon as she’d walked into Vicky Talib’s office she found herself intrigued by the medical examiner technician’s hair, the light smell of lemon-scented shampoo that wafted from it, the firm-yet-warm handshake.

  Karen felt light-headed. Woozy, in a good way. She’d never felt that way about Brian, or any other boy for that matter.

  Vicky Talib handed her the steaming cup of tea and batted her eyelashes in what Karen recognized as an ironic stab at coyness. “I don’t get many visitors,” she said.

  But there was nothing shy about Vicky Talib. Behind the look was a forthrightness that appealed to Karen. A look that said: I know who I am. And I think I know who you are.

  “I’d like to come by more often,” Karen replied.

  Vicky Talib smiled again, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to change as an unspoken understanding passed between them.

  “I do hope we can get to know each other better, Karen,” Vicky said, and she reached out and briefly touched her knee. Karen thought she might jump out of her chair. “But I guess we have to do some work, huh?”

  Karen nodded, content to leave these exquisite feelings aside for now, trusting she had gained some clarity that offered exciting new possibilities for her.

  “I think that would be wise,” she said. They both laughed.

  Vicky Talib sipped from her cup and turned toward the computer. “Okay, here we go. Rebecca Fielding.”

  They saw photographs of a baby girl wearing pink pajamas lying on her stomach in what looked like a muddy ditch. Her neck was bent unnaturally. They were silent for a few moments. Karen looked at the picture of the dead little girl and felt a sudden shame about the motives that brought her to this case.

  She cleared her throat and composed herself.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Not for Rebecca.”

  “What about the babysitter? Nora Stanton.”

  Vicky clicked her keyboard and a series of images, each taken from slightly different angles, appeared. A young woman was lying on a patterned rug. Half her head was blown off. One part of her face, from her left eye down to the left point of her chin, was unbloodied and visible. Her hair was dark brown, short in the back and longer across the forehead, in a style that reminded Vicky of female vocal groups of the period, like Diana Ross and the Supremes. Her skin was light brown.

  She was not a rock and roll girl, Karen thought. She couldn’t imagine Nora Stanton with the hippies at the Fillmore. Nora was a girl from the Fillmore District.

  “Does it say anything about her ethnicity?”

  Vicky tapped keys and came to an official document from the coroner’s office.

  “Mixed race,” Vicky said, pointing to the blurred typewriting on the screen.

  Karen nodded. “Are there more pictures?”

  Vicky clicked back. Another photo showed a long-barreled .45. No silencer. Karen had checked a meteorological database for the weather report on December 12, 1969. It was a foggy night. On Telegraph Hill, the sound would have been naturally muffled and unlikely to carry down the ravine.

  “Is there anything else, Vicky?”

  “One more thing. The file name says ‘suicide note.’ Let’s see.”

  The image of Nora Stanton was replaced by one of a piece of paper. The words were written with pen in a loopy, scrawled hand.

  I’m sorry

  I left the door open

  “Let’s see Jean Fielding,” Karen said. “That was Baxter Fielding’s sister. A few months later.”

  Vicky clicked keys. “Hmmm. The official cause of death was suicide by rifle.”

  For the next ten minutes they looked at photos of the grisly end of Jean Fielding. She was 26 years old but looked at least ten years older, with an outdated bouffant hairdo. Bernie Looman had said she was an elementary school teacher.

  In the photos she was lying on her back on the bed, her arms spread outward and her head turned slightly to the left. Though it was difficult to make out the colors, she was wearing a yellow blouse and a purple skirt that appeared to stop just below the knee, though it was hiked up in the photo, revealing most of her thighs. Her torso was little more than a bloody crater. In the photographs a pink headboard was outlined against the wood paneling behind the bed. A spiderweb pattern of blood on her legs was apparent. Streams ran vertically down the front of her thighs, then made right angles and pooled on the patterned bedspread around her.

  Vicky had been silent while studying the photos. She opened up another computer file that contained the medical examiner’s report from 1970. She read aloud from the report and found the relevant sentence. “Victim found on bed, suggesting seated position at time of death.”

  Vicky shook her head. She turned to Karen. “Jean Fielding didn’t kill herself.”

  She pointed to the last photo, the side view. “See the blood on her legs? If it was dripping down the sides of her thighs, that would be entirely consistent with someone who shot themselves while sitting up in bed. But it’s not. See how the blood runs down her thighs, toward the knee? And then takes a sharp turn and streams down onto the bed? That wouldn’t happen if she was sitting down when she shot herself.”

  “So what happened?”

  “There’s only one thing that could have happened,” Vicky said. “She was standing up when she got shot. The impact knocked her back onto the bed.”

  Karen felt her insides jolt.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Anybody would be sure. And it’s stunning to me that they missed this when it happened.”

  “You think they missed it?”

  “Anything’s possible. What’s the alternative?”

  Karen didn’t quite want to verbalize it, feeling as though she were crossing some line that turned this into a case she would have to care about. But she couldn’t escape the feeling that something was wrong. Hidden.

  “Maybe someone in the police department or M.E.’s office didn’t want the world to know she was killed,” she said.

  Vicky looked intrigued. “Nowadays there’s no chance someone gets away with something like that. But back then…who knows? It was nearly forty years ago. You said this was a rich and powerful family. Maybe rich enough and powerful enough to have some friends in important places.”

  Karen got up. “Thank you, Vicky. You’re brilliant.”

  “How would you like to have lunch next week?”

  She was glad Vicky had broken the ice and taken the initiative. “I’d really like that.”

  She put out her hand and Vicky shook it. Soft and warm and firm. They held the handshake for just a beat longer than was necessary, which suited Karen just fine.

