Trophies And Dead Things

Four

As it turned out, Greg was forced to cancel our lunch-a fact about which I had mixed emotions. When I arrived at Homicide, one of the inspectors-a man named Wallace, whom I knew slightly- handed me an armful of files and showed me to Greg's cubicle. "The lieutenant said to leave them on the desk when you're finished," he told me.

So I spent what should have been my lunch hour reading through the case files on the random shootings. Four of them, dating back to April, the latest being Hilderly's on July 6. The first was a restaurant employee, returning late to his rooming house in the Outer Mission. Next was a nurse, leaving for her four-to-midnight shift at Children's Hospital in Laurel Heights. The third victim, a veteran on disability, had been unable to sleep and gone outside his home in the Outer Sunset to get some air minutes before he was killed. And then there was Hilderly. The weapon used was a.357 Magnum, and the bullets recovered from the bodies matched ballistically. All the shootings had occurred after ten P.M. and on relatively quiet streets; even Hilderly's had been no exception, since normally busy Geary Boulevard is almost deserted at one-fifty A.M., the hour he'd alighted from an empty Muni bus at the corner of Third Avenue.

There had been no eyewitnesses to any of the killings; the Muni bus, in Hilderly's case, had already driven away. Family, friends, and co-workers of the victims had been interviewed, and the investigators were unable to turn up an enemy or anyone else with a motive for murder. The information in the files showed that the victims had been more or less upright citizens, ordinary people going about their ordinary business. Ordinary people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As is customary in such cases, the mayor's office had offered a reward for information leading to the apprehension of the murderer. The usual false leads, extortion attempts, and crackpot calls (including one in which the caller claimed the shootings were the work of her husband, who had then flown off in a UFO) had been phoned in to the police hot line. Unlike killers such as Zodiac, the perpetrator did not contact either the press or the police. If the snipings continued, the public outcry would become louder, and panic would ensue; political pressure on the department, already heavy, would increase.

I skimmed the files devoted to each individual, then turned to Hilderly's, curious to see where he'd been on the night of his death. There was a statement from his employer, Gene Carver of Tax Management Corporation, saying that Hilderly had worked late that evening. I frowned; he'd been shot only the week before last, long after the busy income-tax season. Why the late hours? Then I read on; Hilderly and his boss had been preparing for an IRS audit of one of their major clients. Carver stated that he himself had left the office at one A.M. and offered Hilderly a ride home; Hilderly declined, saying he wanted to finish with what he was working on.

I sighed and leaned back in Greg's chair. I could understand why the police had been thus far frustrated by the killings. The only links among the victims of the sniper that they'd been able to establish were the circumstances under which they'd been shot and the matching bullets. Apparently none of them had known one another, and there were few commonalities. Of course, little was known about the restaurant worker, who appeared to be even more of a loner than Hilderly, but the fact he'd been more or less a drifter whose history could not be fully established removed him a step further from his fellow victims. The shootings were random, all right. I didn't envy Greg this one.

After a moment I looked at my watch, saw it was nearly two. Greg-who had been called away to a meeting with his unit's deputy chief-obviously wouldn't be back for some time. I used his phone to check in at All Souls, found there were no messages of any importance, and decided to go grab a burger before running by KSTS-TV. As I hurried through the busy squad room toward the elevators, I waved to Inspector Wallace. He motioned for me to come over, but I shook my head and pointed to my watch. My stomach was making a hollow plaint; if I was to have any lunch at all, I'd better do so quickly.

At close to three I arrived at the TV studio on the Embarcadero, virtually in the shadow of the Bay Bridge, and only blocks from the proposed site for a new downtown athletic stadium. The building was bulky, red brick with a flat roof sporting an antenna and various other broadcast gear-the former plant of a bakery that had gone belly-up in the seventies. Tracks from a railroad spur ribbed the pavement in front of it; across the boulevard that rimmed this side of the city along the bay were three piers-no longer used for shipping, but instead devoted to such enterprises as architects' and real-estate brokers' offices. To their right was the SFFD's fireboat station.

The roar of cars and trucks on the bridge and its approaches drowned out other sounds; the massive concrete facades of the piers all but blocked my view of the water. The day-at least in this part of the city-had turned warmish and sunny. On the wide promenade beyond the fireboat station people sat on benches or leaned against the seawall, looking out toward Treasure Island; joggers pounded along, most of them appearing oblivious to the attractiveness of their surroundings. After I got out of my car I watched one of the harbor pilot's boats churn by, then turned and went into the TV studio's lobby.

