Face of a Killer

6

Sydney went through the steps of signing out of the prison, thanking everyone, returning her visitor’s pass, then finding herself in the parking lot, standing next to her car, grateful to be outside. She stared out over the bay, the wind rushing in her ears, not sure if it was the first few raindrops that hit her face or the sea spray. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so alone as she did in that one moment, and she had nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

It wasn’t like she could take this to her mother, not yet. In fact, everyone Sydney knew, her mother, her stepfather Jake, even Scotty, they all believed that Wheeler was guilty without a doubt. Who was going to believe a few trivial, though in her mind critical, details that came from a convicted killer and could only be verified from the traumatized memory of a girl just thirteen at the time?

Her thoughts consumed her for most of the drive. When she approached the Golden Gate Bridge her cell phone rang, and she was relieved when she saw it wasn’t her mother’s number on the screen.

“Fitz?” It was Lettie, Dixon’s secretary. “You are coming in tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“I have to. Subpoenaed for court in the morning. Why?” “That officer from Hill City called again. She’s sounding pretty desperate and wanted to know what your schedule was.”

Sydney tried to remember what the officer wanted, but her mind refused to cooperate. “Do me a favor, pick a time, have her come in, whatever.”

“… pick a time… You okay?”

“Yeah. Just a lot to deal with right now.”

She disconnected, tossed the phone on the car seat, then tried to figure out what to do next. By the time she crossed the bridge, the rain was coming down in a steady patter, and she drove around aimlessly, finally ending up at the parking lot at the top of Bernal Hill. The five-hundred-foot undeveloped peak, a rarity in the midst of the city, was mostly used as a dog park, and sometimes on the rare occasion that she varied her running schedule, she borrowed her neighbor’s dog just to have a place to walk, enjoy the peace away from the city’s dense population. It was one of the area’s bestkept secrets, offering unsurpassed panoramic views of the city and the Bay Bridge. During the winter the rains turned the slopes of brown annual grass into a vast sea of green, reminding her of something she might see in Ireland. When it wasn’t raining, it was one of the few sunny spots to be found, and after work, she sometimes drove up here just to watch the fog roll in, an amazing sight that often helped calm her thoughts after a particularly stressful day.

But there was no fog rolling in now, and her thoughts were not calming as the wind blasted the rain against the car, and thunder rumbled in the distance. She could just make out the complex of the hospital below, where the sight of Tara Brown’s sketch had shaken her, or rather the scar Sydney had drawn, the scar that reminded her of Johnnie Wheeler.

And yet, if he could be believed, he wasn’t the man who killed her father.

Then who?

Her thoughts drifted to the envelope left on her coffee table. What was it that Scotty had said about McKnight? That the man kept apologizing for something he did to her father? McKnight was in Texas when her father was killed.

At least that was what she’d always thought…

Lights from the city below dotted the landscape as darkness seeped in. For a few moments she took in the view, and a thought hovered just out of her grasp, something she thought she should remember about her father and McKnight. Something important. But a gust of wind shook the car, and when she saw a flash of lightning off to her left, quickly followed by a clap of thunder, she decided that parking on a bare hilltop below a microwave tower in this weather wasn’t the best of ideas. And maybe once she got home, whatever that thought about McKnight had been would come back to her.

She trudged up the rain-slicked steps, still unable to think what she was missing. Her front door was adjacent to her neighbor’s front door, both accessed via stairs on the side of the house that overlooked the driveway. Their landlord lived below them in the renovated house. With the exception of the teenage boys next door who thought this particular street of mostly single-family homes was their personal drag strip, she liked her neighbors. They were an eclectic group, diverse, much like the city itself. Sydney’s immediate neighbor went by the name Arturo, as opposed to the more formal Arthur on his birth certificate, because he thought using Arturo would bring him more commercial advertising jobs. He was single, in his twenties, made quite a bit of money, and rode a motorcycle, which was why Sydney had ended up with the garage. Arturo lived alone with a large white poodle, Topper, not, thankfully, a prissy poodle, but the sort without his fur trimmed, which made him look more like a giant sheep.

