LINSTAD: She assisted with data collection. She was present at certain times and not at others. The subjects came in for several hours to perform the task and [inaudible] she was there when he was. But I don’t know if they met, I can’t say that.
BASCOMBE: Were they friends?
LINSTAD: How can I know? I don’t think so.
BASCOMBE: Okay, but, what I’m asking is, was there some kind of prior relationship between them that might lead him to want to hurt her?
LINSTAD: I don’t, I really don’t know.
BASCOMBE: The boy, you knew him a little bit?
LINSTAD: Not very much.
BASCOMBE: Enough to be worried when you saw him.
LINSTAD: I wasn’t worried, I was [inaudible].
BASCOMBE: What’s the difference?
LINSTAD: In the, the, in a broad sense, I was concerned. This boy, I saw him in the laboratory. You must try to imagine how it is to see him in a setting that is totally different. It was very late, I was tired. I apologize, I find it difficult to explain.
BASCOMBE: It’s all right, do what you can.
LINSTAD: That’s all I can think of, I don’t know how else to say it.
BASCOMBE: In terms of personality, how would you describe him?
LINSTAD: Well, it is really difficult to say.
BASCOMBE: Still, you interacted with him.
LINSTAD: Very briefly.
BASCOMBE: Did he ever do or say anything inappropriate, or threatening?
LINSTAD: I’m not sure what you mean.
BASCOMBE: In your judgment.
LINSTAD: This is not something I feel comfortable speaking about.
BASCOMBE: What makes you uncomfortable?
LINSTAD: He has a right... I must respect his privacy.
BASCOMBE: Be that as it may, you’re aware, you have to be aware of what he did.
LINSTAD: I don’t... It’s not my intention to lead him to a, a [inaudible].
BASCOMBE: Nicholas. Listen. This was a terrible thing. Just god-awful.
LINSTAD: Please.
BASCOMBE: It was really ugly, what he did to her. I can show you the pictures.
LINSTAD: No. No. No.
BASCOMBE: I’ve been a cop a long time, okay? Nothing like this.
LINSTAD: I don’t want to discuss it anymore. I saw him there, that’s all.
BASCOMBE: I’m saying, if you can help us... What is it. What’s the matter.
LINSTAD: Please, can we stop?
(14:51:09)
BASCOMBE: How are you feeling? Are you feeling better?
LINSTAD: Yes, better. Thank you.
BASCOMBE: You’re ready to go on?
LINSTAD: I must tell you I don’t think I should say any more before I’ve had a chance to consult with someone.
BASCOMBE: Okay, that’s not a problem, but first let’s talk about your study.
LINSTAD: One moment, because it’s not my study.
BASCOMBE: I thought it was yours.
LINSTAD: I have an advisor, it’s his lab.
BASCOMBE: What’s his name? I’d like to talk to him.
LINSTAD: Is that necessary?
BASCOMBE: Well, yeah, I think it is, because we’re talking about a kid who was in his study and a victim who was in his study. You can tell me his name. I’m not going to have a hard time finding that out. I can call your department...
LINSTAD: Professor Walter Rennert.
BASCOMBE: Okay.
LINSTAD: He doesn’t know I’m here. I didn’t tell him I was coming.
BASCOMBE: Why don’t you give him a call him right now? You can call him from another room and talk to him. Tell him we’d like to speak to him.
A knock yanked me back to the present. Nate Schickman poked his head in. He’d changed into work clothes. “Doing all right here?”
There was a clock above the door. I hadn’t left my chair in three hours.
“Fine,” I said, moving the binder off my lap. “There’s a lot to sort through.”
“You finding what you need?”
“Getting there.”
He came and stood by the table, regarding the file with a bemused expression. Aside from the main binder, it contained a host of stuff I hadn’t touched. An entire second binder of crime scene photos. Other agency reports. A box of mini-cassettes; those would be interesting to hear. Seeing Linstad’s words transcribed to paper made it hard to know if his waffling was the result of nerves, guilt, or genuine uncertainty as to what he’d witnessed.
Schickman said, “When I got it for you I took a peek. Crazy shit. I was kind of surprised I’d never heard about it.”
“Before your time.”
“Yeah, but. This place has a long memory.”
“The primary, Ken Bascombe. Is he still around?”
Schickman shook his head. “Don’t know him.”
“Can you think of someone who might be able to reach him?”
Schickman looked at me. “Be straight. What’s the deal here? Either you closed your case, or you didn’t.”
“It’s done,” I said. “I’ll send you the death certificate if you want.”
“Then what’s up?”
I said, “Rennert’s daughter is convinced it’s murder because of this other case. My reaction was the same as yours: How come I never heard of it? So I wanted a look, that’s all.”
He smiled, too polite to call bullshit on me. “Curiosity knows no bounds, huh?”
“It’s my day off to spend.”
He squinted at the open binder. “Who’s the primary, again?”
“Bascombe.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up,” he said.
I returned to the file.
By the time the cops got around to interviewing Walter Rennert, they’d managed to unearth Julian Triplett’s name. It wasn’t difficult: they crossed the street to Berkeley High and asked around. In a freshman class of eight hundred, there was a single boy who matched the physical description provided by Nicholas Linstad, in all its freakish proportions.
For his part, Rennert began by denying that he was aware of any contact between Triplett and Donna Zhao. Eventually, though, he allowed that he wasn’t around the psych building every minute of every day, overseeing every aspect of his lab.
He refused to describe the nature of the study Triplett had been enrolled in, blustering about academic freedom. Bascombe switched tacks, attempting to coax Rennert into talking about Triplett’s personality. Again, Rennert refused. When the detective pressed harder, Rennert asked for a lawyer.
That was the extent of it. Perhaps he could already sense the coming shitstorm.
Ultimately, as the evidence piled up, whatever Linstad or Rennert or anyone else thought about Julian Triplett’s capacity for violence ceased to matter.
Triplett’s first interview with police took place in late January 1994. In the transcript, he came across as detached, often giving bizarre answers. He became fixated on the tape recorder, asking Bascombe who was listening to them and at one point attempting to shut it off. Unable to account for his whereabouts and actions on the night of the murder, he kept contradicting himself.
He was home.
No, he was walking home.
No, he was playing video games.
Six more interviews would follow, and Bascombe would note that Julian Triplett wore the same outfit to each: navy-blue or black mesh basketball shorts and a gray hoodie.
Bascombe asked Triplett for permission to take his fingerprints.
Triplett consented.
The crime lab matched a partial on the knife handle to Julian Triplett’s right thumb.
Confronted with this, Triplett imploded. He confessed to killing Donna Zhao.
BASCOMBE: Where’d you stab her?
TRIPLETT: Here.
BASCOMBE: He’s pointing to his chest. Where else?
TRIPLETT: Here.
BASCOMBE: In the abdomen. After you stabbed her. What happened then, Julian?
TRIPLETT: She like disappeared.