The lobby was decorated in high-tech gray and black, with blown-up photos of KSTS personalities on the walls. As I waited for the receptionist-who was answering phones, putting people on hold, getting back to other callers-I studied the picture of Jess Goodhue. The anchor-woman had a pert, almost elfin face, with sleek dark brown hair that swept back from her forehead and ears, its ends curling under just above her shoulders. In spite of her youthful cuteness-which she probably found a liability- the photo exuded a forceful presence. Her eyes met that of the camera candidly; their direct gaze and the set of her mouth showed determination and intelligence. Even before seeing her in person, I sensed Goodhue was a woman who demanded respect-and got it.

The receptionist finished with the last of the waiting callers. "May I help you?" he asked.

I told him I wanted to speak with Goodhue and handed him one of my cards. He dialed an extension and spoke into the phone, then said to me, "She wants to know what this is in reference to."

I said it was in reference to an inheritance left her by an All Souls client.

He spoke into the phone again, then replaced the receiver. "She says she's got to review a couple more scripts but if you want to talk afterward, while she's doing her makeup, that's fine with her."

"Fine with me, too."

"Okay, why don't you-" He broke off and waved to a young woman who was entering from the street, bearing a grease-stained bag of what looked and smelled to be Chinese carry-out. "Hey, Marge, would you take this lady back to the newsroom and point her toward Jess?"

Marge nodded and motioned for me to follow her; the receptionist buzzed us through an interior door near his desk. The newsroom was the first on the left off the long hall beyond it.

My initial impression was of noise: voices, telephone bells, the clatter of typewriters, the squawk of police-band radios. A half dozen TV monitors were mounted on one wall, pictures turned on, but sound muted. Silent spectral images moved across their screens: Woody Woodpecker, a hand-wringing soap-opera heroine, Oprah Winfrey, earnest individuals extolling the virtues of baby diapers and spray wax and deodorant.

Marge said, "First cubicle to the right of the assignment desk," and went back into the hall.

Directly ahead of me was a long desk on a raised platform. Three men and a woman sat at it-talking on phones, scribbling notes, scrutinizing the monitors. I looked to the right and saw a row of modular cubicles. As I started over there I had to dodge a woman who rushed through the door behind me dragging a bulky tote bag by its strap and flashing a victory sign toward the assignment desk.

There were two people in the first cubicle: a dark-haired woman seated in a swivel chair at the desk and a tall, angular man who loomed over her, stabbing his finger at a typewritten page. The woman's face was not visible, but I assumed she was Jess Goodhue. I moved away from the opening of the cubicle and leaned against its wall, idly observing the activity in the newsroom. The woman I'd nearly collided with was at the assignment desk talking with a bald-headed man. After a moment she hurried to one of a row of smaller desks on the far side of the room, plunked her tote bag down, and began rolling paper into a typewriter while still standing. The bald-headed man got up and went to a board that resembled an airline arrivals-and-departures schedule mounted on the wall behind him. He rubbed out a couple of notations with the side of his hand, then used a blue crayon to enter new ones.

A voice came from inside the cubicle-Goodhue's, not so carefully modulated as it was on her newscasts. "No, Marv, that's got to be rewritten. I don't see how we can compare Barbara Bush to Mother Teresa." Marv said something that I couldn't quite make out. "No, I am not expressing a political bias. This is one I think even Babs would agree with me on."

The man left the cubicle without another word and stalked toward the row of desks on the other side of the room.

"That's a Republican for you," Goodhue said. I glanced into the cubicle, saw she was paging through a script, and stepped back.

After a few more minutes a thin blond-haired woman approached, her step tentative, expression anxious. She stopped a foot from the cubicle's entrance, as if afraid to go further. "Jess? The order of these stories-do you really want the mercy killing moved ahead of the drug busts and the new environmental plan?"

"Yes, I do. It's lost where you had it."

"But-"

"It's an important story, Linda. It's about… just reorder it."

Linda remained where she was, silent and indecisive. Goodhue added, "And when you see Roberta, tell her the lead-in to the drug busts needs more punch-a lot more. I want to see new copy by four-thirty."

Linda turned quickly and walked away.

Goodhue said to herself in a low voice, "You get too abrupt with them on days like this. It's something you've got to work on."

I stepped up to the entrance of the cubicle and saw she had pushed back from her desk, extending her arms in a little stretch. "Ms.Goodhue?"

She looked up, then snapped her fingers. "You're the woman from the law firm… what was it?"

"All Souls Legal Cooperative."

"Right. I know of you people. Did a series on alternative legal services back when I was a field reporter. McCone, is it?"

"Sharon McCone."

She stood and came forward, clasping my hand in a strong grip. "Call me Jess, everybody does. Let's go upstairs, huh? I have to make up for the three-fifty-five teaser."

"The…?"

She started through the busy newsroom toward the hall. "A one-minute spot. You've probably seen hundreds of them: 'Coming up on the six o'clock news.'"

