“He wouldn’t say. Said he’d call Charlie Allen and Chandler later.”
Schuler had to know that he’d been present when Professor Hall had been shot, but since he’d mentioned contacting Allen and Chandler, this couldn’t be about that.
“No Mary and Jenny?”
“I thought you’d told me they were leaving town? Schuler didn’t mention either one, and I assumed he’d already tried to call them.”
Artie vaguely missed the warmth and energy of Soft Skin; it was hard to adjust to the real world.
“You sure it was Schuler?”
Mitch searched the bureau drawer for the phone book and leafed through it. He grabbed the phone and dialed, asked for Schuler and got confirmation.
“Sorry, Artie, I should’ve checked. Let’s go—we’ll take my car.”
Schuler was waiting for them outside a combination redbrick and stucco three-story on Woodland. The house was already cordoned off with yellow police tapes. Schuler was leaning against a police car holding a plastic container of coffee in his hands.
“Sorry to get you two up so early. Allen and Chandler both said they’d be down a little later, though Chandler didn’t sound very happy about it.”
Artie could understand why. Chandler had looked like hell in his dimly lit office; he’d look frightening in daylight.
Mitch said, “What happened?”
Schuler nodded at the house. “Homicide. Neighbors saw a light go on in the upper bedroom about two in the morning—then screaming half an hour later that abruptly cut off. Apparently two kids started in then, but they were choked off within seconds. Literally, as it turned out. The uniforms got here too late to do anybody any good.”
Artie couldn’t think of anybody he knew who lived in the Upper Haight, not since his hippie days. But Schuler must have had a good reason to call them down to identify the bodies.
Mitch asked the obvious. “Anybody we know?”
Schuler hesitated. “I know what her ID says. You’ll have to tell me if it matches. One woman, two kids. Apparently she was house-sitting for the owners. They’re up in Tahoe for the holidays; got hold of them half an hour ago but they can’t make it back until this afternoon.”
Artie glanced at Mitch, who nodded slightly. They both knew who it was without asking.
Cathy Shea was in
the bedroom, naked on the bed, a torn pillowcase knotted around her throat. Her face was purple with blood; there was no expression in her bulging eyes. She was a larger woman than Artie remembered, then he realized that personality can add to or diminish the size of a person. Cathy had never struck him as very big in life. Quiet, basically insecure, sexy when she was drunk, though it always struck him as more of a parody than a reality. All he could think of was that he would have to tell Susan and when he did, she’d come apart. For himself, he was numb. Maybe tomorrow he would feel something. Right then, he felt cold, professional. She had kept the house neat as a pin, had loved her kids, had dutifully supported her husband, had been a good friend to her friends …
It was a crappy epitaph.
She had struggled, and her hands were bloody where her nails had scraped flesh. The coroner’s assistants were still taking photographs and measurements. Schuler watched the expression on Artie’s face, then asked, “Mrs. Shea, right?”
Artie nodded.
“We found an ID in the purse in the john. Didn’t guarantee it was her, but ninety-nine percent sure. Time of death—maybe two in the morning. What you see is what you get; she was strangled.”
“Raped?” Mitch asked.
Schuler didn’t answer but started downstairs. “The two boys were in the living room; they were camping out on a futon. Must have been fun for a while.”
It was harder for Artie to look at them than it had been Cathy. Both were sprawled on the futon, presumably in the same position they were in when they had died. Both wore shorts, now soiled and smelling. The aftermath of death. Andy’s face was contorted and Artie guessed he had fought. His head had been bashed in by a table lamp, which was now lying nearby, its base covered with blood and pale blond hair. James, the youngest and thinnest, looked almost peaceful. He had probably been suffocated by the pillow next to him, his skinny arms spread out like the arms of a crucifix.
They’d been spoiled rotten. They’d also been full of life and mischief. For the first time Artie thought he was going to break down.
“Why?”
“They probably saw whoever it was. It’s even possible it was somebody they knew.”
“Breaking and entering?”
Again, Schuler didn’t answer.
“We’ve got prints—a lot of them. One of the neighbors saw somebody leave the house and run down the street toward Golden Gate Park. We’re rousting all the homeless encampments, checking IDs and possessions, that sort of thing. They might have lifted something on the way out, something that won’t go with their usual collections of tin cans and bottles.”
The cops would find something, Artie thought. He’d make book on it. Once again, murder by proxy.
In the kitchen a
tired Schuler sprawled in one of the chairs by a large distressed-oak table, and motioned them to take two of the others. “You guys want some coffee? I can send one of the uniforms down to McDonald’s. I could use some more—I’ve been up a long time.”
Artie nodded and Mitch said “Thanks.” They sat around the table in silence while Schuler jotted notations in a small notebook.
“Curious, isn’t it? A few days ago the doctor was killed, his wife disappears, and here we are again wondering who the hell did it. And—tell me if I’m wrong—bodi you guys have a pretty good idea who. Right?”
Artie shifted uneasily in his chair.
“We can prove where we were—”
Schuler looked disgusted. “Nobody said you were suspects. I’m just saying you know something I don’t and I wish to hell you’d tell me.”
“Was she raped?” Mitch asked again.
Schuler considered it. “That’s a hard question to answer. Did she have sex before she was strangled? The pathologist says so. Was it consensual? Probably. Neighbors saw lights go on in the upper bedroom maybe twenty, thirty minutes before they heard any screaming. There were no signs of breaking and entering. Whoever it was, she let them in.”
“A friend,” Mitch said.
“You don’t let strangers in at two in the morning. A personal friend, maybe a friend of the family.”
“Not a friend of Larry’s, that’s for sure,” Artie murmured.
Mitch looked thoughtful. “Maybe more than one.”
