LAST STRAW A Novel by David Rheem Jarrett Romans 12:19: Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Some adhere to this dictum others are too impatient.
Copyright 2014 by David Rheem Jarrett All rights reserved. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
This book is dedicated to my wife, Kathie, who put up with my seemingly endless hours of writing and editing and who told me to write short, punchy chapters, and to the rest of my family and the good friends who read, commented, criticized, but most of all encouraged me to stick to it and get this book published. David Rheem Jarrett June, 2014 Reno, Nevada
City of Berkeley
Chapter 1 Spring, 2010 Berkeley, California Thomas Pickering was bitter -- bitter as a Swiss steak marinated and tenderized in bile. He hunched over his computer, watching the numbers on his Yahoo finance page gradually change from green to red. The more red numbers, the lower the market; another bad day for his 401K. Pickering ground his teeth. He heard a pop inside his head and felt a sharp pain in his upper jaw. His tongue instinctively went to the spot -- a tooth on the upper right. He winced as half the tooth moved. God damn it! Another one! The start of a perfect day -- a falling market and a trip to the dentist. It was too early to call the dental office, so Pickering sat and brooded some more, occasionally testing the tooth with his tongue as if he hoped it would magically repair itself. He thought about the bright boys on Wall Street, taking home their millions in cash and stock options each year. Yeah, they talk us into investing in their schemes with the promise of great returns, but somehow the money always ends up in their pockets. M & A s, credit default swaps, derivatives and mortgage scams they ve thought of all the angles, and that means they get rich and we get it up the ass! Thomas! A jarring voice intruded on his sour thoughts. He looked up from the monitor, the desk lamp illuminating the craggy features and brush-cut, salt-and-pepper hair that fifty-eight years of life had produced. The face was creased with lines; smile lines, frown lines, and crows' feet around the eyes; the skin tanned from long hours spent
outdoors. It would be classified as strong, rather than handsome, but it was a face a woman would look at more than once. Pickering's fingers on the keyboard were thick; his hands large, the forearms attached to them heavily muscled from years of physical work and conditioning. Every other day he still worked out hard with a set of free weights down in the basement. The unfortunate tooth, already shortened by an unfortunate habit of constant grinding, was now beginning to ache, throbbing in time with his pulse. Tom, what are you doing in there? Marja, his second wife, was calling from the bedroom. Just my normal business. He leaned back in the task chair and absent-mindedly played with the tattered ears of Max, the runty but tough feral tomcat that had "adopted" Tom several years ago. He had no idea how old the little cat was or from where he had come. He had just appeared in the backyard one day and stayed, establishing it as his territory, and subsisting mainly on rabbits, voles, mice, and birds. It had taken years before Tom could actually touch the cat, much less bring him inside, but when enough trust had finally been established, the relationship between animal and man had grown quickly. Max looked up at him with his golden eyes and purred, waiting patiently for the cup of dry food that would come sometime during the morning. Tom knew that, in a way, the cat just used him -- he was a fighter and a survivor, and could live just fine on what he killed and ate -- but a free meal was always welcome, and the two enjoyed each others' company; so Max would come around regularly for a handout, and Tom would be happy to see him. He admired the little animal for his self-reliance and toughness; the cat had been his only real companion for months after his first wife's death.
