Thrill Kill (5 page)

Sinclair leaned back in the recliner, adjusted his earphones, and closed his eyes. The memory came slowly at first, bits and pieces. Then he was there.

“What do you see?” Dr. Jeanne Elliott asked.

He screeched to a stop in the middle of the street seconds after the gunshots. Rolled out of his patrol car, gun in hand. Screams, people running, smoke, the smell of burning gunpowder hanging in the air. The Sig Sauer .45 caliber pistol heavy and slippery in his sweaty hand.

“Bodies,” Sinclair replied. “Three of them. Blood.”

“Any sounds or smells?”

“People yelling:
That way—he went that way
. I smell the blood. And sweat—my sweat. I smell my fear.”

The words poured from Sinclair’s mouth, uncensored, as if someone else were speaking. He felt as if he were in two places at once, part of him sitting in the plush chair in the therapist’s office, the other on Telegraph Avenue twelve years earlier. The tones sounded in his ears at one-second intervals.
Beep
,
beep
, left, right, left, right. The beeps acted like a sort of audible pendulum.

“What’s happening now?” Jeanne asked.

“I’m running. People point into the theater. I run into the theater.”

Sinclair’s breathing was ragged, his heart ready to leap out of his chest.

“Slow down,” she said. “What are you feeling?”

He didn’t need to search for the words; they rolled off his tongue. “Anger. Sadness. Fear.”

“Should we stop?”

“I need to go on.”

“Okay, but slowly,” Jeanne whispered.

At the theater door, he rushes inside. It’s pitch dark. His left hand reaches for his belt, feeling for his flashlight. He touches the leather holder. Empty. He freezes.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“My flashlight . . . I left it in the car. He’s there. In the dark. Waiting. I have to get him.” Sinclair’s voice quaked as tears squeezed through his closed eyes and down his face. He tasted the salt as they rolled over his lip. “But I can’t move. I’m too scared. I’m a coward.”

“That’s enough,” Jeanne said. “I want you to return to your safe place.” She described the mountain lake, the birds singing, and the smell of pine trees.

Sinclair felt his breathing level out. The image of the dark X-rated-movie theater where the murderer had fled slowly dissolved.

“When you’re ready,” she said, “I want you to open your eyes.”

Sinclair opened his eyes and removed the headphones.

Jeanne leaned back in her chair. “You did very well today. I can tell you’re beginning to trust the process.”

The process she referred to was called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. When Sinclair had first met with her two weeks ago, she explained how patients can bring up memories of traumatic experiences and then process them through EMDR, which reduces the emotional intensity of the feelings and the lingering symptoms. For at least a year, Sinclair had suspected he had PTSD to some degree. He’d known many police officers and soldiers who’d experienced a fraction of what
he had over the years who had been diagnosed with it. But much like his alcoholism, which he hadn’t dealt with until the department forced him into treatment after he crashed his unmarked police car two years ago while driving drunk, he didn’t do anything about his PTSD until it smacked him across the head.

A month ago, he’d stayed late one night to return several phone calls. The final call was to a Napa Valley phone number. The man told Sinclair that he and his wife had adopted a baby boy from Alameda County foster care after the boy’s family was murdered. Ben was to turn thirteen in January, and the family was planning his bar mitzvah celebration. The man hoped Sinclair would attend, but especially hoped he would join the family for dinner the night before. That was when his parents intended to tell Ben about his life before they adopted him. Sinclair knew the story all too well.

The boy’s parents had been pushing him down the street in a stroller when a crazy man ran out of the back door of a theater, shot both of his parents in the head, and snatched Ben out of the stroller. The man ran through the streets, cradling Ben like a football, and holed up in his small room in a transient hotel. The hostage negotiators reported the man had no grasp of reality and was going off on a tirade about having killed the devil’s disciples. Next, he had to sacrifice the devil’s child. A police sniper team had eyes on the man pressing a pistol against the infant’s head through a window, but didn’t have a clear shot.

