12th of Never

Chapter 55

AFTER THE PHONE had rung three times in five minutes, I gave in and dug it out from under the pile of clothes on the chair. I looked at the caller ID.

“For God’s sake. Whose life is this, anyway?”

Joe said, “Who is it?”

“The bad news bear.”

I said, “Boxer,” into the mouthpiece and he said, “You’re not going to believe this.”

Julie set up a wail from her crib. Her voice was pitched at extra loud. I could hardly hear Brady’s voice.

“I’m a little busy right now, boss,” I said.

“Remember Randolph Fish?”

“Did he die?”

“No, he woke up.”

Randolph Fish was a brutal, clever, truly diabolical killer who had been linked to nine dead or missing college girls over a three-year span, all on the West Coast.

The remains of five of the young women had been found in wooded areas and remote industrial locations. The victims had been tortured and mutilated, each dying by different means. Bludgeoning. Strangulation. Stabbing.

The other three girls had never been found or heard from again, but they matched the killer’s type—petite, dark-haired, and very trusting. Because of the different locations and manners of death, it had taken years to connect the dead and missing girls to one killer.

And then the killer made a mistake.

A fingerprint found on a car belonging to one of the dead girls matched that of Randolph Fish, an itinerant bartender who had been arrested in San Francisco a month before for assault and then released.

After victim number nine, Sandra Brody, was abducted from the campus of the University of San Francisco three years ago and taken to whereabouts unknown, Jacobi and I were asked to work with the FBI. Jacobi and I joined the stakeout in the Mission.

It was about nine at night, windy and cold. We were watching two bars and a movie theater on 16th when Fish came out of the theater.

He saw an FBI vehicle and, like a praying mantis nabbing a bug, Fish snatched a woman at random who was also leaving the theater. He held a knife under her throat and shouted to the agents in the black SUV, “I’ll kill her. Believe me, I will.”

I was on the theater side of the street, crouched between two cars, and I had a clear shot at the back of Randolph Fish’s head. I couldn’t see the hostage’s face, only the line of her throat and the blade pressing against it.

I stood up, held my gun with both hands, and shouted, “Fish! Let her go or I’ll blow your brains to the moon.”

I hoped like hell that he would obey because I didn’t know if my aim was good enough to take him out before he killed his hostage. Luckily, I didn’t have to find out.

The human shield broke free. Fish bolted into the street toward oncoming traffic. I ran, too, yelling, “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

He must’ve heard the conviction in my voice.

He stopped running, and when I told him to drop to the ground and interlace his hands behind his neck, he did it. He laughed at me when I kicked the knife into the gutter. When Jacobi cuffed him, Fish told Jacobi he was so fat he was headed for a heart attack.

Frankly, I couldn’t believe what Fish looked like in person. I had to shake my head and reorder my thoughts. But never mind his appearance—he was down. The FBI took him into custody and we were all jubilant.

It was frigid and I was shaking from the cold. It was one of the best moments of my life.