The Fallen

11

At home that Friday evening, I logged on to the FBI Drug Fire site and ran the serial number of the gun used to kill Garrett Asplundh.

The gun was originally sold in 1985 by the Oceanside Gun Rack to Carl Herbert, sixty-five, also of Oceanside. Oceanside is just a few miles from here. The gun was a Smith & Wesson Model 39 chambered for the Parabellum nine-millimeter cartridge. It is a double-action, self-loading pistol with a four-inch barrel, an aluminum-alloy frame, and an eight-round magazine. It weighs twenty-six and one-half ounces and carries a total of nine cartridges when the chamber is loaded.

I’ve fired several of them in my life and found them to be good, solid reliable sidearms, though I believe the nine-millimeter has insufficient stopping power for modern-day law enforcement. I carry the same 45-caliber Colt automatic used by my great-grandfather in the Pacific Theater in World War II. It has stopping power galore. I’ve drawn it only once on duty.

When I had come home that night, I was very disappointed that Gina hadn’t called. After her escape through the rear exit of the salon, I’d hoped that she would want to talk. Sometimes Gina reacts like a particle with the same polarity as me. I reach out and she moves away just ahead of my touch. I used to wonder if that meant we’re too much alike, but I don’t see many similarities between us, which I believe is one of the many reasons I love and am delighted by her.

My throat had tightened as I slowly opened her side of the closet and saw so much empty space.

I especially missed her shoes because they were dainty and chipper and colorful as wildflowers, and some of them were frankly provocative. I stood there wishing I knew what she was thinking.

I opened the floor safe, which is on my side of the closet, and saw that all of her jewelry was gone. I’d never been able to afford lots of jewelry for her, but what few pieces I’d given her had been of good quality and quite beautiful. I shut the lid and spun the combination dial. I felt more fearful, knowing that she’d taken her jewelry.

I had called her cell and left a brief message. It’s hard to sound casual when your heart is racing. I called Salon Sultra but Tammy said she’d gone home for the day and didn’t offer to take a message.

So I sat at the computer with a worried heart, to which the Drug Fire history of the Smith & Wesson Model 39 was a welcome distraction.

According to the FBI, Carl Herbert was a retired Navy lieutenant. He had purchased the gun in May of ’85 and used it in what he described as self-defense in August of the same year. He had fired at a “suspected gang car” that was cruising his street very early one morning. He missed. The car had sped away, but its driver — a young man delivering newspapers — called police a few minutes later. Apparently Mr. Herbert had bought the gun because there had been gang activity on his street and he was fed up with the noise. He was arrested and charged and later pled down to firing a gun within city limits. The nine-millimeter shell casing, however, was recovered by Oceanside PD and logged on to the regional Drug Fire registry. Drug Fire is an FBI database containing a computerized dictionary of casings fired in crimes. It was actually created for gang and drive-by shootings, where often the main evidence is ejected casings. Each casing — like each human fingerprint — is unique, because it displays unique marks from the gun that fired it. A match is a match, one of the most powerful pieces of evidence that can be presented in a courtroom.

Carl Herbert’s Model 39 Smith was quiet until February of the next year, when his Cadillac was broken into and the gun stolen. Herbert reported the theft to Oceanside PD.

About a year later, the Model 39 got hot.

In April of 1987, it was used in a San Diego gang shooting. This was determined by the four empty casings left behind at the scene. Two young men were wounded in the Barrio Logan area of the city, but no fatalities. No arrests were made.

A month after that, it was used again in a National City convenience-store holdup. Two shots fired, no injuries, and no arrests.

In July the Model 39 was back on home turf and used in a drive-by shooting in Oceanside. One dead. No arrests.

Then the gun went quiet for almost two years. Like it had taken a vacation from crime or done time.

But in June of 1989, it was used to kill a drug dealer in Fresno, California. No arrests.

In December of 1994, the Model 39 left behind six casings in an Oakland, California, shoot-out that killed two members of the Mexican mafia. Four arrests were made, but the weapon was not discovered.

In September of 1999, it was used in a Houston armed robbery in which five shots were fired but nobody was hit. Two arrested, but no Model 39 in possession.

In January of 2001, it was used to kill a suspected drug-cartel enforcer in New Orleans. A midlevel cocaine trafficker named Arthur Leder was arrested, tried, and convicted of the murder. Carl Herbert’s Model 39 was a star witness.