The police incident commander ordered an immediate SWAT entry to save the infant, giving the four-man SWAT team that was stacked outside the door the green light. Sinclair was first in the stack. He stepped through the door and saw the man holding the baby in his arms and a gun in his hand. Sinclair snapped his M4 rifle up, and when the red dot of the close-combat optics was within the imaginary triangle formed by the man’s two eyes and nose, he pulled the trigger. The man collapsed in a heap to the floor as Sinclair rushed forward and caught the baby before he hit the ground. News photographers
and videographers swarmed him as he stepped into the sunlight. Within twenty-four hours, his picture—a serious-looking man decked out in body armor, ballistic helmet, and goggles, holding a small infant in his arms alongside an M4 carbine—graced the front page of every newspaper in the country.

Sinclair had told Ben’s father he would call him back with his answer. He then sat at his desk with rivulets of sweat rolling down his armpits and tears welling in his eyes. His whole body shook and his breaths came fast and shallow. He hardly slept that night as memories of that day came back to him, followed by other memories—dead and injured people, times when he pulled the trigger and took lives, times when he faced death but evaded it. A few days later, he called the department’s employee-assistance program, and they referred him to Jeanne Elliott, PhD, Clinical Psychologist.

“I’d like to explore one of the last things you mentioned,” Jeanne said. “Your feelings are valid, and I don’t intend to challenge them; however, you said you were a coward because you didn’t chase a killer into a dark building without a flashlight.”

“I know that’s illogical,” Sinclair said. “But the man got away because I was afraid to pursue him, and he killed two more people.”

“And you blame yourself for that?”

Sinclair shrugged his shoulders.

“Did you ever consider that Ben is alive today because of you?”

“He’s probably traumatized, even more screwed up than I am.”

“If you decide to attend the bar mitzvah, you might learn that’s not so.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you realize that millions of people who heard the story thought you were a hero?”

“That was the media’s spin.”

“I suspect Ben’s adoptive father thinks you were responsible for his son seeing his thirteenth birthday.”

“I wish that day never happened.”

“Burying traumatic incidents might work for a while, but eventually, as you’ve experienced, they come bubbling up at the most inopportune times.”

Sinclair looked at his watch.

Jeanne continued. “How’s your medication working?”

“I’m on homicide standby this week and have to be available when the phone rings, so I haven’t been taking the trazodone at night.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Not well.”

“I’m not a medical doctor, so I don’t want to give you medical advice. However, you know you’re not the only police officer I treat, and my experience is that trazodone will not prevent you from waking up and functioning when you need to. It’s not a sedative or depressant.”

“Okay.”

“And as I offered previously, I can work with your department and get you time off that won’t count as vacation or sick time.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Sinclair said. “People will know.”

“Your department is prohibited from taking any adverse actions against you.”

The way the city’s employee assistance was administered ensured that no one, not even the police chief, knew the names of those who used it. But the moment he hit off sick or with a so-called on-duty injury diagnosed as PTSD, the word would be out that he was mentally and emotionally incapable of handling the job, and he’d find himself at a desk.

“I’ll let you know,” he said.

When Sinclair entered the office, the other nine homicide investigators in the unit were at their desks, busy pounding away at their computers, talking on phones, or reading reports. Braddock looked up. “How’d it go with your insurance agent?”

Sinclair hated lying to his partner, but he had told her he was meeting with his insurance agent about reimbursement for when the Bus Bench Killer firebombed his apartment last year and destroyed everything he owned. “I just had to sign a bunch more forms.”

“The lieutenant wants to see us when you’re ready.”

Sinclair filled his dark-blue coffee mug, which had an outline of a dead body on one side and “Homicide: Our Day Begins When Someone Else’s Ends” on the other. Lieutenant Carl Maloney was in his late forties with thinning hair and a flabby middle. Sinclair and his fellow investigators had had their doubts about Maloney when he was assigned to command the unit, fearing that he had gotten the coveted job because of his previous position as one of the chief’s hatchet men in Internal Affairs, but Maloney turned out to be a good boss. He had never investigated a homicide, and although that didn’t stop most command officers from micromanaging their subordinates, Maloney never pretended he knew more about murder investigations than the sergeants under him. In addition, despite the fact that he could
be reassigned in the blink of an eye, he still stood up to the chief and defended his investigators even if it was politically expedient to do otherwise.

