I caught up to him on Jennings and we fell into step.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he said.
“Says who?” I asked.
“Pettit.”
“You don’t answer to him.”
“No. But my boss is friendly with his boss, and I’ve been at this job two years.”
“Why doesn’t Pettit want you talking to me?”
“He thinks you’re full of it. Connecting cases that aren’t connected.”
“So why are you here?”
Malgin gave a crooked smile. “Because I think he’s a douche.”
His boots squeaked as we hooked a left onto Evans Avenue.
“He calls, starts reaming me out,” he said. “Like, what? All I did was pass him your name and number. I didn’t talk to you, I didn’t tell you anything. This is how you treat me? Douche.”
We were trudging uphill alongside the Hunters Point power plant. Clumps of purple pampas grass grew ten feet high along the fence, their silky tops fluttering through barbed wire. Although no longer making energy — it shuttered after a lengthy protest — the site continued to serve as a substation. Wires ran every which way; the hair on my neck was standing up, and I could hear the hum of transformers, like a single grim note held on a church organ.
“Does Pettit have a theory?” I said.
“Robbery gone wrong. Anything else is noise.”
“What’s his evidence?”
“His evidence is there’s no evidence.”
“So a random street thing covers it.”
Malgin nodded.
The road forked, the substation ended, and the basin unfurled into view, a drab murky tongue, half a mile wide and half a mile deep. Sheltered from aggressive Bay winds, the water was opaque and calm, betraying only the faintest incoming ripple. A steep eight-acre parcel sloped up from the shoreline. It wasn’t an obvious place to make a park. The grade was severe, the views dreary — stanchions, cranes, concrete rubble. Oil tankers and cargo ships balanced on the horizon.
Boots squeaking, Malgin clomped down the driveway. Seagull droppings stained the asphalt; I smelled kelp. At the midway point we reached the tot lot, where a trio of toddlers ran free. Their caretakers sat beneath a line of willows, sipping Starbucks and thumbing at screens.
Per SFGate, Camille Radovic had noticed the body from the playground slide. I went over to what I assumed was the right spot — the caretakers glanced up with alarm; strange man in the park — and got out my camera to re-create her perspective.
I couldn’t. The willows blocked the water.
Maybe she’d been standing at the top of the slide? Or watching from the benches? I didn’t have time to figure it out; Malgin was ahead of me, cutting across the pitted safety surface and disappearing down a final set of railroad-tie steps.
Hustling after him, I understood.
Two more slides were affixed to the slope’s eastern face, lower and closer to the embankment, offering an unobstructed view of the basin. A wise choice for twins. No waiting or fighting.
#NannyHack
Malgin crouched to pat the grass. “EMTs had him lying here when we arrived.”
“Did they tell you where he washed up?”
He stood and took in half a mile of water, mud, and rocks. “There.”
“Should I bother asking about the time?”
“I recorded it when the call came in.”
“Eleven a.m.”
“On the dot.”
“The woman who phoned 911,” I said, “Camille Radovic. Any chance you have her info?”
“I never talked to her.” He toed the ground where the dead man had lain. “It was strange, him being so close to the office. We were saying we should forget the van and just carry him back.”
“Two years on the job,” I said. “Must’ve been one of your first bodies.”
“Third.”
“What’d you do before?”
“Taught middle school science.”
“Nice. My dad was a science teacher for forty years.”
“I prefer this,” Malgin said. “No one talks back.”
Chapter 19
Malgin got a call, excused himself, and left.
Slinging the camera around my neck, I descended the embankment toward the waterline.
The rocks were large, sharp, and slick with algae. Erosion control membranes showed through the gaps; pier remnants poked up fifty feet offshore. Carefully I made my way around the basin, capturing it from multiple angles. I wanted visual reference points — something an eyewitness could point to and say, There. At the same time, I was aware of a landscape in flux, tides rising and falling, soil and stones washing in and out.
I mounted the steps to the tot lot.
The sun had broken through, bringing more children, plus a squadron of strollers. Women ranging from college-aged to grandmotherly sat beneath the willows. Camille Radovic was not among them.
“Morning,” I said. “How’s everybody doing today?”
Faces lifted. Frowned.
He’s back.
A woman in a Giants sweatshirt spoke up: “Can I help you.”
“Let’s find out.” I smiled. “My name is Brian. I’m a producer for Channel Four News. I’m looking for Camille Radovic. Anybody know how I can get in touch with her?”
The youngest woman, with a dyed purple streak, said, “What for?”
“Great question. I wanted to interview Ms. Radovic about an incident that took place here a couple years ago. A body in the water. Were any of you around for that?”
A few tight nods.
“If I showed you a picture, could you point to where it was?”
No volunteers.
“They closed the park,” the grandmotherly woman said. “We had to leave.”
“Right. When does Camille usually show up?”
“She don’t come no more,” Giants Sweatshirt said. “She changed families.”
“Do you have her phone number?”
“Is she gonna be on TV?” Purple Streak asked.
“Well, that really depends on her. We need to wrap by end of day, so the sooner I talk to her, the better.”
“If you gimme your number, I can text her.”
I recited it. “Thanks so much.”
Wails from the climbing structure. Faces turned.
“Trudy,” Purple Streak hollered. “Let go of him. Trudy.”
She leapt up and ran to enforce.
The other women returned to their screens. Not their child, not their problem.
“Thanks, everyone,” I said.
Nobody responded. I wasn’t their problem, either.
I started for my car. I hadn’t even left the park when my phone dinged.
Hiiiii it’s Camille is it too late?? 
Good timing! I wrote. You just made it!
Where are you? I can come meet you
W kids @ Alta Plaza
I mapped it. Pacific Heights.
On my way I wrote.
Another park, another playground. This being Pac Heights, the equipment was newer, the strollers fancier. In addition to women in leggings and sunglasses I saw a few men — tech bros, retired or soon-to-be. Everyone sipping Blue Bottle and thumbing screens.
Camille Radovic had commandeered the bucket swings and was pushing two children with one hand while making kissy faces at the selfie camera. She was thirty or so, curvy, pleasant-faced, and dark-haired. Her current charges were a boy and a girl, about a year old. White-blond silk poked out from their sun hats.
I introduced myself as Brian from Channel Four News.