After the trial the weapon was impounded and archived as homicide evidence by the New Orleans Police Department, which is where everyone thought it was until our crime lab ran the casing in Garrett Asplundh’s Explorer through Drug Fire.

What a bloody history for a twenty-six-and-a-half-ounce piece of metal. I wondered if there was a deeper, secret history that might contain even more murder and suffering, unwritten because empty casings had been picked up by shooters or overlooked by investigators or recovered but simply never checked against the Drug Fire database. I wondered if Herbert’s Model 39 had ever been used to poke, prod, pistol-whip, or intimidate.

And of course I wondered how it had escaped from the New Orleans Police Department property room and traveled two thousand miles back to its hometown to murder Garrett Asplundh.

I searched the Web for New Orleans PD and found the site. Their “Law Enforcement Only” page offered a professional number and e-mail address to help other agencies, so I left a brief message. As I suspected, there was nothing in the site about the PD property section, so I tried the Web with combinations of “New Orleans,” “police,” and “property” and came up with dozens of real estate offerings. Some of them were reasonably priced for a police officer. I tried the online Picayune and found what I was looking for. The dateline was October 30 of 2001:

In an embarrassing reversal of fortune for law enforcement, New Orleans Police yesterday confirmed that a warehouse used for storing felony trial evidence was broken into over the weekend. Illegal drugs, cash and firearms were taken.

The New Orleans Property Annex on W. 8th St. was entered sometime Saturday or Sunday night. Employees coming to work on Monday were alerted to the break-in when they found a rear entrance door ajar. No alarm sounded, police said.

It is believed that over $12,000 in United States currency was taken. Also believed missing is an undetermined amount of heroin. An unknown number of firearms, mostly handguns confiscated and presented as evidence at criminal trials, is also believed missing.

“We’ve got some egg on our face,” said Sgt. Gordon Mauer of the New Orleans Police Department. “This was a sloppy, hurry-up job. But it shows how determined some criminals can be.”

There have been no arrests in connection with this weekend’s break-in.

Then, three days later:

Two men were arrested yesterday on suspicion of burglarizing the downtown police Records and Property Annex last weekend.

Arrested were Manuel Cisnos, 25, and Ed Placer, 34, both of New Orleans.

Three pounds of heroin, eleven firearms and $14,000 in cash were recovered in one of the suspects’ apartments, according to police. The suspects surrendered without incident.

Police are hopeful that most if not all of the evidence property stolen from the downtown facility will be recovered.

“We’re hoping we got them before they had time to sell the stolen evidence,” said New Orleans Police Sgt. Gordon Mauer. “We still haven’t had time to tally what we found against our list of what was missing.”

Two days later:

New Orleans Police believe that almost all evidence recently stolen from a downtown police storage facility has been recovered.

“We’re only missing two handguns and a half ounce of heroin,” said police Lt. Mike Hines. “Which is impressive, considering what was taken.”

Arrested on suspicion of last weekend’s burglary of...

I looked for follow-up stories regarding the missing weapons but found none. By then the story had ceased to be news. I logged back on to the New Orleans PD “Law Enforcement Only” page and asked about the two missing handguns.

Then to the FBI VICAP site for more information on Manuel Cisnos and Ed Placer.

Cisnos was a junkie and small-time burglar until the annex break-in. One fall for possession of heroin, one for breaking and entering, one for possession of stolen property, one for assault and battery. He was a small, light man with a sharp face and thick black hair. He’d spent three of his seven adult years in some kind of lockup. And two years in juvenile facilities for drug violations. He’d been convicted of the annex job and sentenced to eight years. With good behavior he’d be getting out soon. His next parole-eligibility hearing would be May of this year.

Placer was a petty thief and “rare-reptile dealer” who had done time for assaulting a U.S. Forest Service ranger, illegal possession of a protected animal species — California mountain king snakes — and drunk driving. He’d turned prosecution witness against Cisnos, blaming the younger man for planning the burglary and convincing Placer to help. Placer was six-four, 260, and at the time of his burglary arrest had long brown hair. His booking mugs made him look surly and intelligent — not someone who actually could be talked into burgling a police facility. I figured he’d told a true story but conveniently swapped roles with Cisnos. He’d done nine months in a New Orleans Parish work camp and was released in late 2002.

His last known address was his mother’s home in San Diego.

Finally. A little pinch of pay dirt.

Maybe the Model 39 was one of the two unrecovered guns. Maybe Ed Placer had hidden it, dug it up when he got out of prison, then headed west to see Mom and Garrett Asplundh.

