Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree

Chapter 89

IT WAS ABOUT TWO HOURS on Highway 80 any way you cut it to Sacramento, and we kept the Explorer at a steady seventy-five over the Bay Bridge. An hour and fifty minutes later we pulled up in front of a slightly run-down fifties-style ranch. We needed a win here, needed it badly.

The house was large but neglected, a slope of faded lawn and a fenced-in lot in back. Danko's father was a doctor, I recalled. Thirty years ago, this might've been one of the nicest houses on the block.

I took off my sunglasses and knocked on the front door. It took a while for someone to answer, and I was feeling impatient, to say the least.

Finally an old man opened and peered out at us. I could see his nose and sharp, pointed chin - a resemblance to the picture of Billy Danko in the Chronicle magazine.

“You the idiots who called on the phone?” He stood there, regarding us warily. “Of course you are.”

“I'm Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer,” I said. “And this is Homi-cide Inspector Warren Jacobi. Do you mind if we come in?”

“I mind,” he said, but he swung the screen door open any-way. “I've got nothing to say to the police if it concerns my son, other than accepting their full apology for his murder.”

He led us back through musty, paint-chipped halls into a small den. It didn't seem that anyone else was living with him.

“We were hoping to ask you just a few questions regard-ing your son,” Jacobi said.

“Ask.” Danko sank himself into a patchwork couch. “Bet-ter time to ask questions was thirty years ago. William was a good boy, a great boy. We raised him to think for himself, and he did, made choices of conscience - the right ones, it was proven out later. Losing that boy cost me everything I had. My wife...” He nodded toward a black-and-white portrait of a middle-aged woman. “Everything.”

“We're sorry for what happened.” I sat on the edge of a badly stained armchair. “No one's here to cause you more distress. I'm sure you're familiar with what's been going on in San Francisco recently. A lot of people have died there.”

Danko shook his head. “Thirty years later, and you still won't let him rest in peace.”

I glanced at Jacobi. This was going to be a tough go. I started in talking about Jill, how we had found the connec-tion between her father and the raid on the Hope Street house. Then how one of the other victims, Lightower, also had a connection to Berkeley and the student revolts.

“Don't mean to tell you your job, Inspectors” - Carl Danko smiled - “but that sounds like a lot of crazy suppo-sitions to me.”

“Your son had a code name,” I said, “August Spies. August Spies is the name that's being used by the people who are doing these killings.”

Carl Danko snorted derisively and reached for a pipe. He seemed to find all of this humorous.

“Do you know anyone who might be involved?” I pressed. “One of Billy's friends? Maybe someone's been in touch with you lately?”

“Whoever is doing it, God bless him.” Carl Danko cleaned out his pipe. “Truth is, you've wasted your time coming out here. I can't help you a lick. And if I could...I hope somehow you can understand why I might not be so dis-posed to help the San Francisco Police. Now please leave my house.”

Jacobi and I stood up. I took a step toward the door, pray-ing for some kind of epiphany before I got there. I stopped at the picture of his wife. Then I noticed a photo next to hers.

It was a family shot.

Something caused me to focus on the faces.

There was another son in the photo.

Younger. Maybe sixteen. A spitting image of his mother.

The four of them smiling, not a care on what seemed a pleas-

ant, sunny day in the distant past. “You have another son.” I turned back to Danko. “Charles...” He shrugged. I picked up the photo. "Maybe we should talk to him. He

might know something.“ ”Doubt it.“ Danko stared at me. ”He's dead, too."