Sydney loved that dog. She liked Arturo, too. He had a key to her place and watered her plants when she was out of town on cases. The neighbors below them, Darlene and Rainie, a lesbian couple in their late fifties, owned the house, and told Sydney they thought Arturo was gay, but had yet to come out of the closet. Of course they based this observation on the fact that their across-the-street neighbor had a daughter, single white female, early twenties, and Arturo barely gave her a second glance. The only thing Sydney knew for sure about Arturo was that he was a closet chef, and there were many nights when she came home to find that whatever recipe he had experimented with, she was the willing recipient of his largesse. Of course, there were often strings attached. Dog sitting for one. Sydney didn’t mind. The pay was good. Now if she could just convince him to let her take his ultra sleek, ultra fast charcoal-black Ducati motorcycle out for a spin. Unfortunately that was his baby, and no one touched that bike. But a girl could dream…

Tonight as she stood on her porch stomping her feet dry, then fitting her key into the lock, it was to the scent of simmering garlic and other savory herbs. She hadn’t even realized she was hungry until that moment, and just when she was wondering what sort of store-bought entrees she had stashed in the freezer, and could heat up before she left for the rally tonight, Arturo’s door opened and out bounded Topper. The dog shoved his nose into her hand, forcing her to pay attention to him. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, scratching him behind his ears. “I was up at your favorite place just a little while ago.”

Arturo watched for a moment, then said, “Can you babysit Topper for a couple nights? I have to fly to L.A.” “Shouldn’t be a problem.” She opened her door and Topper stepped in, circled up on a braided rug in front of the couch as though he already knew the drill.

“Pawn him off on Rainie downstairs if you end up on some callout. Any chance you’re up for garlic-encrusted rack of lamb?”

“Hmm, let me think about that.”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” he said. “And bring the dog.” He shut the door, leaving Sydney and Topper to themselves. She tossed her keys onto the table by the door, glanced at the envelope containing her father’s photo and the letter, and told herself she’d look at it tonight when she got back from the rally. Right now she wanted nothing more than to relax, put everything that happened today, yesterday, all of it out of her mind. She sank into the couch, laying her hand on Topper’s head. “Long day at the office,” she said.

Topper said nothing.

She loved that dog.

Senator Gnoble glanced around the festivities held at the area skating rink, watched the dozen or so kids trying to do the limbo, of all things. “For God’s sake, were there no amusement parks open? A zoo?”

“In the fall? Too cold. Turnout would be low,” Prescott said, double checking his clipboard, making sure he hadn’t forgotten to call anyone. “And remember, it’s all about photo ops. This way we get a guaranteed crowd with kids in the picture. And it’s in the middle of your home territory and close to your targeted families.”

“We could’ve done better than this, surely.”

“Right now your biggest supporters are the local police unions. Much easier to get them and their kids here in a show of support. And it was the only thing we could find at the eleventh hour, never mind that it is several hundred thousand dollars less to rent this and open it up to the public than Great America.”

“Don’t expect me to put on skates.”

“Not even for the hokey pokey? Might make the front page.”

“Speaking of the press, who showed?”

“Still waiting on the Chronicle. And that one we definitely want. After the way they painted you in that death-penalty case article involving Wheeler and your friend Kevin Fitzpatrick, we need a kinder, gentler image. You’ve already got the conservative vote. Now I’d like to get the bleeding liberals in the city to buy in.” He nodded toward the lobby. “Speaking of targeted families…”

He saw Gnoble glance at the area that appeared to be used for birthday parties and the like, where Sydney’s mother, Mary Fitzpatrick-Hughes, sat helping to tie the skates of Sydney’s half sister, Angela Hughes. No sign of Sydney, yet. Come to think of it, no sign of Gnoble’s wife…

Gnoble started toward them. Prescott followed, getting in one last instruction. “Think camera angles.”

He was pleased when Gnoble fixed a broad smile on his face, calling out, “Mary? Tell me that’s not the baby, Angela? I didn’t even recognize her.”

“Mom, can you tell him I’m not a baby?”

“Honey…”

Angela gave an exaggerated sigh, leaned toward her mother, and in a rather loud whisper, said, “Do I call him Uncle Don or Senator Gnoble when we’re in public?”

“Angela, please,” Mary Fitzpatrick-Hughes said, with an apologetic look toward Gnoble as she smoothed the child’s blond curls back from her face. Prescott made a mental note to ensure this child was rounded up for photos. Perfect face. Angelic.

The child stood, held out her hand. “Thank you very much for inviting me.”