Maloney dug out the
Oakland Tribune
from under an assortment of papers. “I’m sure the chief will have some choice words to say about her being a ‘sweet girl’ when I see him later this morning. Is there anything else I should know?”

Braddock said, “The unnamed source the
Trib
quotes, who we all know is the PIO, said she was a prostitute, which should balance out Matt’s attempt to humanize her.”

“Not to City Hall,” Maloney replied. “To them, it sounds as if we’re not on the same team.”

Sinclair and Braddock briefed him on what little they knew at this point. When they got up to leave, Maloney said, “Matt, hang on a minute?”

Once Braddock left, Maloney leaned forward in his chair. “How are you doing?”

Sinclair chuckled. “Fine, and how are you doing, Lieutenant?”

“You know I’m not good at this, so I’ll come right out and say it. You don’t look so good. You came in late today, and that’s not like you.”

“I told Braddock and I left you a note that I was pushing back my shift and working nine to five today because I needed to meet with my insurance adjuster.”

Maloney paged through a stack of paper in his in-box. After a minute, he gave up. “Are they still denying stuff from your apartment?”

“It’s working out; they just require more documentation.”

“You’re still sober, aren’t you?”

Sinclair had been subject to a last-chance contract, where he had to submit to random urinalyses for a year after the department reinstated him as a sergeant and returned him to homicide. “Even though the contract expired over two months ago, I know damn well I’m an alcoholic and if I drink I’ll risk losing everything again.”

“I’m inquiring as a friend, not as a boss.”

For years, Sinclair had butted heads with Maloney, but their relationship changed after the Bus Bench killings when Sinclair came to realize that Maloney had never been the enemy. “I’m still going to meetings and still have a sponsor.”

“If there’s anything, you know you can talk to me.”

“I know,” Sinclair said.

*

Sinclair swung his car into the Palms Motel parking lot and accelerated toward a mixed-race man standing out of the rain under the second-floor landing. The man was in his midthirties, five-foot-eight, and wore dirty black jeans and a black canvas jacket. Sinclair and Braddock jumped out of the car and triangulated on him.

“Hands behind your back!” Sinclair shouted.

The man complied. Sinclair handcuffed him, patted him down, and stuffed him in the backseat of his car. Sinclair turned the car around and sped out of the parking lot onto West MacArthur Boulevard.

The man grinned from the backseat. “Thanks for the
Starsky and Hutch
move, Sinclair. Don’t want folks to think I’m snitching.”

“How’ve you been, Jimmy?” Sinclair asked.

“You know. Just trying to make a living. Who’s the lady, Sinclair?”

“Jimmy, meet my partner, Sergeant Braddock.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Braddock. You look like that lady detective on
Castle
. You watch that show?”

“Hi, Jimmy,” she said. “No, I don’t watch cop shows.”

Sinclair bought three coffees at the McDonald’s at Forty-Fifth and Telegraph, drove a block down Forty-Fifth, and parked under the 24 Freeway to get out of the rain. He pulled Jimmy out of the car, removed the handcuffs, and handed him
a coffee. Sinclair watched as Jimmy emptied eight sugar packets into his cup—classic junkie.

“Do you want to sit back in the car where it’s warm?” Sinclair asked.

Jimmy bounced from one foot to the other, stopping only long enough to take small gulps of his coffee. “Been sitting too much. Can we talk out here?”

Sinclair pulled up the collar of his raincoat. It was still in the low forties, and as long as the rain continued, they’d be lucky if it topped fifty today. Braddock buttoned her coat to her throat and thrust her hands into her pockets.

“I guess you wanna know about Blondie.” Jimmy pulled a pack of Kools from his pocket and lit one with a plastic lighter.

Sinclair set his coffee on the hood of the car, clipped the end of a small cigar, and lit it with his Zippo. “You heard what happened?”

“It’s in the paper and all over the street.”

“You know who did it?”

“Shit, Sinclair. You get right to the point, don’t you?”

