"Inspector Robbins, Homicide."
"Yeah, Dan, it's Steve. Listen, I just got a call from Norm. Seems they can't get Cord's file out of storage until early next week. From what he was told, Records is a mess and the guy that should know where it is is on vacation until Monday."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Yeah. Look, I have a faculty dinner to go to tonight but I can get away for a couple of hours when it's over. I know it'll be late, but do you think you could meet me after that? I want to go to Pier 5 and have a look around. I know there's probably nothing to see but I just want to get a feel for the place, you know…?"
"Of course, yeah. Why don't you call me when you finish with the dinner and I'll meet you there."
"Great, will do. There won't be much traffic that time of night so it won't take me any time at all to get over the bridge. I'll call you."
# # # # #
Pier 5, just north of the Bay Bridge, was just as it appeared: a large warehouse that in its heyday handled the goods from the large ocean-going cargo ships that steamed into the harbour, but was now unused and empty. It was pitch-black, cavernous and cold, and footfalls echoed eerily no matter how quietly one tried to walk.
Though the sawhorse barriers had been removed and there was no chalk outline, the unmistakable dark stain of dried blood was still visible on the grey concrete floor.
Steve stood staring at it, fists in his pockets. Flashlight in hand, Dan approached him from the far end of the elongated building. "Well, you could park a car or five back there and no one would see them. And there's not much foot traffic in this part of town after midnight, as you know." He looked around and sighed. "With all the doors closed, I don't think you'd hear anyone screaming for their lives in here."
Steve raised his head and let his eyes rake the huge building, too dim to see the walls. "Well, if you wanted to beat somebody to death and not have anybody know it, this is the perfect place," he said slowly and quietly. "Anything?"
Dan shook his head. "Nothing."
Steve let his breath out slowly and loudly. "Well, at least we've seen it. I don't know what I was hoping to find," he chuckled dryly.
"Evidence of a third party?" Dan offered helpfully, an understanding warmth in his voice.
"Yeah," Steve snorted with a laugh. "Wouldn't that have been nice?" He sighed loudly. "All right, let's get out of here before a squad car comes by and we have to explain ourselves."
# # # # #
It only took two days for Mike to pass through the 'Reception' process and assigned a lower bunk in a fifty-man dormitory. There was a school-size metal locker next to the bunk for his clothes, toiletries and limited personal effects, like his watch, reading glasses and a few photographs. He had been issued a combination lock.
Every prisoner was allocated to a job, from working in the kitchen or the laundry, the on-site garden, or off-site on road construction or roadside clean-up details. Because of the cast, Mike was restricted from doing manual labour so he was assigned to the library, where he could re-stock the books with his left hand.
By the end of the first week, he knew the location of almost every book and was well on his way to becoming an indispensible asset to the prison librarian.
Keeping a low profile was not a problem for the former police officer. He spoke very little and only when directly addressed so, despite his size and physical strength, he was quickly dismissed as a mild-mannered pushover of no consequence. He planned to keep it that way.
But the detective in him was alive and well. He studied every one of men he shared the dormitory with, dividing them into categories; those who could and would look after themselves, he paid no further attention. But there were those who were too timid and overwhelmed to function properly in the prison milieu and, of greater concern, those who would take advantage of them.
On Mike's third day in general population, two new inmates were moved into the dormitory. One of them immediately caught his attention: a thirty-something slightly built blond man whose gold wire-rimmed glasses made him look even younger.
Mike kept an eye on him in the line-up in the mess hall for dinner and during the 'free time' afterwards. The young man sat by himself in the back of the TV room, staring at everything but the TV through wide, frightened eyes. He looked like a sitting duck.
This one might need some special attention.
# # # # #
"Got it, finally!" Haseejian crowed over the phone and Steve pulled the receiver away from his ear.
"If you mean you got Cord's file, that's great," the criminology professor chuckled.
"You're damn right we got Cord's file. Sergeant Phelps," the Robbery sergeant continued snidely and Steve swore he could hear the italics, "finally got back to work and he found the file in, like, a half hour, even in all that mess they got over there. Somebody told me it's gonna be possible one day to have all that crap on a computer. You think they're gonna be able to do that eventually?"
Steve laughed. "Yeah, Norm, I do. Listen, ah, can you drop it on Dan's desk so he can bring it home tonight?"
"You got it. Hey, Healey and I both have this weekend off – you wanna put us to good use?"
"Let Dan and I go over Cord's file and I'll let you know, okay?"
"Sounds great."
