Face of a Killer

9

Shortly after ten the next morning, fueled by more cups of coffee than Sydney cared to count, she was present in court, glad for the distraction of testifying, because for a few short minutes she might be able to forget that she’d ever spoken to Scotty about her father, or visited San Quentin yesterday.

What little enthusiasm she had for the court case waned along with her caffeine level, and soon she was wishing she’d had time to run an extra mile this morning to eliminate the fog in her brain. Since this was a bank robbery, the case was being tried in the federal court by an assistant U.S. attorney. Although AUSAs were simply the federal version of the deputy district attorneys she’d worked with as a cop, things tended to be handled more formally in the federal courts, and Sydney needed to mind her Ps and Qs.

She sat as directed, facing the AUSA, who asked her to identify herself and her occupation for the record.

“Sydney Fitzpatrick. Special agent, FBI.”

“Special Agent Fitzpatrick, how long have you worked for the FBI?”

“Four years.”

“And do you have prior law enforcement experience?” “I was a police officer for eight years in Sacramento.”

“Thank you. And on the day of February first, were you assigned to any special duties?”

“Yes, sir. I was part of a detail assigned to covertly follow Mr. Gerard Hagley.”

“Is he in the courtroom today?”

“At the defendant’s table.”

The judge, a gray-haired woman, said, “Let the record show that the witness has identified Mr. Hagley.”

The prosecutor stood and walked toward her, buttoning his gray suit coat. “Can you tell us, Agent Fitzpatrick, how it came that you were following Mr. Hagley?”

“Several weeks before, I had done a composite sketch from a witness description of the man who robbed the First Security Bank. We received an anonymous tip after the sketch appeared in the Chronicle, that our suspect was a Gerard Hagley, and that he was planning on robbing another bank near Union Square the following day. We staked out the banks in the area and waited until he showed up.”

“Is this the sketch?” he asked, holding up Sydney’s pencil drawing of a white male adult, short, curly brown hair and narrow, dark eyes. A damned good likeness to the defendant, Sydney thought, glancing over at the man who was trying his best to give her an intimidating glare.

“Yes.”

“What happened that afternoon?”

“I saw him walking into the Bay Trust Mutual. Our task force moved in, but he made us and took off running. Which is when I saw him drop something in the planter as he took off. He was arrested about a block away.”

“And where were you when this occurred?”

“In front of a store across the street.”

“What was it he dropped?”

“I recovered a note that read: Give me all the money. Now.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

The defense attorney stood, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, a crisp white shirt and red power tie beneath his navy suit coat, and a look that told Sydney she was pond scum. “Special Agent Fitzpatrick,” he said, checking his notes. “You say that you saw my client from across the street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And approximately how far is that?”

“Fifty, seventy yards. I’m not sure.”

“Do you wear glasses?”

“Sometimes.” She had slight astigmatism, and really only wore the things if she was trying to do fine artwork, which lately in her abstract painting kick was a rarity.

“Were you wearing them that day?”

“No.”

She could swear he started salivating. He got up, walked toward the jury box, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought as he paced in front of the empty seats. Suddenly he stopped. “And yet…” He looked right at her, pausing for emphasis, before saying in a firm voice, “You say you saw my client from seventy yards away?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw a small scrap of paper being dropped. From seventy yards away?” He stressed each word as he eyed her. “That’s two hundred and ten feet.”

“I didn’t measure the exact distance.”

He started his pacing act again. “Just how far can you see without your glasses?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can see the moon. How far is that?”

He stopped in his tracks. Opened his mouth, shut it again, then walked to the defendant’s table and sat. “Er, no further questions.”

She gained a smile from some sandy-haired man in a blue suit sitting behind the defense attorney-probably a cop, fairly good-looking one, too, but that seemed to be the extent of her cheering section. Judging from the expression on the AUSA’s face, Sydney scored zero points for her wit. Definitely not like her, but chalk it up to lack of sleep. She left the stand, then sat next to the fingerprint expert who was about to testify that the found note had not only the defendant’s prints on it, but also the prints of a teller from the last bank he’d robbed-a hazard of recycling his tools of the trade, or being too lazy to make up a new note. Either way, things weren’t looking good for Hagley, especially considering that when court was recessed for a break, his attorney was suggesting he change his plea before it was too late. Not that it mattered. What did were the fifteen other cases sitting on her desk, and the coffee she fully intended on getting when she walked out of the courtroom, dismissed for the day. She did not get far. About midway through the rather crowded federal courtroom lobby, she heard a woman calling her name.

“Agent Fitzpatrick!” The woman hurried in her direction.

Apparently she’d followed her from the courtroom. She was young, maybe early twenties, with long auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a tan blazer and matching slacks. Sydney figured DA fresh out of law school until she said, “I’m Officer Glynnis. Kim Glynnis. Hill City PD.” She held out her hand and Sydney shook it, feeling slightly guilty for not returning her call. “What can I do for you?” “You’re a forensic artist.”