You re always on that computer! You re addicted to it! I think you love it more than me! Thomas already black mood got blacker, the whiney tone of Marja's voice was annoying. Doesn t she understand that I m the one responsible for whether the mortgage, the credit card bills, the insurance premiums and the rest of the expenses get paid? She doesn't do a damn thing but spend the money! Without his computers, he would not only lose his umbilical to the outside world, he would not be able to manage his finances. Not a lot left to manage compared to a couple years ago. Why did I depend on those financial gurus anyway? If I hadn t, I wouldn t be fucked up the way I am now. Thomas glanced at the gun on the desk next to the laptop. It was made by Taurus and named The Judge. It was an ugly, ungainly revolver, with a short barrel and an overly long cylinder chambered for both the potent.45 Long Colt cartridge and, for the aiming-impaired, the.410 shotgun shell. It was on the desk because ever-increasing numbers of the unemployed were joining the already-large cadre of hard-core criminals in the commission of both burglaries and home invasions. If I were smart, I d have sold this house, taken the little equity I still had, gotten the hell out of here, and bought a cheaper place in Nevada before the housing market tanked. But NO! My gurus told me not to worry. Answering a knock or a doorbell, even in the daytime, was no longer a casual affair. These days, if you were not careful, you could end up beaten, robbed, or dead. Pickering never opened his door to a stranger without "The Judge" in one hand. He looked at the gun again its dull stainless steel and deadly purpose calmed him and somehow made him feel better. He pulled the right-hand desk drawer open and withdrew
two boxes of cartridges, taking one round from each box the.45s, slick, brass, with a huge lead slug at the end, and the red plastic.410 buckshot hulls, each one holding five.32 caliber pellets. The.45s were killers; the.410s were maimers; they might not kill unless delivered at point-blank range, but would seriously disfigure and injure anyone unfortunate enough to be standing anywhere in front of The Judge when its trigger was pulled. He had had to go to a gun show across the border in Nevada to buy the gun. California s gun laws were so stupidly stringent that a law-abiding dealer could not sell a law-abiding citizen a weapon like this one. The criminals, of course, who did not obey the law, had the all firepower they wanted sometimes more than the cops. He wished he had the money to install good security doors, but right now all he could do was keep up with the recurring monthly expenses. He had used an old set of aluminum crutches, stashed away in the basement from the time his first wife Shirley had broken an ankle, to make two braces that he wedged between the doorknobs and the floor on the front and back doors of the house before bed each night. With these, he felt more secure, knowing these doors would be harder to kick than they had been with their puny one-inch deadbolts. Thomas! Another yell from the bedroom. What! he yelled back, his temper flaring along with the pain in the tooth. What the hell does she want this time? Who does she think she is, a goddamn princess or something? He was tiring of her incessant demands. Thomas had found Marja on an Eastern European mail-order bride catalogue on the Internet, two years after losing his first wife. When she arrived in San Francisco, thirty-five years old, blonde, high-breasted, and with her long, showgirl legs, he could
think of nothing but getting her into bed. The broker had been expensive, but she was spectacular and well worth the fee. Pickering had had few sexual encounters since Shirley had died, and he was starving for it. Marja, on the other hand, was well practiced in the art of sex. After a quick civil ceremony, she showed him ways of consummating their marriage he had only dreamed about. His mind still whirled when he thought about that night. The hotel room he had reserved at the expensive Stanford Court was mostly a waste of money, as the luxurious accoutrements, elegant dark wood paneling, and plush pile carpet were ignored. The bed and the overwhelming scent of the Shalimar perfume Marja was wearing were the only focus of Pickering's thoughts. Soft breasts, hard nipples, silken inner thighs; her mouth on him, his mouth on her; lips, tongues probing and tasting every part of one another. If he had been a younger man with more testosterone, he could not have lasted, but Marja brought him to the brink of climax time and time again, only to back off and let him regroup. She knew when it was time better than he did, and when that time came, she lay on the edge of the bed, spread those long legs, and pulled him deep into her. With her feet on the floor, she pushed her hips hard into him and took him all. As his strokes increased in speed and intensity, she began to groan in the guttural way she knew excited men, and the groans were not all for show -- she herself was very hot. When she saw his face contorting as if in pain, and knew he was close to climax, she pulled him deeper, holding him tightly as he bucked, snorting and snarling and squirting into her. Her voice joined his in a high crescendo, and anyone walking by their door, or perhaps trying to sleep in an adjoining room, would know exactly what was taking place. When he was
spent, she lay quietly under him, holding him tenderly as the long, shuddering breaths that had had not been part of his life for so long escaped him. For the next several months, Marja had been the model wife. She was an adequate, though not a great cook, and she kept the house clean and in good order. Thomas had never been a gourmet, and was happy to eat anything that was put in front of him. His main needs were for affection and sex, and she gave him both often, sometimes even more than he could handle. However, as she became more confident in her hold over him, she began to become demanding. She wanted to go out to concerts and dance clubs. She wanted to travel. She wanted designer clothes, manicures, pedicures, and massages. In short, she wanted what most young and attractive women want, and she was not shy about expressing her wishes. They began to argue; Pickering would balk at spending money foolishly, and Marja would respond by withholding sex, an effective feminine technique that won her many arguments. After two years, Thomas was tired of the game. He was back to doing most of the cooking and cleaning, just like he had done when Shirley was dying, and he did not like the role. It was the role he had had to play as a caregiver. He had only minded occasionally at the time -- Shirley Pickering was a loyal wife and he was determined to be no less a husband, even though it was difficult at times. But the only thing he and Marja had in common was sex -- love and loyalty were not really part of the equation -- and he suspected that the only reason she took an interest in that was to get the other things she wanted. Marja used her body the way a maestro uses his baton to elicit the desired response from a willing minion. Now that she had her citizenship, Tom was not even
sure she would stay with him. He hadn t missed her non-verbal responses to the admiring looks of younger men on the nights he had taken her out on the town her body language spoke for itself. On these occasions, Tom sucked in his slight paunch, pulled his 5 10 frame as close to six feet as he could, and put on his best don't-mess-with-me face. He had been a good athlete in high school, served two tours in Vietnam in a Marine Recon unit, and was not afraid of a fight. He kept himself in good shape -- not the skinny, wimpy fitness of a runner, but the bulky, muscular, hard fitness of a professional boxer -- from his workouts with the weights. All of this experience and attitude was non-verbally transmitted to those around him, and as yet, no young buck had overtly challenged him for her attention. However, the last several months had made Tom a realist -- he knew someday Marja would leave him for a younger man, and he suspected she had already begun testing the waters. He would be alone again just him and his laptop. Goddamned old fool! Thomassss Max put his ears back and low-crawled out of the room towards the kitchen. Grunting in pain as he involuntarily clenched his teeth again, Pickering got up, put the pistol back in the desk with its ammunition, and went into the bedroom.