  Karen opened the door to leave.

  “Oh, and Karen?”

  She turned and looked back at Vicky.

  “Yeah?”

  “I read that story in the paper yesterday. Cannon’s a slimeball.”

  Karen felt a tug at her heart. She only now realized that, other than the half-hearted, collegial shows of support from Cuddy and the other inspectors, no one had lifted a finger to make Karen feel as though she wasn’t completely alone in the world. The realization brought tears to her eyes.

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it. Can I ask you one favor? Tell me if this is violating some professional boundary.”

  “Depends what it is, but I’m predisposed to giving you anything you want.”

  “If Cannon comes nosing around here asking about Jean Fielding, do you think you could not bend over backwards to help him?”

  “I’ll go one better,” Vicky said, flashing that beautiful smile one last time. “It’s amazing how easily these files get lost.”

  Vicky beamed. Maybe Cannon would still come after her and threaten her career. And maybe she’d get nowhere on this Fielding case.

  But at least she finally had someone on her side.

  INFORMANT #33. THE COMPUTER EXPERT.

  The phone rang in the Chestnut Street studio apartment of Henry Solomon. He answered it in a tremulous voice.

  “Hello?”

  The voice at the other end said one word.

  “Speak.”

  Solomon had prepared himself to hear the voice ever since placing the classified ad in the newspaper yesterday, but it didn’t make it any easier. He knew he had to follow the directions they had given him exactly, and he knew that failing in his task might mean the monthly checks would stop coming.

  The money that arrived each month represented several months’ salary for Henry. His job as assistant director of technical services for the City and County of San Francisco’s Computer and Information Technology Department paid well, but the monthly windfall allowed him to indulge a gambling habit that saw him spend up to $10,000 a month in online poker losses and to wire thousands of dollars a month to the nursing home housing his elderly parents in Arizona.

  Henry felt these two expenditures were necessary to keep from falling into a sort of despair at the loneliness and essential emptiness of his life, and he would never do anything to jeopardize the monthly check.

  The man on the other end of the line had contacted him seven years ago. Henry had not written down the instructions he had been given — the man had instructed him, in no uncertain terms, not to do so.

  Henry somehow felt they would find out if he did write it down, even though that seemed impossible.

  The whole arrangement had made him paranoid.

  Better to follow directions, he told himself.

  So every few days he would remind himself of what events should trigger the classified ad. Any search requests for crime scene photos from 1969 and 1970.

  Henry closed his eyes. Please don’t let me mess this up.

  “There was some activity on the mainframe. Medical Examiner’s office. There was a search request for crime scene photos from 1969 and 1970. The request was for files connected with the murders of Baxter and Elaine Fielding in 1969 and the suicide of Jean Fielding in 1970. The files were viewed using the computer and login of Medical Examiner technician Vicky Talib.”

  There was a pause. Then Henry was surprised to hear the man speak again.

  “Who made the request?”

  The question was uttered in a low, gravelly voice, and it sounded as though the man was not happy about having to ask an additional question.

  Henry began to sweat. For a moment he didn’t understand what the man was asking, and that scared him because it might mean he hadn’t carried out his instructions correctly. He forced himself to think, repeating the question in his head and feeling the seconds tick by like hours. Then it finally came to him: Files were generally viewed only when a homicide inspector requested to see them.

  A wave of relief flooded Henry’s chest. He understood the question now, and it was not his fault that he didn’t have the answer. The requests to view medical examiner files were made in writing and noted on a request log. The only way he could find out who made the request was to physically view the log during business hours.

  And it was now Saturday morning, and the medical examiner’s administrative offices were closed.

  So he couldn’t possibly answer the question the man had asked, through no fault of his own.

  The relief gave way to panic as Henry sensed the man would not be forgiving about such bureaucratic details.

  He forced himself to answer casually, and to make sure his voice conveyed the competent transmittal of information rather than justification for a screw-up. Surely they would understand it was not his fault.

  “I won’t know until Monday,” Henry said. “I only just received notice of the request last night, and the request logs can only be viewed when the office opens again. Which means Monday at 8:30 a.m. At that time I’ll know which law enforcement officer made the request.”

  The man paused on the line for a moment, then hung up. Henry prepared himself for a call he was sure would come Monday, and he knew he had to have the correct information ready when it did.

  Henry found himself wondering what might happen to the medical examiner technician whose identity he had revealed, and what would happen to the cop whose name he’d pass along on Monday. But Henry pushed those thoughts out of his mind, because he didn’t want to feel responsible for anything bad happening to them.

  Henry sometimes wondered whether the lingering unease brought on by the arrangement was worth the money.

  But of course, it was.

  Chapter 13

  Cortland Banks looked digitally created to play the U.S. president in a movie. Tall, handsome, with a full head of brown hair brushed back from his forehead and just going gray at his temples. He was fit and strong from the daily bouts with the Stairmaster he joylessly trudged through. His voice, deep and rich, carried wisdom and authority.

  He had always looked the part. Everything had come easily for him. And now he was within weeks of achieving his goal: The presidency of the United States.

  But it wasn’t his goal. It was The Eagle’s goal. His father, former U.S. Senator Emerson “The Eagle” Banks, had groomed his son carefully. His own political ambitions had been thwarted in two failed presidential bids. He had channeled all that desire into his offspring, the perfect empty vessel to carry the legendary family name forward.

  Cortland had played his part well. He had been given a wife and he had dutifully sired children. The ideal public image had been created. The American people longed to have Cortland Banks as their president.

  But Cortland Banks wanted out.

  He fantasized about calling a press conference and uttering the words that would make the assembled media gasp. He imagined the headlines:

 

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