Sinclair puffed on his cigar. Jimmy looked healthier and probably twenty pounds heavier than the last time Sinclair saw him, but three squares a day in the county jail and no drugs will do that for a man. Braddock picked her coffee up from the hood of the car, took a sip, and wrapped both hands around the paper cup.

“I’m gonna find out for ya,” Jimmy said.

“I’m sure you will, but in the meantime I need to know where she was living and who she was hanging with.”

“She was private.”

“She have an old man?” Sinclair asked.

“Old man, as in pimp? Come on, Sinclair, you know girls out here don’t really have no pimps. You don’t see no Cadillacs with fancy-dressed assholes driving around Oaktown, do ya?”

“How’s Shelia and the kids, Jimmy?”

“Doing good. That apartment is sweet. She really appreciate you pulling strings to get her Section Eight.”

“And how was her Thanksgiving?” Sinclair sipped his coffee and stared at Jimmy.

“I should’ve told you I was out.” Jimmy looked at his brown sneakers. “What you did was real nice.”

Sheila had four kids, and although Sinclair had never asked, he assumed Jimmy was the father of at least a few of them. Sheila had worked the streets off and on ever since she was sixteen. When Sinclair found out Jimmy was in jail last Christmas, he submitted Sheila’s name with the ages of her kids to the police officer’s association to have a food basket and toys delivered to her a few days before Christmas. He did the same for Thanksgiving two weeks ago, so Sheila received a turkey and all the other trimmings, more than enough for a family twice the size of hers.

“I help Sheila because I feel sorry for her,” Sinclair said. “And because she deserves a man who takes care of her and the kids. I don’t do it in exchange for your information. So I don’t like you talking to me like I’m a chump.”

Jimmy studied his shoes again while he took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Sorry, man. A black man’s not used to having cop friends. I known Blondie since she left the farm in Nebraska. In no time, she finds some rich regulars. One even buys her a condo and takes care of her. She’d come by the stro and visit, showing off new cars and nice clothes. But after a year or two, she leaves him and disappears. When she come back, she’s working for some escort services. Make lots of money, but she still come out here. Sometimes she helps me out. I haven’t seen her since I went to Santa Rita.”

“Is she still living in that condo?” Braddock asked. “Where is it?”

“That was like a 007 pad. She never tells no one where it was. She takes me to her apartment a while ago. Different than her condo. She makes me dinner and helps me do tax returns.
Never did that before.” Jimmy took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Did you know that for people who got no job and no income, the government gives you money for just sending in tax forms?”

“Was that apartment in Hayward?” Sinclair asked.

Jimmy finished his cigarette, flicked it to the street, and lit another one. “She says she just moved from Hayward, but this place is in Oakland.”

“You know the address?”

“No, but I can show you.”

Jimmy directed them down MacArthur Boulevard and around the east side of Lake Merritt.

“I’m having trouble picturing you and Dawn as BFFs, Jimmy,” said Braddock.

“It wasn’t like that. In all that time, I never touched that girl. When she first come to Oakland, she was like one of them little deer with the big eyes—nice, trusting. I watched over her so she didn’t get eaten by the big bad wolves. But she was smart. The vice squad got her once early on, sent her to juvie, then home to Nebraska. When she come back, she was smarter and had big plans.”

“What plans?” asked Sinclair.

“You know, get off the street, make some real money, invest it, and live happy ever after.”

Jimmy pointed out a three-story tan stucco building on Athol Avenue, about three blocks from the lake.

“You know her apartment number?” Sinclair asked.

“No, but I can show you. Second floor, go right out the elevator, third door on the right.”

“We need to handle it alone from here,” Sinclair said. “Let’s run you back to the Palms first.”

“I can walk. You do what you gotta do here.”

Sinclair pulled two twenties out of his wallet and handed them to Jimmy.

Jimmy stuffed the bills in his pocket. “I ain’t doing this for no snitch money. Blondie didn’t deserve this. You get the motherfucker who killed her.”

“I will. You keep in touch and call me if you hear anything.”

“You know it.” Jimmy bounced out of the car and sauntered down the hill in the rain.