Unlucky 13 (9 page)

It was a diverse group with one thing in common: they weren’t glad to see representatives
of the SFPD. Their body language and facial expressions told me they were wary, angry, defensive, and suspicious. It was obvious that they thought we weren’t friends of the Chuck’s family and
that we could have a bad, or even a fatal, effect on their reputation.

Accordingly, Jansing was putting on an extraordinary show of force for a preliminary meeting with two midlevel cops.

I can’t say that
he was crazy to do so.

After we took seats at the table, Jansing said, “The FBI tore apart our Hayes Valley store and found nothing. Frankly, I was a little surprised to hear from you, Sergeant Boxer.”

“We’re working with the FBI,” I told the executives, “but we’re running our own investigation on what may have been a double homicide. We have new evidence that places high explosives inside hamburger
meat that originated at Chuck’s.”

Jansing’s eyebrows shot up.

“You can prove that?”

It was a bit of a stretch, but I said, “Yes, we can. Mr. Jansing, two people ate Chuck’s hamburgers and died as a result. It doesn’t mean that someone who works for you planted those explosives, but it does mean that Chuck’s is square one.”

What followed was like a freestyle Ping Pong tournament, in which balls
could go to any table and anyone could return them. There came a point when so many aggressive questions were being fired at us that Conklin stood up and said, “Hey. That’s enough. We’re willing to talk to everyone in this office and keep it out of the Justice Department. Or we’ll get subpoenas and interview each of you down at the Hall. Up to you.”

Donna Timko, the product-development manager
connected to the meeting by way of the two-way video screen, was the only person who expressed concern or humanity.

Timko said, “Sergeant Boxer, I can’t tell you how distressed we all are at any implication that Chuck’s could be involved in any way.”

Her voice broke, but Timko pushed on.

“We have already questioned everyone in the production division, and I can assure you, this random act of
violence…it was not caused by someone who works at Chuck’s.”

And with that, Donna Timko started to cry.

Jansing said, “Donna, calm yourself, dear. It’s all right. We have nothing to hide from the police.”

And then he looked back at us.

“Do what you have to do, Inspectors. But do it fast so that
we
don’t have to take legal action for harassment by
you
.”

WHILE THE FBI
shut down Chuck’s central meat-processing plant in Petaluma and began sifting through I don’t know how many tons of beef, Conklin and I spent the next day at Chuck’s Prime’s HQ, taking statements from executives and office staff.

Here’s what we learned.

Michael Jansing had vision and high standards. His people liked and trusted him. He paid fairly. The product was good.
Employees took pride in their jobs.

No one reported hate mail or knew of current or former employees who exhibited erratic behavior, insanity, or aggression.

Net/net: we did not have one stinking lead on who might have spiked a hamburger with military-grade explosives.
And that meant we had no idea how to head off future belly bombs.

I handed the car keys to Conklin, who said, “Well, there
went two days of my life that I can’t get back.”

“I’m never eating hamburger again,” I said. “I mean it. I’m off ground beef forever.”

I strapped into the passenger seat, and as Conklin drove us back to the Hall, I took out my phone and opened some mail. I got caught up in one e-mail in particular. I started laughing to myself.

“Okay. What’s so funny?” Conklin asked me.

“I want what Yuki’s
having.”

“Hot sex with Brady? Really?”

“No. Shut up. Listen to this.

“‘Dear Girlfriends.

“‘I don’t even know where to start talking about the awesomeness of Alaska. But let me try.

“‘Crack a dawn this morning, we went out on a tender with an onboard naturalist, and OMG, we saw a pod of Orca whales. Yes! A family pod of them, breaching or “spyhopping,” where they point their heads straight
out of the water as if they’re standing on their toes. Guys, this was amazing.

“‘Then a bald eagle swooped down right in front of us and grabbed a salmon with his talons. It was a big fish, almost the size of the eagle and it was no sure thing he was going to be able to carry it off—but he kept holding that fish and beating his wings and he achieved lift-off!

“‘We climbed a glacier. Me! I did
it! This is a stunning
experience, my buds. Walking on a world of ice the color of Brady’s eyes. In between the jagged blue and white boulders as far as I could see, a river of ice ran through it.

“‘I knelt down and drank from a glassy well of blue water that had just melted for the first time in millions of years.

“‘It was dazzling. Just incredible.

“‘And get this.

“‘I was climbing down off
the glacier and had just about reached the boat. Brady reached out to me and I slipped, guys. My feet went outward and I skidded asswise and dropped my booty right into the water.

“‘Brady saved me, pulled me out of the drink, gave me a hard time, and promised he had a nude cure for hypothermia. Geez, I almost laughed my chilly butt off.

“‘I’m writing to you from
our outstanding cabin on the
FinStar
and now Brady is calling me to go to the spa. Think of me having the best time of my entire life.

“‘What Claire said; best friends, best times, best sex—or something like that!

“‘Sending you all my love.

“‘Yuki C. BRADY’”

I finished reading and turned to Conklin. “Isn’t she hilarious?”

He shouted at a car in front of us that was switching lanes without
signaling. “Hey, buddy, make up your mind, will you?”

Then, to me: “So, what now, Sherlock?”

“Really. I wouldn’t mind taking a slow boat to Alaska.”

“Who wouldn’t? So we should talk to that Timko woman. The boss of the product-development office?”

“Tomorrow. First thing. Just drop in on her. You know, Richie, I never got to have a honeymoon,” I said as the sun slipped down behind the city
of San Francisco.

Richie was back to verbally negotiating rush-hour traffic.

I thought about my friend and realized that I’d never said these two words before. But, I said them now.

