Thrill Kill (20 page)

By the time Sinclair returned to the scene with the signed warrant, the body was gone and Braddock was in the living room with the evidence tech. “Coroner deputies pointed out some tattooing around the entrance wound,” Braddock said. “Means the gun was close—maybe within inches—when it was fired. Nothing else remarkable about the body. No signs of a struggle or forced entry to the apartment. Pratt must’ve let the killer in.”

“I called Phil and gave him Pratt’s name when I was driving back to the PAB. He just got back to me and said one of his Intel officers showed Pratt’s photo to a source, who confirmed Pratt is Gothic Geek.”

“Is Phil’s source someone inside the anarchists?”

“He didn’t say,” Sinclair said.

“There’s a lot our old partner isn’t saying.”

Sinclair nodded in agreement.

“The videographer is down,” Braddock said. “Two more to go. Why would someone kill both Dawn and Pratt?”

Braddock was obviously assuming Pratt and the other two suspects in the park were the only ones involved in Dawn’s death. Sinclair wasn’t as sure. “Maybe Pratt’s associates didn’t like him blabbing about what they did. Wouldn’t be the first time partners in crime knocked off the weak link.”

“Looks like we’re worse off than we were this morning.”

“I wish we got to Pratt before his friends did, but the fact that they felt it necessary to kill him says a lot,” Sinclair said. “These guys can’t keep their mouths shut, and that could be to our advantage.”

*

Sinclair’s watch read 8:30 when he and Braddock knocked at the door of Garvin’s house for the second time that day. The remaining search of the apartment hadn’t yielded much of value. A dresser drawer in Pratt’s bedroom was filled with old bills and receipts. Among the papers, Braddock found a pen-and-ink drawing of a medieval castle with the words
Gothic Geek
across the top, which corroborated the assertion by Roberts’s informant that Pratt’s username was Gothic Geek. What they didn’t find were any computers, cell phones, or any papers with names of friends or associates.

A stout woman with bottle-blonde hair opened the door. Mrs. Garvin invited them in and sat behind a can of Coors at the kitchen table. “My husband said you came by earlier, and Sean just called from the jail asking me to make bail for him.”

“Will you?” asked Braddock.

“I love my son, but he needs to face the consequences of his actions.”

Braddock told her what happened at the Mills Café and what they discovered at the apartment.

“Edgar’s dead?” She shook her head, took another swig of her beer, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I knew him since he was little. He and Sean went to school together and have been best friends ever since.”

Mrs. Garvin didn’t seem too surprised by the death of her son’s best friend. Sinclair asked, “What about any other friends?”

“Sean doesn’t talk about anyone in particular. I know he has some friends from work—other kids he plays his video games with. He’s been at Best Buy for years. He talks about the Occupy Oakland and Black Lives Matter stuff that he’s involved in, but
he has no understanding of the politics behind it or any real interest in the cause. To him, it’s just a thing to do.”

Sinclair and Braddock spent another twenty minutes with Mrs. Garvin but gained nothing useful. They drove four blocks to the address the coroner’s office gave them for Edgar Pratt’s parents. The coroner had already made the death notification to Edgar’s father, and Sinclair hoped the shock had dulled a bit. According to the coroner, the parents had been divorced for ten years, and Edgar’s mother was now living in Fresno. Parked cars choked the street in front of Pratt’s house. Sinclair double-parked and flipped the switch to the flashing yellow light on the rear of his car.

A thirty-something brunette woman dressed in a Cal hoodie and jeans answered the door. Sinclair identified himself and flashed his badge. “I’m Trish, Ed’s sister.” She opened the door and led the way into the living room where fifteen people were talking, laughing, and crying. “Dad,” she yelled over the noise. “The homicide sergeants are here.”

Mr. Pratt was white, about six-foot-two, and appeared to be about sixty years old. He rose from a chair in the corner and pushed through the crowd. He and Trish led Sinclair and Braddock through a kitchen crowded with people to a bedroom converted into a TV room with a small sofa and recliner.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Pratt,” Sinclair said once everyone found a place to sit.