“Oh?” Schuler sounded sarcastic. “Tell me why.”
“The kids. She was killed first so they must have been awake—they heard her screaming. They could have run or cried for help themselves, unless somebody was holding them.”
“Or her screams could have woken them up, they ran up the stairs to help her, and met the murderer on the way down. He could have grabbed them both and thrown them back on the futon. They started screaming right after she stopped. Probably died seconds later.”
“How many were seen running to the park?”
“Only one, but the witness could have been wrong.” A policeman walked in with a sack of muffins and half a dozen coffees along with tiny plastic creamers and little packets of sugar. Schuler shoved several containers of coffee toward Mitch and Artie.
“How well did the two of you know Mrs. Shea?”
Artie was deliberately vague. “Well enough—she was a member of the Club, that’s where she met Larry. We’ve known her for more than twenty years. My wife, Susan, and Cathy were good friends.”
“I understand your wife and son have disappeared too, Banks.”
Artie flushed. “It’s divorce time, Lieutenant. I imagine I’ll hear from her lawyer before I hear from her.” “My sympathies,” Schuler said dryly. Then: “I gather neither of you two found anything of importance in the Shea home.”
Artie looked surprised; Mitch kept his face blank.
“The neighbors.” Schuler sighed. “The eyes and ears of the world. The Oakland police called us. A woman one house over got your license number but nothing was missing, so I didn’t figure there was any hurry questioning you about it. Happens all the time. Friends of the deceased, angry about the murder, decide to do some investigating of their own. Granted that the two of you were better equipped to do that than most.”
There was silence, then Mitch said, “I don’t think there’s much we can tell you, Lieutenant.”
Schuler nodded and took a sip of coffee, jotted something more in his notebook, and shoved it back in his pocket.
“I might have done the same if I were you. But you were operating under a handicap. One, you were friends of Dr. Shea’s, which means you probably weren’t objective to begin with. Two, you didn’t have the authority so you couldn’t approach those who might have been in a position to tell you something: the people who lived next door and across the street.”
“I assume the Oakland police questioned them,” Mitch said. His voice was curt, and Artie guessed he resented Schuler for implying incompetence on his part. As a military investigator, Mitch had been top flight and proud of it.
“That’s right, Doctor. I asked for copies of their records and they were kind enough to turn them over to me.”
“And?”
Schuler shrugged.
“Apparently Mrs. Shea was one hot lady. Dr. Shea was buried in his work; he was blind to it. My guess is that the rest of you knew it but who the hell wants to tell the husband, who isn’t going to believe it in any event but will hate whoever tells him? She had visitors when the kids were at school. There aren’t many pool boys in Oakland, but there are enough delivery men familiar with the lonely-housewife syndrome. Probably a fringe benefit of working the Oakland hills.”
“Some of us knew it,” Mitch said. “There wasn’t much to be gained by blowing the whistle.”
“You might be right, Doctor. And then again, you might not. We’ve got one dead lady and two dead kids. Maybe blowing the whistle would have been the kindest thing in the long run.”
Schuler looked from one to the other.
“I’m willing to listen to any ideas either one of you might have.”
Artie didn’t say anything. Mitch said, “You must have some of your own, Lieutenant.”
Schuler looked disappointed. “I was hoping this would be a conversation, not a monologue. My take is Mrs. Shea hears about her husband’s murder and she figures she’s in danger too, so she runs, so frightened she doesn’t pack anything at all. She doesn’t tell a soul where she’s hiding. Barring any evidence to the contrary, I think somebody tracked her down, somebody she was glad to see, because she let him in the house of her own free will. Maybe she got tired of being alone after a few days and called him. If I had to go further, I’d guess the lady was in love but hadn’t been about to leave her husband and fight for the kids. Men have mistresses on the side. She had a boyfriend stashed away. But sometime in that half hour she figured out that he wasn’t just a terrific bed partner after all, that he’d had something to do with her husband’s murder. Maybe she confronted him with it, more likely it was a slip of the tongue, or maybe he just suspected she knew. But that was all it took.”
Schuler helped himself to a muffin and took another sip of coffee. “What bothers me is that I think I’m right—and I’m not right. That there’s a lot more to it than that but I haven’t the slightest clue as to what. I still don’t know what she was running from, what frightened her so badly. You two care to help me out?”
They were silent for a moment, then Artie said, “Did you check out the dogs that killed Larry?”
“Two of them were strays, the third—the one with the tags—had been reported missing two days before. Owner was some old guy about to retire from the Health Department. Claimed Fido wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
Schuler stood up, capping his container of coffee to take with him.
“Tomorrow I think I would like to talk to both of you some more about the Suicide Club. Dangerous club to belong to—the members keep dying like flies. Maybe you can tell me something about Lyle Pace and Anya Robbins. A friend of his at Copeland’s stopped by Lyle’s home last night to see if he was okay; he hadn’t showed for work, didn’t answer his phone.”
He stared at them for a long moment. “I would like to think I surprised you, but somehow I’m not sure I have. And maybe you can fill me in on Professor Hall, Banks. Ten o’clock sound all right by you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Fine. See you then.”
On the sidewalk outside, a few neighbors had started to gather, whispering among themselves and watching the coroner’s men wheel out the bodies.
Schuler opened the door to his car, then paused to glance back at Artie and Mitch. Schuler’s face looked drawn and tired, and it occurred to Artie that Schuler was thinning down, becoming frail, that he must be close to retirement.
“I’m getting too old for this. The wife and I have a vacation cottage up in Victoria and I think it’s time we put our feet to the fire and let the world take care of itself.” He looked depressed. “You probably write obits for your station, Banks. How long do you give the world? Fifty years? Twenty?”