Chapter 2 Marja Pickering was sitting up in the big bed watching TMZ, the TV program that alternately lionized and bashed celebrities. The show pissed Tom off and made his stomach turn. He wished he could somehow use The Judge to shoot both the celebs and the talking heads right through the TV set. None of them were worth watching nor the money they were paid. He looked at her, her blonde hair spread out across the pillows she had piled behind her. He could see right through the thin nylon nightgown she was wearing, and the flesh-and-blood gun inside his boxers began to rise. His mood began to lift along with his member, and he forgot about the tooth. Maybe this morning won t be so bad after all. He removed the robe, laying it on the end of the bed and began to climb in next to her. She noticed his erection, and immediately covered up and moved away. Not right now, sweetheart. I have to have my hair done at noon. I just need to watch the end of this, and I want another half cup of coffee. Puleeese would you get it for me? The phony, sickening sweetness in her voice repelled him. She wants more coffee! Doesn t give a shit about me -- wants more coffee. Feeling like a fool, a stupid adolescent with a crush on the prom queen who has just turned down his invitation to dance, his face lost the flush of passion that had been there all too briefly, and the hardness in his shorts wilted. She gave him a pouty little smile, touched her lips with her index finger and placed it on his, cajoling him.
If you get me coffee and you want to play when I get home, I ll play the way you really like it. Marja was going to get her hair done, but before that she was meeting someone upstairs at the Claremont Hotel someone younger, who was going to screw her the way she wanted to be screwed! No sense in having one s hair done just to end up flat on one s back getting it messed up by some horny guy, even if the horny guy was doing exactly what one wanted him to do. A quick douche afterwards with Summer s Eve and a trip to the salon, and she could come home satisfied, with a new, and un-mussed, hairdo. If she bent over the couch and let Tom take her from behind, the hair would be undisturbed and he would be happy, and if he wasn t, well that was his problem. Marja had her life well in hand, and it was good. Tom worked up a fake smile, got off the bed with as much dignity as he could muster, got his robe back on, and, hating himself for allowing himself to be put down, shuffled off toward the kitchen with Marja s cup. He was gone for a few minutes, but returned with her cup in his right hand and a new, white Hefty bag in his left. Got to get the garbage out today, he said, giving her the cup. "And I just broke another tooth." He went into the bathroom, trailing the bag behind him, but when he came out it was still empty. She did not notice this; nor did she comment on his broken tooth or pay him any attention when he came to her side of the bed. She should have. The small.22 automatic he pulled from his bathrobe pocket made two sharp cracks as he shot her twice in the left temple. The noise was loud in the room but inaudible to anyone outside. Her brown eyes widened and then rolled back, pupils fixed and dilated, as the little projectiles ricocheted around inside her skull, not having enough
energy to come out the other side, but turning much of her calculating brain to mush. Tom quickly flipped the Hefty bag over her head, tightening the pull-ties around her neck to contain the small amount of blood welling from the two holes. You stupid bitch did you really think I didn t know? If you re going to fuck someone else, you should at least fuck your husband first. And you were right about the computer! He looked at the stillbeautiful but now faceless body. She's still warm. Should I do her again for old times sake? He had a full, throbbing erection and was about to pull the top sheet away when he remembered what often happened to sphincter muscles after death. No -- bad idea! He pulled the corners of the bottom fitted sheet and mattress cover off the mattress, bundled up the inert lump that had once been his wife with the rest of the bedding, and went back to his desk. He called his dentist and was given an emergency same-day appointment for three o clock in the afternoon. * * * * Later that same Friday, Rick Wilson sat in room 412 of the Hotel Claremont in the Berkeley hills. He had showered and attired himself in white tennis shorts and a new Nike shirt, both of which accentuated his strong, young frame and suntan. A light lunch and a chilled bottle of champagne had been set out on the small round table. He had no lessons scheduled until two this afternoon. By the time he and Marja had enjoyed each other s company and then eaten lunch, the effects of the champagne should have worn off. He sat and he waited