“The coroner didn’t say much other than Edgar was shot inside his apartment,” Mr. Pratt replied.

Sinclair figured there was no reason to withhold the details about the video, so he explained that he came across the YouTube video filmed by Edgar when he was investigating Dawn’s murder.

“Edgar’s into computers,” Mr. Pratt said. “He plays those shooting games, but he’d be afraid of a real gun. I can believe the stuff about him attending protests. That’s what young people do.
Hell, I marched in Berkeley when I was young. But a murder? I can’t accept that.”

“I saw the video, Dad,” Trish said. “It’s Ed’s voice.”

“How’d you hear about the video?” Sinclair asked.

“It’s gone viral,” Trish said. “Everyone knows about it.”

Sinclair continued to look at her until she continued.

“My dad called me as soon as the coroner left, so I texted a few old friends to see if anyone knew what Ed’s been up to. They told me about the video.”

Sinclair jotted down the names and phone numbers of everyone who texted or called her. He’d have to talk to each of them and find out how they heard about the video, hoping one of them might lead him to a direct source.

“I moved to Castro Valley ten years ago,” Trish said. “So I don’t know much about Ed’s life today, but he’s always been a nerd. He’s not into girls and would never pay for a prostitute. Getting involved with an escort makes no sense. He prided himself on his Gothic Geek persona. Except at work, he always dressed in black. I can’t see him being dragged into something like a murder.”

Families of murderers were usually the last ones to accept their loved ones were capable of killing. “What about other friends besides Sean?” Sinclair asked.

Mr. Pratt shrugged his shoulders. “He moved out of the house a year after he graduated from high school. He never brings friends around anymore.”

“I’m seven years older than him,” Trish said. “He was just my dorky little brother when we were growing up. When I moved out, he was still in middle school.”

“You’ve got a house full of people,” Sinclair said. “Are any of them Ed’s friends?”

Mr. Pratt pulled a blue bandana from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Some are relatives and others are from my work or neighbors.”

“Would any of them have had recent contact with Ed?”

“I doubt it,” Mr. Pratt said.

“I can ask around,” Trish said. “If so, they’re more likely to talk to me than you.”

“I appreciate it.” Sinclair handed several business cards to Mr. Pratt and Trish. “If you could, pass around a pad of paper and collect names and phone numbers of everyone here and anyone else who calls or comes by. You can tell them it’s so you can let them know about funeral arrangements.”

“I can do that,” Trish said.

On their way out, Sinclair and Braddock looked over the people in the house. None fit their image of a young geek, Goth, or anarchist.

Once they were out of the Maxwell Park neighborhood and on the 580 Freeway, Braddock said, “The involvement of these anarchists and gamers sure throws a twist in our theory that Dawn’s death was connected to her escort work.”

Sinclair heard Braddock’s subtle
I told you so
in her comment. “I can’t see Dawn having anything to do with this stuff. Tomorrow, we’ll dig more into Garvin and Pratt and see what else they were involved in when they weren’t gaming or protesting.”

*

The digital clock on Sinclair’s bed table flipped to 5:30. He’d been watching it jump minute by minute for the last hour. It had taken him an hour to fall asleep after he went to bed around midnight, his mind churning through the latest murder and trying to fit it into the one involving Dawn. Too many pieces didn’t fit. When he finally drifted off, it was a fitful sleep, punctuated by a dream of him standing in the Mills Café and watching bullets exit Sean Garvin’s gun and punch through him. He woke drenched in sweat. He changed into a dry T-shirt and boxers and crawled back into bed. But sleep never came.

He finally showered, dressed, and padded to the kitchen. He was about to hit the button to the coffee grinder when he saw the kitchen lights in the main house come on. The decorative
lights guided him around the pool and down the path to the mansion. He opened the back door without knocking.

“Good morning, Matthew,” Walt said. “Coffee’ll be ready in a minute. You got in late last night.”