"Of course." I trailed her down the hall. Goodhue was not as tall as I-five two or three to my own five six-but her brisk pace made up for her shorter stride. As she clattered down the hall in high-heeled shoes that matched her smart turquoise dress, she kept up a running chatter.

"Sorry I kept you waiting, but things are pretty frantic, and they'll get positively hairy from here on out. I've got to make up, do the spot, go over the scripts again with my co-anchor. You came at the right time, though; nobody, absolutely nobody, bothers me in my dressing room."

At the end of the hallway was a winding iron staircase. Goodhue led me up it, and down another long hall, past other rooms that hummed with activity. "Sports and weather," she said, waving her hand. "They're pretty much autonomous of the newsroom." Close to the end of the hall she opened a door and motioned me inside. "And this," she said, "is where I go when I want privacy."

It wasn't much of a dressing room: a long counter below a bulb-edged mirror; two wicker chairs, both somewhat raveled; a rack with changes of clothes hanging from it; a small adjoining bathroom. The counter was littered with cosmetics. Among them stood a vase of yellow roses that had seen better days.

Goodhue shut the door and grinned wryly at me. "Well, it ain't Broadway, but it's mine."

"I don't think they have it so good on Broadway, either."

"Probably not. You've got to go to Hollywood for the glitzy stuff." She frowned at the browning roses, swept them from the vase, and jammed them into a wastebasket under the counter. "Sit, while I make up," she said, and plunked down onto a stool in front of the mirror. "What's this about an inheritance?"

I sat in one of the wicker chairs-gingerly at first. "One of our clients has named you as a beneficiary in his will. Perry Hilderly. Do you know him?"

She considered, picking up a bottle of makeup base and beginning to apply it with practiced strokes. "The name's familiar. Who is… was he?"

"A tax accountant. Worked for a small firm out in the Avenues."

"Wait a minute!" She snapped her fingers. "Wasn't he the last victim of that sniper?"

"Right."

"Weird. Why would he leave memoney?"

"I don't know. He made a holograph will-self-written, I without the aid of an attorney-and left no explanation."

"I don't get it. Would it be crass to ask how much he left me?"

"Somewhere in the neighborhood of a quarter of a million dollars." More, I reminded myself, if Grant went through with signing the document renouncing his inheritance, since it had been left on a share-alike basis.

Goodhue's hand paused in mid-stroke near her hairline. "Jesus! Why on earth…?"

"I'd hoped you could tell me."

She shook her head, set the makeup bottle down, and opened a compact of blush. After rummaging around on the counter for a brush, she began applying color to her cheekbones. "As far as I know, I never met the man. Tell me more about him."

"Before I do that, I have a few questions. Does the name Thomas Y. Grant mean anything to you?"

"Grant… Tom Grant, the attorney?"

"Right."

"I interviewed him for that series on alternative legal services I mentioned. Not that I approve of his particular alternative, but it fit with the theme. Actually, I was surprised to find him quite charming."

It was a temptation to ask what she'd thought of Grant's fetishes, but I merely asked, "What about someone named Libby Heikkinen?"

"No."

"David Arlen Taylor?"

"Uh-uh. Who are these people?"

"Your co-beneficiaries. Hilderly divided his estate four ways."

"This Hilderly must have been a wealthy man."

"Not in the usual sense. He inherited some money, invested well, and didn't have expensive habits."

"And he lived here in the city? Of course he did; I remember that he was shot on Geary, near his apartment. Was he from here originally?"

"I don't know much about his background, just that he was a radical during the Vietnam era, one of the founders of the Free Speech Movement at Berkeley."

"Berkeley!" She spun on the stool, the cosmetic brush falling from her fingers.

"Is that significant?"

She ignored the question. "What else can you tell me about him?"

"He was kicked out of college, worked for a magazine for a while, until they sent him to Vietnam as a correspondent. He stayed there for some time, had a son by a Vietnamese woman. She and the child were killed by mortar fire, and then Hilderly came back to the States. Married, had two more boys, divorced, and lived very quietly in the Inner Richmond until he was shot."

Goodhue was sitting very still now, hands locked together on her lap, makeup brush forgotten on the floor at her feet. "Just think of that," she said after a moment. "I reported the story of his death." There was an odd tremor in her voice, an emotion I couldn't define.

"Are you sure you never met him?"

"Very sure. The Free Speech Movement-that was right around the time I was born."

"It started in the fall of nineteen sixty-four."

Goodhue's focus was inward, searching. After a bit she said softly, "I was born in January of nineteen sixty-five."

I waited, but when she didn't elaborate, said, "I'm sorry, but I don't follow you."

"What I'm trying to say is… this Perry Hilderly may have been my father."