I requested his ten-set from the FBI for comparison with the partials taken from the Explorer.

Then I called downtown for a records and warrants check, which gave me more or less what the Drug Fire search had given me. Placer had been clean since his release. They had the same address for him as the Bureau did.

The Louisiana Probation and Parole Field Service Law Enforcement Only Web site explained Placer’s unusual privilege of being allowed to leave a state while still paroled for a felony. The mother in San Diego — Placer’s only living relative — was part of the reason. The other part was the special arrangement made with the New Orleans district attorney’s office during the prosecution of Cisnos.

Placer had arrived here roughly one year ago and registered with the California Parole Board as required.

I figured it was too late to get anyone at New Orleans PD who could access Property Annex records, but I left messages for Gordon Mauer, Mike Hines and Assistant Chief Dale Payne.

I hung up and called Gina’s cell phone again and was told that the subscriber’s number was no longer in service. I tried the salon again, but there was no answer. I called Rachel, got her voice mail, and hung up.

Fuck.

McGinty’s Pub on India Street downtown is Gina’s and my favorite Irish bar in San Diego. It’s not the oldest, biggest, or most popular, but we have spent many a Friday evening there having drinks and sometimes dinner before heading out to party with our friends. For an Irish pub, McGinty’s is an oddity because it sits in the middle of Little Italy. Gina’s maiden name was Brancini but her mother’s maiden name was O’Hara, so maybe an Irish pub in the middle of Little Italy is perfect for us. Me, I’m German-English and one-eighth Irish from my mother’s side. McGinty’s is a friendly little place, just a few blocks from the Ethics Authority Enforcement building, where Garrett Asplundh was employed.

I walked in and had to duck through the ribbons attached to festive green and silver balloons bouncing against the ceiling. And the streamers of green crepe paper wavering down. St. Patrick’s day was next week, so McGinty’s had all the standard decorations, plus posters promoting a lucky green pint and Harp-battered fish and chips for $9.99.

I squeezed into the last open stool at the bar and sat down in front of a giant brandy snifter half filled with small green marbles. They were minis, like I collected as a boy. Smaller than shooters and just a small fraction the diameter of boulders.

Mike the bartender came over, and I asked him for a beer and the fish and chips.

“Gina coming?”

“Not tonight. She’s out with friends.”

I stared at those marbles.

“Been a while since I’ve seen you two,” Mike said.

“We’ve been busy, all right.”

“Garrett Asplundh yours?”

I nodded.

Mike shook his head as he dried off the pint glass. “Cold work, Robbie.”

“Yes, it was.”

In the glittery green marbles, I saw the shattered glass of the Explorer’s window. And Garrett slumped down into the space between the seat and the door like something that had leaked.

“Take some marbles if you want, Robbie. They’re promotional. Little shamrocks and Irish lasses inside, see?”

He handed me a few. Sure enough, there were dark green shamrocks inside some, and little lasses with curly orange-red hair inside others. The images were suspended in the middle of the glass, like a cat’s eye. The girls looked like Gina.

I detached myself from the marbles for a moment. “You know, Mike, how about a Johnnie Walker to go with that beer? That was Garrett’s drink, I believe. In his honor.”

“It sure was — Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. Doubles. I’ll lift one to Garrett if you’re asking me to join you.”

“On me, Mike.”

“Not in my bar it isn’t. On me.”

The double scotch hit me hard because my stomach was empty and I’m not a drinker. It made me feel unbalanced in a harmless way, suddenly light and amused in spite of what was happening with my wife. I’m always amazed how Gina at 110 pounds can drink so much and appear normal. I outweigh her by eighty pounds, match her drink for drink on a Friday night, and wake up with my brain wrapped in sandpaper while she goes to an early workout at the gym. I’m lucky to drag myself out of bed by noon.

I ate the fish and chips and ordered a shepherd’s pie to top it off. I’m one of those tall, wiry guys who eats a ton and doesn’t put on weight. Alcohol makes me even hungrier. The pint vanished ahead of schedule so I asked for another.

“So, Mike, where do you get the promotional marbles?”

“Mexico. Fourth year in a row we’ve put them out. People take them by the pocketful. Had a fresh load brought up Tuesday, I think it was. Why?”

“I like them.”