“Yeah, we had another murder.” Sinclair gave him the basics.

Walt poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to Sinclair. “Peet’s Sumatra.”

Sinclair took a sip of the gutsy, dark roast blend. Walt took a seat at the kitchen table, and Sinclair pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

“Didn’t sleep well, huh?” Walt said, undoubtedly seeing the fatigue written on his face.

“Trying to figure out the murders.”

“Is there something more personal you’re also trying to figure out?”

Sinclair set his cup on the table. “You cut right through my shit, don’t you?”

Walt smiled. “Sometimes we need to tell our friends what they need to hear and not just what they want to hear.”

“You remember when I started therapy with Dr. Elliott and you mentioned that until I can risk a chink in my armor, I’ll never be able to have a deep and meaningful relationship with anyone?”

“Yes, although the metaphor may not be perfect. What I meant is that like most people, you likely developed defense mechanisms over the years; however, yours were reinforced by traumatic incidents in your life. These defenses allowed you to protect yourself from getting hurt. Avoiding pain is good, but when the fear of getting hurt emotionally becomes your driving force, it prevents you from getting close to people. By opening up a little bit and risking emotional pain, you also make yourself available to all the pleasures of close human contact.”

“Dr. Elliott mentioned this stuff again the other day. When I started therapy, I told her one of my concerns was that if I started to feel too much, I’d lose my edge at work. I’d start feeling at
the wrong time, and in the worst case scenario, it could get me killed.”

“Feeling is not weakness, Matthew, it’s the opposite. Only the strong are capable of the full range of emotions.”

“Yeah, well this therapy that’s putting chinks in my armor or allowing me to drop my shield, or whatever the fuck analogy you want to use, almost got me killed yesterday.”

Walt raised his eyebrows and was ready to say something when Betty, Walt’s wife, came down the back stairway into the kitchen.

“Matthew,” she said, opening her arms.

Sinclair got up and received her hug. She was a year or two younger than Walt, heavyset, and with the kind of rosy, wrinkle-free face that women in their forties wished for.

“How about some breakfast?” she said.

“I’ve really got to—”

“Matthew, you look gaunt,” she said. “When did you last eat?”

Sinclair thought about it. It had been a sandwich at lunchtime yesterday. “I’d love some breakfast.”

“I’m sorry I disturbed you boys. You go back to your discussion, and I’ll stay out of your hair.” Betty went to the other side of the kitchen, put two large pans on the commercial-grade gas stove, and began unloading the refrigerator onto the counter.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Walt said once Betty focused her full attention to cooking.

Sinclair told him about the incident with Garvin at the Mills Café.

When he finished, Walt asked, “Why didn’t you shoot?”

“Maybe I froze. I should’ve shot. He had a gun. He could’ve brought it up and fired in a split second—faster than I could’ve reacted.”

“But he didn’t,” Walt said. “And it wasn’t a real gun.”

“You can’t tell a real gun from a replica in that kind of situation, and I can’t read someone’s mind and figure out what they intend to do. I need to act based on what’s in front of me.”

“But you did know.” Walt grabbed their cups, walked across the kitchen to fill them, and returned to the table. “You picked up on something in the way that young man acted or the way he looked. You knew he wasn’t going to shoot you with that gun—that he wasn’t a threat to you. That’s why you didn’t shoot.”

“My fellow officers think I’ve lost my nerve. They’ll think I’ll freeze again and get one of them killed because I won’t drop the hammer when it’s necessary.”

“I have to reach back a few years, but I remember when I was a young soldier in ’Nam. No one wanted to be around a soldier who was a coward. There was nothing more important than having my buddies know I’d have their backs in a firefight. Could it be that you’re less concerned about others thinking you lost your nerve than you are about you thinking so yourself?”

Sinclair was sitting at his desk, filling out his overtime slip from the previous night, when Maloney walked into the office a few minutes before eight. He plopped an
Oakland Tribune
on Sinclair’s desk. Underneath a headline reading
THRILL KILL
was a grainy photograph, obviously a still from the video, of Dawn hanging from the tree with a fireball surrounding her abdomen.

