“Grossed out” but still unsure they weren’t being pranked, Wendy Tang called Donna’s name. Receiving no response, Tang shook her, then ran to dial 911 from the phone in her bedroom.
The first police arrived at 4:11 a.m., EMTs shortly thereafter.
At 4:24 a.m., Donna Zhao was pronounced dead.
According to Wendy Tang, nothing of value appeared to be missing from the apartment. She said that Donna did not have a boyfriend, or very many friends at all, speculating that Donna was self-conscious about being several years older than her classmates. Her Chinese given name was Dongmei. Studious and shy, she spoke a halting but grammatical English. Like Li Hsieh, she was a Beijing native; the two of them communicated with each other primarily in Mandarin. Tang, American born, had opted to room with them in order to improve her own Mandarin. She could not think of anyone who would want to harm Donna.
Canvass failed to produce a credible witness to a person or persons entering or exiting the building. BPD did receive an overwhelming number of tips about strange characters running around, covered in blood or wielding weapons. It was Halloween.
The early stages of the investigation had focused on People’s Park and its residents, a rotating cast of the mentally ill, the homeless, dealers, drifters, and social dissidents. In general, the cops took a hands-off approach, a policy born of the sixties. Then as now, you could stroll by and observe a multitude of freak flags flying.
That ethos swiftly went up in flames. A young woman, a student, alone in her apartment, doing her homework — butchered — the outcry was immediate and wild. A quirk of human nature is that we’re seldom afraid of the things that really might kill us. With the exception of Zaragoza, not too many folks have nightmares about cancer, heart disease, or diabetes. Stranger murders, rare as they are, are the epitome of randomness, and they stoke a disproportionate amount of terror. And terror’s first cousin: media coverage.
A sweep turned up a bloody steak knife, wrapped in an XXL hoodie, gray fabric dyed brown and red with blood. Both items had been stuffed into a plastic bag and dumped in a trash can on the corner of Dwight and Telegraph, blocks from the crime scene.
Photographed against a white surface, laid beside a ruler, the knife was a malignant thing, with a stocky black handle and a wide, serrated blade four and a half inches long.
Over the next forty-eight hours, the cops rolled the park up, hauling people in on charges rarely if ever filed in Berkeley — disorderly conduct, public nudity. The strategy was: net as many warm bodies as possible and hope that one of them turns out to be the bad guy. Naturally, the crackdown sparked a protest, which turned into a minor riot, leading to further arrests and head-cracking and outrage. Your basic PR toilet spiral.
Not until several weeks had passed did a plausible suspect emerge, and it wasn’t the product of any extraordinary detective work. A man walked into the police station and said he needed to speak to someone right away.
At approximately eleven thirty on the night of the murder, the man told police, he had been walking home from his lab when he noticed an individual loitering outside Donna Zhao’s building. He was able to offer a detailed physical description of the individual, including his clothing: basketball shorts, conspicuous in the chill, and a gray hooded sweatshirt that closely resembled the one recovered from the can.
Information about the sweatshirt had not yet been released to the public.
After some hesitation, the man went a step further, stating he could positively identify the individual. However, he declined to provide the individual’s name.
The informant, Nicholas Linstad, explained that he was a fifth-year graduate student in the Cal Department of Psychology. At present he was conducting a study in which the individual, a Berkeley High School freshman, was enrolled.
Linstad stated that, upon recognizing the individual, he had grown concerned, wondering why a boy of that age would be on the street at that late hour, on a restless and hectic night. He called out, crossing the street and hoping to engage him in conversation. But before Linstad had reached him, the boy hurried away. Linstad stated that he had not attempted to pursue the conversation. He had to get home to his wife.
Chapter 16
I sat back, letting my eyes unfocus.
Nicholas Linstad had pointed the finger at Julian Triplett.
Hard to imagine a better motive for revenge.
Wondering why Linstad had waited over a month to come forward, I flipped through the transcript of his interview with Detective Bascombe.
LINSTAD: You see, it’s not simple. He’s a boy.
BASCOMBE: I hear that.
LINSTAD: He is a child. This is what you need to realize. He’s not...
BASCOMBE: I get it. I, it’s natural, you feel for him.
LINSTAD: Yes, of course, but also I thought perhaps I was mistaken, perhaps the police will find the real person. If I speak to you, I put him in a terrible position, and in the meantime the real person is walking around, free. You see?
BASCOMBE: I do. I do. Can I clarify something for a second? You thought you were mistaken? You mean you aren’t sure it was him you saw?
LINSTAD: No, no. This I felt, I feel quite certain about, it was definitely him.
BASCOMBE: You saw his face.
LINSTAD: I said his name and he turned to my direction.
BASCOMBE: Okay.
LINSTAD: But that is all I saw. I didn’t see him go in, I didn’t see him come out. It’s a boy’s life we are talking about, the life of a child.
BASCOMBE: There’s also the life of the victim.
LINSTAD: Yes... It’s all that I saw.
BASCOMBE: You said he was pushing buttons on the gate keypad... Nicholas?
LINSTAD: I suppose it’s possible.
BASCOMBE: It sounded before like you were pretty sure.
LINSTAD: It could be, it was dark.
BASCOMBE: Are you saying you’re not sure anymore?
LINSTAD: I... [inaudible]
BASCOMBE: Listen, I appreciate what you’re experiencing. I need to know what you saw, exactly like you saw it. It wasn’t too dark for you to see his face...? Nicholas.
LINSTAD: Yes, okay.
BASCOMBE: Yes he was messing with it...? I know you’re nodding but for the record, can you verbally acknowledge what you’re...
LINSTAD: I saw that he was pressing buttons.
BASCOMBE: Did it look like he was trying to break in?
LINSTAD: [inaudible] intentions. I thought perhaps he lived there.
BASCOMBE: He looked suspicious.
LINSTAD: I don’t know that.
BASCOMBE: That was the word you used. When we first sat down you told me you noticed him because he was acting suspicious.
LINSTAD: Perhaps I should have said he looked anxious.
BASCOMBE: How?
LINSTAD: I don’t know. It is an intuition that I had. I work with teenagers, I’m attuned to the way they behave.
BASCOMBE: You didn’t alert the authorities.
LINSTAD: No, of course not.
BASCOMBE: Why not?
LINSTAD: Because I didn’t know what he’s doing, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He’s standing there. I called his name and he saw me and left. Why do I call the police? What can I tell them? There’s a person? He’s not there anymore. It’s not my business.
BASCOMBE: All right... Do you need a minute? Do you want some more water?
LINSTAD: No, thank you.
BASCOMBE: I’ll get you some more.
LINSTAD: Fine, yes.
(14:29:36)
BASCOMBE: Can we continue? You said the victim was working on the same study and that this boy Triplett was part of it. Sorry, can you, verbally...?
LINSTAD: Yes.
BASCOMBE: Did the two of them have contact with each other?