“Lucky Yuki.”

WE WERE THIS
close to Conklin’s apartment when a radio call came in that had our name on it. There had been a shooting that had likely stemmed from a domestic dispute. A crying child had called 911. The address was about four miles away.

I grabbed the mic and said that we were on our way, then asked Richie to stop the car.

He pulled into a handy driveway, and we got out, took our
vests from the trunk, and put them on. We headed out and I snapped on every flasher we had, the grille lights, the visor lights, and the one on the roof of the car.

Richie stepped on the gas and eight short minutes later, we braked in front of a tan wood-frame semi-detached condo, one of dozens just like it on Jerrold Avenue.

The front door was open. We entered with our guns drawn, Richie calling
out, “This is the SFPD.”

We came to a full stop in the living room, where a woman sitting in a crouch position with her back to a wall was holding a shotgun pointed at us. Blood and tissue fragments were sprayed on the wall, and there was a body—it looked like a man’s—ten feet to the north of the woman.

His heart was pumping blood onto the wooden floor.

Conklin said, “Ma’am, we need you to
lower your weapon.”

The woman was white, about thirty, and wearing a torn T-shirt and jeans. There was blood spatter on her face, telling me that she had been very close to the victim when the gun fired. It looked to me like half his face had been shot away, but I thought he was still breathing.

I heard children crying somewhere down the hall.

This was a volatile situation, and I flashed on
what could happen if we didn’t shut it down fast. I imagined the woman unloading that shotgun on us. Reloading. Taking out the kids. Reloading. Turning the gun on herself.

She wasn’t responding to Conklin, so I shouted,
“Lady. Drop the damned gun.”

“I can’t,” she said in a small, almost little-girl voice. She looked at us with crazy eyes, shaking her head and trembling at the same time. “He’ll
kill me.”

“We’re here now,” Conklin said, coming forward. “He’s not going to hurt you. We’re here now, ma’am. We’re here for you. So put the gun down, okay? You have to do it so we can go to your children, make sure they’re okay.”

“My kids? You know my kids?”

Her eyes flashed back and forth between me and Conklin and skipped right over the downed man on the floor.

Conklin holstered his gun.
I covered him as he walked slowly toward the woman, showing her his empty hands.

“I’m just coming to help you. What’s your name?”

“Holly.”

“Okay, Holly. I’m Richie.”

One of Conklin’s many strengths is that he has a terrific way with women. It’s a real gift, that’s for sure.

I said, “I’m just going to walk behind you, Holly.”

She looked at me as I edged around her, and Conklin saw his chance.
He stepped forward and, grabbing the gun, cracked it open and knocked out the remaining shell and threw the gun onto the couch.

“There we go,” he said. “Now we can talk. Holly, tell me what happened here.”

ONCE HOLLY WAS
disarmed, my breathing and my heartbeat returned to something like normal. I was not just relieved that no guns had gone off. I also wanted Holly to be all right.

I already had a pretty good idea what had happened in this house. Holly’s husband had been abusing her and had introduced a loaded shotgun into the fight. He’d been pointing that gun at her when she surprised
him, grabbed the weapon, and got off a shot.

Very likely Holly had saved her own life.

But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t have to prove self-defense in court. Her crappy life wouldn’t get better for some time, if ever.

I retraced my steps and bent to the man bleeding out on the floor. He was stocky, maybe in his thirties, and had
tattoos on his arms and neck. A mixture of blood and air
bubbled through what remained of his nose and lower jaw. He was alive. But he might not want to survive what he was facing—surgery, pain, food through a straw—while in jail.

I called dispatch and was told the ambulance was only three minutes out. I said that the situation was under control, that the EMTs could come directly into the house, and I asked for Child Protective Services.

Conklin led
Holly to a plaid tub chair and sat on the couch across from her. She was babbling incoherently when I went down the hall in search of children.

I found two youngsters in the smaller of the two bedrooms, hiding between a bed and the wall. They popped up when I called, “Hey there.”

I thought the little girl was about four. The boy looked eight. The little girl looked me in the eye, then sucked
in a deep breath and screamed before crawling under the bed.

The boy dried his face with his T-shirt and sputtered, “Are you the police?”

“You called us, right?”

I showed him the badge hanging from a chain around my neck.

“I’m Sergeant Boxer, but you can call me Lindsay. What’s your name?”

“Leon. Leon Restrepo. That’s Cissy.”

“Do you know how many people are in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Can
you tell me?” I asked.

He pointed out to the living room. “Her. Him. Me and Cissy.”

“Is Holly your mother?”

Leon nodded his head. Tears started flowing down his cheeks.

“Okay, Leon. Okay. Can you tell me what happened here?”

“She’s always hating on him,” the little boy said. “She’s always threatening to shoot him, and my dad, he always says, ‘She’s just talking.’ But she killed him, didn’t
she?”

“No, no, your dad is alive, but he’s hurt.”

“Oh, man, this is so bad.”

Leon fell across the bed and cried like he would never stop. Between his sobs, he cried, “I love my dad,” he said. “I love my dad so much. Please don’t let him die.”

I OPENED THE
front door to our apartment on Lake Street, and Martha came tearing around the corner from the living room. She threw her front feet hard against my solar plexus and sang her special welcome-home anthem.

I stooped, kissed her, ruffled her coat, and followed her back to the room where my husband was rising from his big chair, coming toward me, arms open.

“Maria Teresa
just left. Julie’s had her bottle and her bath and she’s sleeping,” he said, giving me the biggest hug. “She made chocolate pudding for us, and, yes, I took Martha for a good long stroll.”

“Thank you, Joe. What a day I’ve had.”