Maloney crossed his arms. “The story says a source close to the investigation believes the murderer may fit the thrill-killer classification.”

Sinclair swiveled his chair around to face his boss. “John asked what I thought the motive was, and asked if it could be a thrill kill. I said I didn’t know enough to rule it out.”

“That’s all the confirmation he needed,” Maloney said. “The article goes on to quote some retired FBI agent theorizing about the psychological profile of the kinds of people who would do this. The chief isn’t going to like this. With the media fanning the flames, it’ll get the community all riled up about some more psychopaths on the loose in Oakland.”

Even though the media feeding frenzy over the Bus Bench Killer had been more than a year ago, Sinclair recalled vividly how much it distracted him from his work. “I’ll bet that FBI agent never stepped foot in a crime scene with a body still
present, but he’s lectured at Quantico about thrill killers. You know I can’t control who the media talks to or what they print.”

Maloney took a deep breath and sighed. “I’m just venting before I head to the eighth floor and face the music. Anything new on the murder of the anarchist?”

Sinclair had called Maloney last night after he left Pratt’s house and brought him up to speed on the case. “Nothing since we talked.”

“Let’s keep his connection to the girl’s murder in house. The media will figure it out soon enough.”

*

Two hours later as Sinclair returned from the coroner’s office, Braddock hung up her phone and said, “Phil needs to see us ASAP.”

“What’s up?” Sinclair asked.

“I don’t know, but he sounded excited, and it takes a lot to get him excited.”

On their way to the intelligence office, Sinclair briefed her on the autopsy results. The pathologist had confirmed the presence of tattooing—particles of unburnt gunpowder—in the tissue below the eye where the bullet had entered. Besides the bullet wound, there were no other wounds or injuries. Sinclair pictured one of the men in the video—either as punishment for posting the video or to ensure he never named his coconspirators—visiting Edgar’s apartment, immediately pulling out his gun, pointing it at Edgar’s face, and pulling the trigger. No talk, no discussion, just bang—the weak link eliminated.

Roberts shepherded Sinclair and Braddock into his office as soon as they buzzed, and then he shut his office door. “One of my contacts from another agency noticed this,” he said as he jiggled the mouse to wake up his computer.

Sinclair and Braddock moved around his desk and studied a Twitter feed for a group named @BLM415. Roberts scrolled down a few entries and clicked on a photo to enlarge it. It
showed Edgar Pratt sprawled on the floor of the apartment exactly as they had found him yesterday. The only difference was the pool of blood was smaller and brighter red in the photo.

“This must’ve been taken right after he was shot,” Sinclair said. “Who posted it?”

Roberts closed out of the photo and returned to the Twitter feed. Sinclair read the message poster’s name: Deathtowhores. The message read,
Police snitches should lie in ditches.

“The profile was created yesterday,” Roberts said. “Probably just to post this.”

They both knew the difficulty in tracing social media posts. With a series of search warrants and a month or more of time, they could eventually track it to an IP address, but unless someone posted from his home Wi-Fi or used a cell service in his name, it would be a dead end.

Braddock sat down on the couch. “What’s B-L-M-four-fifteen stand for?”

“Black Lives Matter,” Roberts said. “The four-fifteen stands for San Francisco’s area code. It’s a Bay Area group that formed after the Ferguson shooting to bring attention to so-called unjustified police shootings of black men.”

“I don’t get it,” Sinclair said. “Why are anarchists and Black Lives Matter activists interested in killing a white woman who worked as an escort? And what’s this crap about death to whores?”

Roberts chuckled. “You have to stop thinking of these social media networks as traditional organizations. The same people who post stuff on sites connected to the Occupy movement post on the anarchist and Black Lives Matter sites. They’re activists and rabble-rousers. The organizations are nebulous, often no more than a cause that people attach themselves to. Some of the people at the last protest organized by B-L-M-four-fifteen were the same people who attended the Occupy protests. They don’t care about the cause, as long as it’s against the status quo. Some of their social media postings are about reasonable concerns, however . . .”