"Thanks a lot, Norm. And thank Dan for me, will ya – for me and Mike."
"You got it, kid- ah, Steve…" Haseejian's voice faded guiltily and the younger man laughed.
"Have a good night, Norm." Steve was still chuckling when he hung up, looking at the receiver and unable to wipe the grin from his face. Haseejian had come so close to calling him 'kiddo' again.
And, if truth be told, he would've loved it.
# # # # #
The John Denver lookalike had a name, as Mike found out: Ryan Sheffield. Mike preferred John Denver so that was the name that stuck in his mind. He was in for vehicular homicide. It was his third drunk driving arrest, but this time he had driven through a stop sign and t-boned a car, killing the 21-year-old female driver.
Funny, Mike mused as he stared at John Denver across the mess hall, he didn't look like an habitual drunk driver. But then again, most of the time murderers didn't look like they could kill either.
I should hate him, Mike thought. After all, his victim was about Jeannie's age. But there was something disarmingly innocent in the young man that had touched the seasoned detective's heart. Maybe it was that first night, after lights out, when, although their bunks were a couple of rows apart, Mike could hear the young man softly crying.
They were in the line-up for dinner when Mike spotted what he thought was the first altercation between J.D. and a big ugly bruiser Mike had nicknamed Sluggo. He knew full well that the 'real' comic strip 'Sluggo' was actually 'Nancy's' best friend and not a bully, but the name did suggest otherwise.
So Sluggo he became when the tall, thick-set, balding felon first made his presence known to the new arrivals with his intimidation tactic of pushing them out of the chow line and taking his place at its head. Mike had let him pass that first day, not wanting to cause trouble until he was very aware of the lay of the land and the characters that lived upon it.
And now Sluggo was at it again. A few of the other inmates were not intimidated and, like most bullies, Sluggo knew when to back off and not press his luck. But newbies like J.D. were like chum in the water and Sluggo was a shark whose dorsal fin everyone could see.
But from the looks of things, J.D. was unschooled in the way of the bully and held his ground in the chow line. Sluggo was not impressed. Using his tall frame and protruding but muscular gut, Sluggo, whose age was at best indeterminate, backed the younger man into the wall, staring down at him with cold dark eyes and a vicious sneer that could peel the paint off a pick-up truck.
J.D. stared back and a tense silence settled over the large mess hall. The atypical quiet alerted the guards and they pushed themselves away from their usual positions against the wall near the entrance and started towards the line-up.
Suddenly J.D. swallowed heavily and seemed to shrink even smaller, sliding slightly down the wall. Smiling triumphantly, Sluggo took a step back then turned and swaggered into the still moving line towards the food counter. Several others followed, brushing past the humiliated young man, before J.D. found the strength to stand upright again and rejoin the line.
Mike had watched it all unfold from his seat at a table nearby. As he turned his attention back to the barely edible meal on the plastic tray in front of him, he knew this was a situation he was going to have to monitor. For despite his outward milquetoast appearance, J.D. was blessed, or cursed, with a streak of defiance that could either save him or get him killed.
Mike was praying for the former but anticipating the latter.
# # # # #
"This is quite the hefty little file," Dan grunted as he tossed the thick accordion folder onto the coffee table in front of Steve; it had been expanded as far as it could go. "It's a good thing I'm in shape."
The older man chuckled as he picked it up. "Well, our Leonard Cord was one of the true bad guys. The world's a lot better off without him, believe me, no matter who took him out."
They were back in Dan's living room, which was rapidly becoming their de facto 'war room'. Steve's apartment in Berkeley was just too inconvenient.
Dan had disappeared into the kitchen, re-emerging with two empty plates and some cutlery and paper napkins. Steve had stopped for take-out on his way across the Bridge, picking up a steak sandwich and fries for himself and a large Caesar with a sourdough roll for Dan.
The professor slipped two large files out of the folder then put it on the floor beside the chair. He put one file on the table, looking at the tab of the other. The date on the one in his hand was 1973.
Dan had reappeared with a can of Bud for Steve and Tab for himself. "Two files?"
Steve nodded with raised eyebrows. "Yeah, our boy was busy." As Dan sat on the couch, he handed him the file from the table. "That's from '61. Cord was eighteen when Mike arrested him for rape and murder."
"Ah, the catalyst," Dan said softly as he took the file and set it on his knee. He had already put two legal length yellow pads and some pencils on the coffee table; he picked up one of each and sat back.
Settling in, they opened their respective files and got to work. It was going to be a long night.