“Among other things.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, having to step aside to allow a number of people still filing out of a nearby courtroom to walk past. “Your supervisor, Agent Dixon, said you were here, and I have a case I was hoping you could help with. An unidentified murder victim. We’ve tried dental, checking the missing persons database, prints. Nothing’s come up. I was hoping you could do a forensic sketch for

ID purposes.”

“Are you the detective on the case?”

She reddened. “No.”

Sydney’s curiosity was piqued at her response. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Officer Glynnis took a deep breath, as though bracing herself against Sydney’s reaction. “I should probably tell you that I’m just a patrol officer and I’m going over the detective’s head. But it was necessary, or I wouldn’t be here,” she said in a rush. “I also heard about the case SFPD picked up the other night. I thought mine might be related, but the detective wouldn’t call you. He thinks she’s just a prostitute, and it happened here, not in Reno.” Her smile was hopeful. “I thought if I drove up here, presented you with what I think, that you might be able to help. I know you’ve done some drawings for other agencies, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“How are you involved?”

“I was the officer who found her.”

Sydney noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, which reminded her that the poor woman worked midnights. “Coffee?”

“Love some.”

“We have a cafe in the building. Nothing fancy.”

“Doesn’t matter to me, as long as it’s strong.”

“The cafe, then,” and they weaved their way through the crowd, to the elevator banks. There were four, each designated to a certain block of floors. One had a sign indicating the Midway Cafe, so named because out of twenty floors, it was situated on the tenth. Sydney jabbed the down button, then stood back, which was when she noticed the guy who had smiled at her joke in the courtroom standing behind them, holding a newspaper in one hand, then glancing at his watch. More than likely a cop, definitely cute, she thought before stepping onto the elevator with Officer Glynnis. Cute Guy got on as well, asked her what floor, pressed the requested button, and the door slid shut.

Other than that, the ride up to the cafe was uneventful. And disappointing when Sydney noticed that even though Cute Guy was also going to the cafe, he wore a wedding ring. She really needed to get a life, she thought, as she bought two coffees, then directed Kim Glynnis to a table by the window, not that there was much of a view. The state building across the street blocked most of it, unless you leaned out and looked to the left to catch a sliver of the bay. They sat in the corner, and Sydney listened to her story. Apparently Kim Glynnis was not only one of the first female officers at her department, and a rookie to boot, all of one and a half years on, but she also suffered from the typical if-it-comes-out-ofa-female’s-mouth-it-must-be-bullshit syndrome prevalent in some agencies where the good ol’ boys still ruled the roost. Unfortunately for her, many of these same agencies took a dim view of the Feds walking in and getting involved in their cases.

Even so, Sydney listened to her explain how, on patrol, she’d found the victim dumped in a marsh adjacent to a park in the outskirts of town. After several days in the water, the victim had lost most of her hair, and what was left of her prints hadn’t yielded a hit. She’d been stabbed several times, and a number of apparent defensive wounds marked her arms and hands. Though it was believed she was the victim of sexual assault, no seminal fluid had been found.

“What makes your detective believe she was a prostitute?” Sydney asked.

“She had a tattoo, and a pocket full of condoms.”

“And what do you think?”

“Me? I think she was somebody’s daughter. Isn’t that what counts?”

The officer’s words surprised her. Touched her. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It is.” Then, putting her own thoughts aside, Sydney asked how she intended on getting the FBI involved if the case investigator objected.

She gave a sheepish smile. “I was sort of hoping you could help me with that part. I mean, I don’t know if it is related to the case San Francisco picked up the other night. Even if it isn’t, we need to get her identified.”

“Do you have a card?” Glynnis gave Sydney her business card, and she set it on the tabletop. “I have no idea when I might be able to get down there, but I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”

“Thank you,” Glynnis said, then, after shaking Sydney’s hand once more, she stood, picked up her paper coffee cup, and left.

Sydney didn’t follow, just sat there, sipping her coffee, thinking about Officer Glynnis and her persistence and determination to do the right thing, even if it meant going against the tide. And she thought about how a rookie’s perspective should serve to remind the rest of them why they’d gotten into law enforcement.

She knew why, would never forget. But there were others, more seasoned than she, who did forget, their interest in anything but high-profile cases quickly waning. And finishing her coffee, she wondered how many cases fell victim to such apathy.

That was not something she liked to think about. To believe that others out there didn’t care as Glynnis cared. Or others cared like Donovan Gnoble cared, for all the wrong reasons. They forgot that a victim could be someone’s daughter, or mother.

Or father.

She picked up the business card, ran her fingertip along the edge, knowing she should go to Hill City, help out, but right now what occupied her mind was that damned envelope sitting at her house. How could she think about a case when her father’s reputation was at stake? And how was it that her father’s reputation suddenly became an issue so close to the execution date of the man convicted of killing him? A man whose guilt bore shades of doubt?

That was a coincidence she wasn’t willing to overlook. What she needed was answers, and it occurred to her that there was one man who might have them. One man, who happened to have an office in this very building.

Senator Donovan Gnoble.