Roberts got up from his desk and gazed at his wall of plaques and certificates. “As a black man myself, I understand racial profiling is a problem. But as a cop, I know we stop blacks at a higher rate because blacks commit crime at a higher rate. People with their own agendas attach themselves to one or more of the causes to advance their own interests. Last year, a group of anarchists that called themselves the Black Bloc smashed the windows of fifty downtown businesses. Meanwhile, they looted the stores—not of food or necessities, but of two-hundred-dollar sneakers and electronics. The group Anonymous posted a video asking people to stop the vandalism and looting. Was that representative of Anonymous? Who knows? A half dozen of those arrested that night were first busted at the Earth First protests back in the eighties.”

Sinclair looked up from his notepad. “The old environmental group?”

“Right,” Roberts said. “They show up at whatever cause is popular at the time—environmental, animal rights, nuclear power in the eighties and nineties, and income inequality and police brutality today.”

“So the people involved in my murders could be some middle-aged radicals,” Sinclair said.

Roberts shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? This isn’t a full-time job for these people. And don’t forget, the vast majority of the people involved in the protests are righteous citizens. We’re focusing on a small minority.”

“So, where’s this leave us?” Sinclair asked.

“If I were in your shoes,” Roberts said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about this social media chatter. Our friends at the state and federal level spend their days monitoring it, and even they don’t have a good handle on who’s involved in what and how they’re connected. If something comes up, like when Gothic Geek and Anarchist Soldier were named, I’ll let you know.”

“What about this guy’s account name of ‘death to whores’?” Braddock asked. “Is this a new cause connected with the anarchists?”

“It’s the first we’ve seen it,” Roberts said. “It could be disinformation.”

“Someone trying to throw us off the right track?” Sinclair said.

“I’ve seen it before,” Roberts said.

Sinclair and Braddock left the intelligence office and drove to the Best Buy store, where they met with the manager, a short, pudgy white man in his fifties with horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt with a clip-on tie and black leather shoes that he’d probably never polished. The manager had already heard about Edgar Pratt’s murder and was over his shock—if the murder of an employee actually shocked someone more comfortable around computers than people. He set up Sinclair and Braddock with a copy of the employee roster in a back room that he called their training room, though it seemed to double as a break room based on the clutter of empty energy drinks and candy wrappers on the tables.

By two o’clock, they had interviewed eight young men who were assigned to the Geek Squad and compiled twenty pages of handwritten notes. No one knew Garvin or Pratt outside the store, they all played computer games, but not with Garvin or Pratt, and no one had any idea why someone would kill Dawn or Pratt. The detectives took a break and walked through a steady rain to a sandwich shop in the same mall where Best Buy was located. Sinclair ordered the Italian special and Braddock had grilled chicken in a spinach wrap.

“This is the part of investigations I hate,” Braddock said.

“You and me both,” Sinclair said. “We could talk to a hundred people here over the next week and no one will know anything.”

“Or some will know something, lie about it, and we won’t be able to tell.”

“We’re too good to let that happen.” Sinclair winked.

His cell buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number.

“Is this the detective investigating the murder of Dawn Gustafson?” The voice was male and sounded white and young.

“Yes, this is Sergeant Sinclair.”

“Do you want her computers—the one from the apartment by the lake and the one from the condo downtown?”

Sinclair waved to get Braddock’s attention and cracked the phone from his ear so that Braddock could hear. “Absolutely,” Sinclair said. “Do you have them?”

“I can get them for you if you want to meet me.”

“Sure, give me your address.”

“No, this has to be anonymous. Meet me at Peet’s Coffee Shop on Lakeshore in a half hour.”

“Okay. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll recognize you,” the man said before hanging up.