Gnoble shook hands, smiled. “Have a good time.” She skated off, and he turned to Mary with a look of concern. Prescott tried to maintain a discreet distance, while still being able to hear what Gnoble was saying. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine, Donovan. It’s good to see you.”

“You too. And Sydney? Is she coming?”

“She might be delayed. But she said she would.”

“And Jake? How is he?”

“Fine. He had to run a couple errands, but he’ll be by as soon as he can get here.”

“Good, good. I look forward to seeing him again.”

The damned press had finally gotten their act together, a few of them heading their way with cameras at the ready, and Prescott gave a discreet cough, alerting him to their arrival. Gnoble clasped Mary on her shoulder, stepping just close enough to imply concern, and Prescott kept his expression somber as he listened in. “Tell me how you’re really doing? Today of all days. Twenty years…”

She took a deep breath, tried to smile, and when the flashes went off, Prescott could’ve sworn her eyes were glistening with tears. It was a perfect shot, and truth be told, he was impressed at Gnoble for instigating it. “I try not to think about it. Some days it’s easier than others. Today’s not one of them.” “I’m sorry,” Gnoble said, before letting go. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through these past two decades.” A moment of silence, and then he glanced toward the skating floor. “Cute kid. I can’t believe how big she’s gotten.”

“Eleven in a few days. We’re going to have cake. You should stop by,” she said.

Prescott happened to look toward the lobby just then, saw the arrival of a tall, thin young woman. At last. Sydney Fitzpatrick. She did not, however, look happy to be there. When he chanced to catch Mary’s expression on seeing her older daughter, he realized something was up. Even Gnoble saw it, because he asked, “Mary, what’s wrong?”

She looked away, and the tears Prescott thought he imagined were definitely there, ready to spill. “It’s Sydney. She went to San Quentin.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She went to see him. Wheeler. You know she’s been talking about doing it for years.”

“I thought when I’d called her that she’d changed her mind.”

“She didn’t.”

“Oh my God. Mary. I’m sorry.”

She tried to smile. “It’s fine. I just don’t understand why.”

“Maybe I should talk to her again.”

She nodded, then turned away.

“Prescott, take Mary to have some of that wonderful punch.”

“Right this way, Mrs. Fitzpatrick-Hughes.”

Gnoble left them, walked toward the lobby, and it was everything Prescott could do to settle Mary in with a paper cup filled with punch, seat her at the tables, then hurry toward the lobby to make sure he was kept apprised of their conversation. Lucky for him the senator was waylaid by several well-wishers, and by the time Prescott arrived, Gnoble was merely greeting her. “Sydney? How’s the FBI treating you?”

She held Gnoble’s gaze. “I don’t appreciate you using my father’s murder for your campaign, Senator.”

“Senator? What happened to Uncle Don?”

“The Uncle Don I used to know would never have used tragedy for personal gain.”

Goddamned Chronicle, Prescott thought, as Gnoble said, “That wasn’t me, you have to believe it. They’re out to sell newspapers, and took everything I said out of context.” She said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. This was not something Gnoble was going to be able to fix so easily. “I heard you went out to the prison today. Your mother’s extremely upset,” he said, just as his wife, Marla, walked up to take her place at his side. Tall, thin, her blond hair swept up in a chignon, she gave Sydney a warm but neutral smile, no doubt picking up on the tension.

“I did go,” Sydney said.

“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to go? What happened?”

She held Gnoble’s gaze, her mouth pressed together as though trying to decide if she should even answer. And finally, “No, you agreed I shouldn’t go. And it wasn’t your decision to make. So I went. And he says he’s innocent.”

“They all say they’re innocent. It’s called self-preservation.”

She looked away. “I think I believe him.”

“Believe him? Why?”

“He knew things. Things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone unless they knew my father particularly well.”

“What things?”

She glanced to the skating floor when her sister called out her name, then waved as the young girl glided past. “I’m really not comfortable discussing this here.”

“That makes two of us,” he said, then paused to smile for a photographer. “Sydney. I read that investigation. I spoke with the investigators back when it all happened. He’s guilty. That’s precisely one of the reasons I’ve decided to run again. Keeping a man like Wheeler alive for twenty years does nothing but torture him as well as the families of the victims. I’m going to do something about this.”

“Something I’m sure your constituents will appreciate.”

“Something I was hoping you’d appreciate.”