“You’re not alone,” said Mike. “But we lost half of our new shipment before they even got here. Truck tipped over and something like fifty cartons of them spilled. Five thousand of them is what I heard. Talk about losing your marbles.”

“Now that’s interesting.”

“It’s different anyway. I kept picturing guys sliding around on them and falling. You know, like a slapstick routine.”

“I keep seeing cars running them over and getting them caught in their tire treads,” I said.

“That could happen,” said Mike.

“When did this spill take place?”

“Tuesday, it was.”

Garrett’s last night, I thought.

“And exactly where, Mike?”

“Right around the corner, Kettner and Hawthorn.”

About halfway between here and the Ethics Authority Enforcement building, I thought.

“What time did it happen?” I asked.

“Let’s see. I’d been here three hours when Donovan came in and told me about it. So the spill must have been, oh, seven o’clock or so.”

I put that into Garrett’s timeline on the night he died. It was well after he’d left Hollis Harris at HTA, “preoccupied” and “distracted.” It was one and a half hours after he met Carrie Ann Martier at the Imperial Beach Pier and received another sex video. It was one hour before he left his not-quite-secret National City apartment, wearing the blue necktie he’d changed into. And two full hours before he was going to meet Stella in Rancho Santa Fe for a date that was supposed to be a new beginning for them.

I made a note to check with our Traffic Division and get the exact time for the accident. I was certain that because of the downtown location, the marble spill would have been reported to us.

What it looked like was that Garrett’s vehicle had picked up a spilled marble a half block from where he worked at the Ethics Authority Enforcement office sometime after seven that night.

And sometime soon after that, Garrett Asplundh’s plans for the evening had taken a turn drastic enough to make him miss a date with the ex-wife he still loved and was trying to reconcile with.

“Did you see Garrett that night?” I asked.

“No. No Garrett that night. The week before.”

Which tallied up with a blood-alcohol level of zero.

I ate the shepherd’s pie, ordered another beer and took it back to the dartboards. I played a long time, though I don’t remember my opponents or any bull’s-eyes I might have thrown.

Later I sat at the bar again and considered the green marbles. I took a handful of them and put them in my coat pocket. A pocketful of Ginas and lucky shamrocks. I got one more of Garrett Asplundh’s doubles and drank it quickly. I felt suddenly horrible, like I was a big-screen TV with the vertical hold slipping over and over. Mike had one of the busboys take me home and I fell onto the bed sometime around midnight after checking the machine for messages, but nobody had called.

An hour later the light blasted on and Gina stood in the bedroom doorway. She was wearing her faux fox jacket and dangling her purse straps in both hands, like she was trying to decide whether she was staying or going.

“I missed you,” I said. “Are you okay?”

Her face collapsed and tears like diamonds fell from her lovely green eyes. “I missed you so much, Robbie. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“Here.”

I threw back the covers and wavered across the floor and took her in my arms. My world was still swirling but somehow my world was right.

It was the most longing and needful love we ever made.

I woke early but Gina was already up. I listened for the sounds of her making coffee or perhaps the early-morning TV she sometimes liked to watch. Gina is not a quiet person in the kitchen and the silence pulled me from the bed to the living room, then the kitchen. The note she left on our breakfast table said:

The card she wrote it on had a picture of a fish on it. We didn’t have such cards in the house so I knew she’d bought and probably even written it before coming over.

I could deny one good-bye, but two were inarguable.

She really was gone. I felt my face get hot and a quick spike of malice in my heart. I was glad there was nobody else in the house to see my foolishness and my anger.

I didn’t have the spirit to do much more than read the Union-Tribune that day. My hangover was tremendous. It took me an hour to read the front page, an hour for sports, an hour for business.

On the front page of the business section was a picture of Jance Purdew Investments rating analyst Trey Vinson. I remembered his name from Garrett Asplundh’s notes. Garrett had written something about the city cooking the books and things were now up to Vinson. Mr. Vinson had been photographed the day before as he asked questions of the Budget Oversight Committee. He was a young man with a sharp, piercing expression. He almost looked angry.

The caption read:

“Trey Vinson of Jance Purdew Investments grills the Budget Oversight Committee yesterday at City Hall regarding San Diego’s financial-disclosure statements. A lower rating from Jance Purdew could cost San Diegans millions of dollars.”

I not only remembered Vinson’s name from Garrett’s notes. I recognized his face from Garrett’s video. He was the dark-haired, anxious little man with the shiny wedding ring whose dog tag dangled into Carrie Ann Martier’s face.