*

Peet’s Coffee was located between a burrito shop and health food store in the trendy Lakeshore business district, just north of Lake Merritt. There was an empty handicapped space in front, but even a homicide car didn’t get a free pass to park there unless a dead body was lying next to it. Sinclair parked halfway down the block and walked with Braddock in the steady rain, dodging a few pedestrians whose heads were covered by umbrellas. Despite the rain, a man with long hair hanging out of a fedora similar to Sinclair’s sat on a wooden bench outside the door smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a paper Peet’s cup.

Inside the store, Sinclair removed his hat and shook off the water. Every seat was taken. Sinclair’s mind immediately flashed on his encounter with Garvin at the Mills Café four days earlier. He scanned the crowd—about thirty people, six or seven white males in the age group of his caller. Two of the workers behind the counter fit that description as well. No one gave him a second look. They were ten minutes early, so Braddock got in line
to get drinks while Sinclair found a wall to put his back against and watch the door.

Braddock handed him a small cup of black coffee and shouldered in beside him. He popped off the top and sipped the dark French roast. She sipped her frou-frou coffee, something with a head of white foam. Sinclair couldn’t imagine anyone not making them for cops. His phone rang, and he dug it out from under his raincoat. The same number. “Sinclair,” he said.

“It’s too crowded in there, and I don’t want you to drag me downtown for questioning, so I’m leaving them on the top deck of the parking garage behind Peet’s. They’ll be in a black backpack by the far stairs.”

“Let’s talk a minute,” Sinclair said, but the line was already dead.

They walked through the parking lot next to the CVS Pharmacy to the parking structure. People under umbrellas or with turned-up collars and hunched shoulders rushed between cars and stores. Most of the spaces on the covered ground floor of the garage were full. Sinclair led the way up the concrete stairs to the open top deck. Nearly a hundred cars could park here, and on a nice Saturday afternoon, it would be full. He counted six cars parked by the stairs. Twenty empty stalls away was a single dark car parked by the far stairway. Braddock started toward it.

“Hang on,” Sinclair said.

Braddock stopped and turned.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he said. “Let’s check out these cars.”

They peered into each car, checking the front and back seats for occupants, but they were empty. They continued their march toward the far stairway, passing the ramp to the upper deck and one going back down.

The rain rolled off the brim of his hat. His unbuttoned raincoat flapped in the wind, and a gust flipped his tie over his shoulder. Halfway across the parking lot, Sinclair stopped and looked back at the stairway from where they came. He thought he saw movement, but couldn’t be sure with the rain and wind. There was no one there now.

“Why don’t you wait here,” he said to Braddock. “Watch my back and keep an eye on the car ramps and the far stairway. I’ll check out the car.”

She nodded. He walked toward the lone car. The wind whipped his coat open, and the driving rain soaked the front of his shirt and pants. He ignored it. He walked around the far side of the Ford sedan and peered into the windows. The car was empty. He walked around the rear of the vehicle and spotted a black backpack on the top step of the stairwell.

A memory from Iraq flashed in his mind.
Riding shotgun in the middle Humvee of a three-truck convoy. Up ahead, alongside the road, he spotted a military rucksack—one of the old ones, OD green in color. He grabbed the radio mic and yelled for the lead vehicle to punch it and for his driver and the rear vehicle to reverse. Seconds later, the rucksack exploded with all three trucks just barely outside the kill zone.

Sinclair turned. Braddock was watching him. Beyond her, at the top of the other stairwell, stood the man who had been smoking the cigarette outside Peet’s. He pulled out a cell phone and held it in front of his face.

Sinclair pointed at him and yelled to Braddock, “Run!”

Sinclair crouched and sprinted toward Braddock. She turned and ran toward the man. Sinclair ran as fast as he could, the leather soles of his shoes slipping with each step on the rain-slick concrete.

The explosion sounded in his ears at the same time the blast wave hit him. The air around him moved. Instead of shoving him forward, as he thought it should, it felt like it picked him up and pulled him, as a rogue wave does to a surfer just before erupting over him and smashing him into the ocean floor.