‘Who’s ’at?‘
A woman’s voice behind him, and the boy backed away, leaving the door open. Glitsky didn’t like the boy between him and his perp. He’d seen guys – strung out on drugs or not – take their own children hostage, their wives, mothers, anybody who happened to be around.
Glitsky didn’t wait. He had a warrant and Tremaine Wilson was wanted for special-circumstances murder. Tremaine wasn’t going to be getting himself any slick lawyer to bust him out on the technicality of illegal entry. The boy had opened the door – that was going to have to do.
He pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped between the boy and his mother. ‘Police,’ he said so she’d be clear it wasn’t just another gang hit. ‘Where’s Tremaine?’
One of the guys behind him hit the lights and a bare overhead came on. The woman was probably twenty. She had a swollen lower lip, short cowlicked hair, giant frightened eyes. She’d been sleeping in a man’s plaid shirt that didn’t quite make it down to her hips. She made no effort to cover herself below, but stood blinking in the light, separated from her boy by this tall black man with a gun. She made up her mind quickly, pointing down a hallway and moving to clutch her son as soon as Glitsky stepped aside.
The door to the room was open. The light from the hallway didn’t make it back this far. One of Glitsky’s men had stayed behind with the woman and her child, so Glitsky and his remaining backup moved quickly down the hallway. The sergeant went through the open door, his partner crouched in the dark hall, gun pointed in.
There might have been a bed, but he couldn’t see it. He flicked on the light – another bare overhead. There it was – the bed – against the other wall, the only furniture besides a Salvation Army dresser. The man stirred in the bed, pulled the thin blanket over him. ‘C’mon, shit,’ he said, ‘get that light.’
Glitsky was at the bedside, pulling the sheet all the way down and off the bed, at the same time putting the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. Wilson, naked except for a pair of red bikini underpants, blinked in the harsh light.
‘Don’t blink any harder, Tremaine,’ Glitsky said, ‘this thing might go off. You’re under arrest.’
Glitsky’s partner had his cuffs out, was flipping Wilson over, snapping them in place. Glitsky went to the doorway and turned the light on and off, the signal that everything was all right. He heard the cops from outside come to the door. He went out to the front room, where the woman sat on the floor in the corner, holding her son. He lowered himself onto the green vinyl couch, letting his adrenaline subside.
The domicile looked the same as all the others – no rug, no pictures on the walls, stains here and there, a lingering odor of grease, musk, marijuana. Holes in the drywall.
Tremaine Wilson, untied shoes and no socks, pants and shirt thrown on, was led out. At least it had been an easy arrest. Small favors.
Now, nine o’clock, Tremaine booked, Glitsky was at the Marina and he was cold. July 1, and cold again. The past few days of warmth were already a dim memory. He thought maybe he ought to start keeping a log of certain dates, maybe the first of every month. He could see it, year after year, a microcosm of San Francisco’s cute little boutique microclimate: January 1 – cold. February 1 -cold. March, April, May – cold and windy. June and July – foggy and guess what. August 1 – chilly, possibility of fog. September and October – nice, not warm, but not cold. November, December – see January, etc.
José was out doing something with one of the lunatics who was taking a yacht out this morning onto the choppy Bay. Glitsky stood over a portable electric heater behind the counter, wondering what he was supposed to be doing here.
When he’d gotten back to his desk from booking, there had been a message to call Pullios. He found out she was taking the Nash murder to the grand jury, top secret, and he should clear his calendar because he – Glitsky – was going to appear tomorrow as a witness before the grand jury and explain that he arrested May Shinn because he was sure she was trying to flee the jurisdiction to avoid her inevitable trial for murder. And by the way, did he think he could take another shot at a few witnesses before tomorrow and see if he could dig up any more evidence?
Sure, he’d told her, no problem. Always here to help. Except, what witnesses? The case was pretty characterized by lack of witnesses. The only true interrogation he’d written up was the night guard at the Marina, Tom Waddell, and that, he thought, hadn’t provided squat in the way of convictable testimony.
But you kept at this long enough, you got a feeling about these things. Some cases were light on eyewitness testimony. Didn’t mean they weren’t any good. Prosecutors were always wanting a little more, a look under one more rock for that fabled smoking gun. Pullios had asked him how he really felt about the case against Shinn, and he told her he thought it was tight as a frog’s ass -watertight, but not airtight.
‘Airtight would be better,’ she said.
So here he was. And here was José, the morning guard, back from the pontoons, going straight to the coffee machine. Normally tea was Glitsky’s drink, but on less than four hours’ sleep he thought a little Java wouldn’t hurt him.
This was going to be another formal interview, another report, and he got José comfortable, sitting at his desk while he loaded a fresh tape into his recorder.
‘Three, two, one,’ he said. He stopped, smiled, sipped at his coffee, and listened to it play back. ‘Okay…’
This is Inspector Abraham Glitsky, star number 1144. I am currently at the office of the Golden Gate Marina, 3567 Fort Point Drive. With me is a gentleman identifying himself as José Ochorio, Hispanic male, 2/24/67. This interview is pursuant to an investigation of case number 921065882. Today’s date is July 1, 1992, Wednesday, at 9:20 A.M.
Q: You have said that when you arrived at work a week ago Saturday, June 20, the Eloise had already gone out.
A: Si.
Q: Had it been out the day before?
A: No. When I leave the day before, it’s at its place at the end of Two out there. Where it is now.
Q: And what time did you leave the day before?
A: I don’t know. Sometime normal. Two, three o’clock, but the boat was there.
Q: And it was back on Sunday morning when you came in?
A: Si.
Q: Do you get any days off here?
A: Sure. It’s a good place. I get Monday and Tuesday, but we can switch around. Long as it’s covered.
Q: But no one switched on the morning in question?
A: No.
Q: All right, José.
[Pause.]
During which Glitsky drank some coffee and tried to find another line of questioning.
Q: Let’s talk about Owen Nash and May Shinn. I have here a snap-shot of Ms Shinn. Do you recognize this woman?
A: Oh sure, man. She come here a lot.
Q: A lot? What’s a lot, José?
A: Last three, four months, maybe twice a month, three times.
Q: So you’ve seen her here at the Marina, a total of, say, ten times, twelve times?
A: About that, maybe more, maybe less.
Q: Did you ever see her at the helm of the Eloise?
A: Well, sure. She always with Mr Nash.
Q: I mean alone, guiding the boat in herself, like that.
[Pause.]
A: I don’t know. I try to remember.
Q: Take your time.
[Pause.]
A: Yeah, she take it out under motor one time, at least to the jetty. But that’s only like, you see, maybe two hundred feet.
Q: But Mr Nash wasn’t at the wheel?