The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(45)

Carol’s voice was staticky. “You didn’t murder anyone, right, Lindsay?”

“Right. I committed no crimes. Well, except for stepping over the thin blue line hard onto Sergeant Stevens’s toes.”

“From your e-mail, I say you did the right thing, and this is why we have IAD. Just remember who you are, a great police officer with a dozen commendations. Tell the whole truth. And don’t cry.”

I laughed. “Okay. No tears. Love to Rudolph and Blitzen and the rest of them.”

I was disappointed that Carol wouldn’t be here with me, but I was less afraid of crying than of tossing my breakfast. We said our good-byes and clicked off. I turned around just as Stevens came into the room with his advocate.

This sleazy former pal of my very dodgy father was dressed in friendly earth tones. Even with a middle-aged beer gut and a comb-over, he looked clean cut. And damn it. He had an honest face.

I, on the other hand, was wearing scuffed shoes. I needed a haircut. I was nauseous.

I sat down at the right-hand complainant’s table and folded my hands in front of me. Stevens and his advocate sat at the table across the aisle. The IAD brass took their seats up front. Hon sat in the middle seat between two men wearing severe expressions, jackets, and ties.

Brady came through the doorway in his usual denim everything, but he was wearing a tie. He nodded to me and took one of the folding chairs behind me. Central Homicide’s Chris Levant did the same.

A hush came over the hearing room and Hon spoke, saying that investigators from two homicide squads had filed complaints against each other. He said that each complainant would speak, the panel would ask questions if needed, and after the hearing they would come to a recommendation that would be sent up to Chief Jacobi.

My heart was galloping now. My impromptu meeting with Brady and Jacobi three days ago had been rough—but safe. Hon had been kind, bordering on condescending, in our one-on-one, but this speech was clinical. There was no wiggle room, no backing out, no place to hide.

I called my rehearsed speech to mind, and thank God, I remembered the first line. I hoped that once I got rolling, the story of unsolved murders would unfold without a hitch.

My mouth was dry. Bright spots sparkled in front of my eyes. I felt the presence of a stone-faced Brady behind me.

He had told me that the worst-case scenario was desk duty or a thirty-day suspension. But he was wrong. The worst-case scenario was the waterfall of humiliation and disrespect that would spring from bringing a charge against another cop—and losing.





CHAPTER 65


HON SPOKE FROM his seat at the front of the room.

“Sergeant Boxer. If you’re ready, you may proceed.”

I said, “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m here today—”

Hon interrupted, saying, “Please stand, Sergeant.”

I did it, the legs of my chair scraping loudly against the floor. The room faded around me. I steadied myself against the table and focused my tunnel vision on the gray-haired IAD lieutenant. And I reminded myself of Carol Hannah’s words. You’re a great cop. This is why we have IAD. Don’t cry.

I took in a breath and started my speech again.

“About a month ago a homeless woman named Millie Cushing sought me out to tell me that a man she knew had been shot dead on the street. His name was Jimmy Dolan. He was a poet and a friend, and she told me that other homeless people had been shot to death near places where they often congregated. Millie told me that the police were not taking these crimes seriously, that no one had been arrested or even questioned. She was afraid for her friends, for her community of street people, and she begged me to help.

“I didn’t know her, but she seemed sincere and mentally competent. I promised I’d look into these homicides. I didn’t expect that I would become involved in them, and I didn’t imagine that only weeks after Millie Cushing grabbed my arm on the front steps of this building, she herself would become a victim.”

Hon nodded. I was in a good groove, so I kept talking.

I told the panel about the shooting of Laura Russell at Pier 45 and the similar execution-style shooting of the still-unidentified Jane Doe on Geary Street. I sketched in the corrupted crime scenes, the way I had become the de facto primary on these cases while waiting hours for Sergeant Stevens and his partner to arrive. I mentioned that although I had introduced myself to Stevens, he had not wanted my help.

“Each time he told me not to worry. It was under control.

“I’ve filed my report. And I’ve looked into the progress of these homicides. As far as I can tell, there are no suspects, no arrests, and because my CI was murdered two and a half days ago on the south side of Mission near Spear, I’m officially the primary on her case.”

Hon said, “In a sentence or two, what is your complaint against Sergeant Stevens?”

“He didn’t work these cases with urgency. Perhaps if these victims hadn’t been homeless, if there were family members making inquiries, the cases would have received more attention. Perhaps, then, a woman who was doing her civic duty by coming to the police would be alive—and a spree killer would be awaiting trial.”

I said, “Thank you,” and sat down.

I heard Hon call Stevens, asking him to speak.

I had no idea what to expect, but I was sure he wouldn’t be blowing kisses at me from across the aisle.