Page 12 of The 24th Hour

Walking toward the barrier tape, I saw CSU investigators in hazmat suits pitching an evidence tent and placing halogen lights around the perimeter for the night shift. Techs put out markers, snapped shots of shell casings, close-ups of the deceased, and of faces in the gathering crowd.

It was only nine thirty in the morning, but from the amount of manpower working in and around the scene, it was clear to me that CSU would be here throughout the night.

Jackson Brady glanced up when Conklin and I duckedunder the tape and became part of the too-real crime scene. Conklin and I stepped gingerly around the inner perimeter until we were a few feet from the bloody corpse of James Fricke III.

Claire stood up from where she’d been crouched beside the victim.

She said, “In my professional opinion, he’s dead.”

I said, “Duly noted.”

She went on, “The shooting was called in by a bystander about an hour ago, so that’s our approximate time of death. I count five bullet wounds, one each to head, heart, liver, back, groin. The head shot was probably the kill shot. I’ll let you know after I’ve done the post. Brady has Fricke’s wallet, but his watch and wedding ring are missing. His car wasn’t here when we arrived. The shooter may have driven it off.”

Same as Holly’s car, confirming my earlier thoughts that Holly and Jamie Fricke’s murders were virtually identical. Both had been shot on Pacific Avenue, both robbed, both murders were overkill. Since Holly and Jamie were married, and both shot to hell, it made me wonder if these had been crimes of passion. But we hadn’t heard even a whisper about anyone wanting to kill either of them, let alone both.

Brady’s shadow fell across me. He said, “Here ya go,” and handed me a man’s slim wallet inside a plastic evidence bag.

“Boxer. You’re the lead. You and Conklin assemble a task force that includes McNeil and Chi. I know I don’t have to say this …”

So,Isaid it. “Don’t blow it.”

“Please,don’t blow it,” he said.

Crime Scene Unit director Gene Hallows made his way overto me. He is astute, salty, and after decades of science-based crime-busting in our forensics lab, was recently elevated to the top job when former CSU director Charles Clapper was promoted to chief of police.

“Tell me something good,” I said to Hallows.

My guess, CSU had found shell casings at this crime scene of the same caliber bullets as those that had killed Holly.

Reading indignation on my face, Hallows said, “I know you’d like me to say I found Fricke’s signed confession in his breast pocket along with a suicide note.”

“Good one, Gene.”

“Have faith, Boxer. We’ve been here for under an hour.”

Car doors slammed to my right along Pacific Avenue. Reporters exited their vehicles and headed toward the crime scene. More vehicles arrived, more press joining the swarm that soon filled Pacific Avenue from side to side. Uniforms formed a cordon outside the yellow ribbon of tape and held back the crowd shouting questions at Brady.

“Is that Jamie Fricke?” “How did this happen?” “Do you have a suspect?” “Lieutenant. Say a few words to our viewers …”

Brady turned and scanned the crowd. I saw what he saw: cameras held high, mics and phones pushed forward, a sound truck that had parked halfway on the sidewalk. Brady shouted back, his voice colored with a southern twang he’d picked up during his earlier years with Miami PD.

“Listen up, y’all. You, Mr. Clancy, Ms. Blume. You know I’m not gonna feed you reporters guesswork while the case is ongoing. Soon as we can clear the area we can open a lane to traffic. You get any verifiable leads, call Homicide, SFPD. You know our number.”

A man’s voice came at us from the back of the crowd. “I saw it happen. I live right over there.”

I snapped my head around until I located the tall, bearded white man pointing to a three-story, white stucco house with bay windows down the street.

He was saying, “I’m Dan Fields. I’m the one who called the police. I was looking at the view when I saw a guy on foot jump out in front of Jamie Fricke’s car. Fricke gets out of his Jaguar. Late model. Black. I recognized him from TV. I heard shots and he dropped. The shooter was on foot with his back to me. The whole thing happened so damn fast. Shooter got into Fricke’s car and took it east on Pacific.”

Brady said, “Thanks for coming forward, Mr. Fields. We’ll be needing you to come to the station to make a statement.”

I stepped toward the witness, introduced myself and Conklin, and, after escorting Mr. Fields home to lock his doors, we drove him back to the Hall for a long interview—which went nowhere.

CHAPTER 10

I ARRIVED HOME at just after 7:00 p.m. I parked in my usual spot on Eleventh and Lake, took the elevator up, then paused at our front door before letting myself inside.

My mind was still swimming with fresh images of Jamie Fricke’s bloody corpse face down on the street, followed by his unveiling on the table in Claire’s autopsy suite. I didn’t want to carry those images into my home. I’ve taught myself a little trick that often works: Before I turn the key in the lock, I roll my shoulders forward a couple of times, then back. And last, I shake myself like a wet dog. Then, I go inside.

---