“It’s not going to bring my father back. And what if that man is innocent?” she asked, crossing her arms, clearly disturbed by whatever it was she’d found.

Marla Gnoble reached out, placed her well-manicured hand on Sydney’s arm. “Then you need to come forth with whatever it is, dear,” she said, her voice soothing and low. “They’re going to execute him in ten days, and if you have something that will exonerate him, my husband needs to know. This affects too many people. You, your mother

…”

“I’d rather she didn’t know all the details just yet-”

“-and,” Gnoble interjected, “not to sound crass, but it affects my campaign.”

“For God’s sake, Donovan,” his wife said. “Pretend you’re not a politician for once. Can’t you see what this is doing to her head? My God, Sydney. Have you talked to anyone about it? Anyone besides my idiot husband, that is?”

“No.” And then, as if coming to some sort of internal decision, Sydney looked Gnoble in the eye, her expression cold, hard. “Do me a favor. Leave my family and especially my father out of your campaigning.”

“Sydney.” He grasped her arm, and she stopped, looked at him. “You have to believe me. That article was not my idea. I’ve known you since you were born. You know I’m not like that.”

“I don’t know what to believe right now.”

“Then believe me when I say I’ll help you in any way I can. If you think he’s innocent, I will stand by you. But I have to know what proof you have, and it’s got to be something more than his word. There are police reports and physical evidence showing otherwise. I’ve just come out publicly staking my reputation on his guilt, for God’s sake,” he said, trying to keep his voice low.

“This isn’t politics. It’s my father’s life.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I can call someone, the best investigator, have him look into it. Come talk to me. At my office, away from the cameras.”

“I’ll think about it.” She walked off.

Prescott thought Gnoble looked as though he’d go after her, but then his shoulders sagged, and he turned away, stared out to the kids skating round and round. His wife gave him an exasperated look. “For such a smart man, sometimes you’re an absolute idiot,” she said.

Prescott cleared his throat. “Sir?”

Gnoble ignored him, but his wife said, “Prescott, a few moments, please…”

“Of course. I have a couple calls to make anyway.” Prescott took out his cell phone, stepped away where he wouldn’t be overheard, hit the speed dial. “It’s Prescott,” he said, when the man on the other end answered. “What have you heard on the Wheeler case?”

“The Innocence Project is turning him down, and the governor’s a Republican, so I’d say he’s toast.”

“They’re turning him down?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“It’s confirmed. Sydney Fitzpatrick went out to the prison. She’s pretty upset, and I don’t-”

Prescott glanced up, realized he was being watched. By Sydney Fitzpatrick’s young half sister.

He laughed into the phone as though whatever they were talking about was some big joke. “Hold on,” he said to his caller, keeping his tone jovial. He wondered how much the kid had overheard, and looked right at her, gave his best disarming smile. “Shouldn’t you be skating, young lady?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be out there making sure the senator’s shaking hands?”

He decided she was too young to figure things out. “You’re absolutely right. And I’m going to start now.”

“Is my sister upset with your boss?”

“No. Of course not. It’s just this thing with her father. The time of year. She’s worried.”

The girl glanced back at her sister, before pinning her shrewd and annoying gaze on him. “I think she’s upset about that article in the paper, so if you don’t mind, I don’t think I want to take any pictures with you guys.”

“Your mother really wants you all to pose for a get-together photo. It’ll make her happy. And think what it’ll do for your future, to be seen with a senator.”

“You do realize that by the time I’m old enough to vote, Senator Gnoble so won’t even be a blip on my radar screen?”

“Prescott?” his caller said.

“One second.” He looked at the girl again, tried to think of what he should tell her, but in the end, figured it was best just to let it be. “Smile for the camera, eh?” The kid rolled her eyes, skated off, and he returned his attention to the phone, making sure his expression read friendly and fun, as he lifted his hand to cover his mouth on the off chance someone there could read lips. “I need the senator reelected. If he’s not, then not only do I lose my job, you lose yours and something much, much bigger than that measly salary he pays us. We don’t have much time to make this go away. The sooner, the better.”

“Here’s the thing. I can’t do something unless you tell me what it is you want done.”

Prescott hated depending on other people. His glance strayed across the rink to where Sydney Fitzpatrick stood off to the side, avoiding her mother, avoiding pretty much everyone. “I’ll get back to you on that. Shortly.”