In Desperation

44

San Francisco, California

I n the hours before Donald Montradori died of cancer, he gave Ottawa detectives details of an unsolved murder that happened near San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park more than twenty years ago.

His deathbed revelations set a series of events in motion.

The Ottawa investigators had recorded his sworn statement, obtained his signature and, adhering to procedure, alerted the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The RCMP administered the Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System, known as ViCLAS, Canada’s enhanced version of the FBI’s ViCAP system.

The Mounties operated the program in the force’s Technical and Protective Operational Facilities base. The facility sat some sixty miles north of New York State’s border with Canada on Ottawa’s east side, amid sprawling suburbs, a few fruit orchards and disappearing dairy land. A bison head, the seal of the RCMP, rose specter-like out of the building’s soft gray stone over the entrance. Inside, RCMP Sergeant Andre Caron, a ViCLAS expert, assessed the new information, then immediately contacted Stan Delong, the FBI’s ViCAP coordinator in Quantico, Virginia, who handled RCMP submissions.

Delong listened intently as Caron told him about the break in the old case.

“Shoot everything to me ASAP, Andre. I’ll get that into our program right away and contact our people so it gets to the lead at SFPD. We see all kinds of stuff, but this is a hell of a thing. Thanks, Andre,” Delong said.

Delong called the San Francisco FBI’s ViCAP coordinator, who called Arlene Stapleton, his counterpart at the San Francisco Police Department, who immediately put out a call to SFPD Homicide Inspector Paul Pruitt.

Delong reached Pruitt on his cell phone in Chinatown. He was off duty and shopping with his wife and their daughter.

“Inspector Pruitt, this is Arlene Stapleton, SFPD ViCAP coordinator. Sorry to intrude on your time but we’ve received significant new information on a cold case and you are identified as the lead.”

“Which case?” Pruitt raised his voice over the street noise.

“Eduardo Zartosa.”

“What’s the information?”

“It looks like your shooter’s been identified.”

“I’m coming in. I’ll call my partner. Thank you, Arlene.” Pruitt hung up and turned to his wife, who already knew that she was losing her husband for the rest of the day. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to go.”

“It’ll be quicker for you to take a cab. We’ll take the car home.” She kissed his cheek. “Call me. Let me know how it goes.”

In the cab, Pruitt alerted his partner, Russ Moseley, and their lieutenant.

Headquarters for the San Francisco Police Department was located at the Hall of Justice, a grim Stalinesque building rising from Bryant Street amid the low-rent units, office towers and high-tech firms in San Francisco’s Soma district.

Pruitt hustled up the steps of the Hall’s grand entrance to the polished stone lobby, flashed his badge at the security check and took the elevator to the fourth floor and Room 450-Homicide Detail.

Pruitt went to the file cabinets, pulled out everything on the old murder, settled into his desk and set to work reviewing the case. In a short time, Moseley and Jim Cavinder, their lieutenant, arrived and joined Pruitt in reacquainting themselves with the ancient case.

Eduardo Zartosa, a twenty-one-year-old Mexican national, was visiting the city on vacation with friends when he was shot to death. His body was found in an alley adjacent to a parking lot in The Haight on Waller. A Smith amp; Wesson. 38 Special, stolen from a pawnshop a year earlier, was found in a trash bin on Belvedere. The autopsy and ballistics determined it was the murder weapon. A set of unidentified latents had been collected from the weapon and submitted to ViCAP, along with other details.

Zartosa’s friends said he’d left a party at an apartment to buy something to eat. There were no incidents at the party. No witnesses to the crime. Relatives arranged for the body to be flown to Mexico. Early on, Zartosa’s uncle would call for updates on the case, then the calls ceased. Contact information for the uncle and friends was no longer valid.

“When’s the last time anybody’s looked at this case?” Cavinder asked.

Pruitt struggled to remember.

“About two years back, an old-time gangbanger facing a charge tried to barter a lead on it, but it fizzled,” Moseley said.

The case was twenty years old. Over that time, it had been passed around to a lot of detectives.

The three of them gathered in Cavinder’s office and reviewed the material sent by the Canadians. They watched Montradori’s account of what happened the night Zartosa was murdered, with Pruitt taking notes, until it ended.

“All right, I want to move on this. I’ll call the D.A. You guys better look into a flight out to Phoenix tomorrow. Hold up,” Cavinder said as his phone rang. He took the call, listening for a full minute. All he managed at the end was, “Uh-huh. What? Right. Thanks.” Cavinder put the phone down and started working at his keyboard.

“I don’t believe this.”

“What’s up?” Pruitt said.

“That was the Captain. We’ve just got a call from the FBI crime lab. They’ve identified prints on the gun used for Zartosa.”

“What the hell?” Moseley said.

“And the Captain says SFPD also got a call from the El Paso Intelligence Center with new intel tied to our case. I’m flipping the material to you now.”

“What’s with that?” Moseley said.

“This case is erupting,” Pruitt said.

“Did we ever establish where Zartosa’s family tree reaches?” Pruitt and Moseley exchanged glances.

“It’s so old, I don’t think anyone’s checked, not in recent years. Why?”

“It goes deeper into that Phoenix kidnapping and it’s not good. Look-” Cavinder glanced at his watch “-you guys need to get to Phoenix ASAP. Get home and pack. I’ll get Shirley to check flights. I’ll call ahead, tell the FBI you’re coming. We need to work with them on this and we don’t have time to lose.”