11th hour

Chapter 80

Constance Kerr sat at the table in the interrogation room. She was tense, had her arms wrapped across her chest; she seemed like a trapped cat waiting for the door to crack open so that she could dart the hell out.

We knew very little about Kerr. She’d left the world stage long ago and could be anybody now: a certifiable dingbat, a witness, a killer, or all of the above.

I didn’t believe that she knew nothing about the crimes committed at the Ellsworth compound, and we were going to try to hold her until she told us something we could believe.

Conklin had a rapport with Kerr, so I just sat back and watched, thinking what a good guy he was and also that he was a really good cop.

He said, “Connie, look at me. I know you want to help us find out who did this heinous stuff at the Ellsworth compound.”

“If only I could. Honestly. The first time I knew anything was wrong was when the police showed up. But, Inspector Conklin, I read on the Internet about the index cards and I was struck by the number. Six hundred thirteen!”

“Did you write that number, Connie? If you did and can tell me what it means, that would be tremendous.”

“No, no, but six hundred and thirteen is verging on a Guinness world record for a serial killer. Elizabeth Bathory, the bloody lady of Cachtice, had over six hundred girls killed in her castle in Hungary. The exact number is uncertain. Well, it happened in the early sixteen hundreds…”

“Interesting. But I’m thinking four-hundred-year-old murders aren’t that relevant to our current investigation.”

He gave her a nice smile and she responded earnestly.

“No, really. This could be the clue you’ve been waiting for. Please check it out.”

I couldn’t get a handle on Kerr’s mental state. Was she crazy? Or crazy like a fox? I needed to know.

I told Conklin that I’d be back in a minute, and when I was outside the room, I called psychologist Dr. Frank Cisco. Cisco answered his phone, said he was in the building and that he’d come upstairs. A few minutes later, we met in the stairwell.

Frank Cisco was a consultant to the SFPD, on call when a cop was in trouble, and he advised the DA’s office as well. He was a big man with a lot of thick white hair. Today he was wearing a busy plaid sports jacket, gray slacks, and pink orthopedic shoes.

Frank was a sweet man, gave you the feeling you could say anything to him in confidence. He hugged me and said, “What’s new, Lindsay?”

“A ton,” I said, hugging him back.

A few days ago, I had called Cisco and asked him to review our short list of cops who were considered possible suspects in the vigilante-cop case. I didn’t ask him to leak confidential information, just to look at the personnel files and let us know which cops, in his opinion, were likely to go on a shooting spree.

He’d said it would be unethical for him to finger suspects based on a hunch. Fine. I got it.

Now I said, “Frank, this isn’t about the shooter cop. I need your help on a different case altogether.”

He looked relieved, and as we walked back to the interrogation rooms, I told him what little I knew about Constance Kerr.