Chapter 3 It was midnight, and Pickering was hunkered down behind the dash of his black Suburban, a half-block away from the Heavens Rest Mortuary on Milvia Street in northwest Berkeley. The big SUV was one of the few luxuries and pleasures he had left. He had bought it before Shirley had gotten sick, when life was good. It had the huge 454 cubic-inch V8 engine, chipped to produce over four hundred horsepower, leather seats, an upgraded sound system, and every available factory option. It had a modest two-inch lift, to accommodate the eighteen-inch chrome spoke wheels and tires, and he kept it spotless and in immaculate condition. Milvia was a quiet street, and at this time of night there was virtually no traffic, even on nearby Martin Luther King Way, one of the main north-south arterials. He was familiar with Heaven's Rest, and with its equipment. Just as other American businesses had adopted computer-aided technology to increase their volume and reduce their dependence on human labor, so had the mortuary industry. The new, mechanized and computer-controlled crematory unit Heaven s Rest had installed was the latest available, but they had had a major electrical problem that required the cooperation of Pacific Gas and Electric Company, the utility that served the Bay Area, before they could put the new unit on line. Tom had been the project manager and liaison between the utility and the contractor that did the repairs, just prior to his taking early retirement from PG&E to care for his sick wife. The job had taken almost two weeks, and by the time they had finished, he was well educated in the techniques of disposing of the dead.
He had seen Jody Thiessen, the young UC student who answered the telephone at night, go in when her shift started at ten o clock. He keyed the number for the mortuary into the prepaid, throwaway cell phone he had purchased on the way home from his dental appointment. Heaven s Rest Mortuary, came back to him as Jody picked up on her end. Jody, this is Frank. Tom had also gotten to know Frank Anderson, the manager, during the two-week stint. Sorry but we ve got a new one coming in about five minutes. Get the back door open for the hearse, will you? OK, Frank. You sound a little strange. Got a cold or something? I don t know got a little cough with all that H1N1 virus around, I hope it s not that. You better get that door open, though. All right, Frank. Feel better. Hope it s not the flu. Thanks, hon. See you tomorrow. By the time Jody had hung up and gotten to the back door, Tom was already waiting. As the roll-up door went up, his dark-clothed shadow flitted behind her and before she could react, one arm wrapped around her torso while another gloved hand pressed a pungent, ether-soaked rag over her nose and mouth. Don t fight it. I don t want to hurt you, were the last sounds she heard. Her struggles lasted less than a minute, and Tom eased her to the floor. He used duct tape to secure her arms and legs, and to cover her eyes and mouth. Tom had nothing against Jody and he had no desire to hurt her. He ran back to the Suburban, backed it into the yawning entrance where the mortuary s employees relieved the hearses of their sorrowful burdens, and rolled the door back down. He knew he was taking a chance there might
just be a bona fide night call, but he knew the odds were against it, and with no one answering the telephone, chances are the caller would hang up and contact one of the other mortuaries in town. He dragged Jody, still unconscious, into the business office, gave her another dose of ether to ensure she slept, and left her on the floor. Making his way back to the receiving area, he went through the double doors on the left that led to the crematory. He checked the oven the retort was still somewhat warm from its last job of the afternoon and pushed the big red button to start it up. He heard the humming as the huge electric elements in the high-speed oven began heating the unit up to its 2000-degree operating temperature, and a wooden coffin came trundling down the conveyor, ready to accept its cargo. Tom pulled Marja s corpse, wrapped in her shroud of bedclothes, out of the back of the Suburban, and unceremoniously dumped it in the coffin. He didn t look at her didn t care to see her again. He went to the computer s touch-screen and checked the temperature of the oven not quite ready. He went back to the business office and found Jody struggling a little. Once again, he dosed her with the ether until she slept soundly, and rechecked her bonds to assure that even if she were to awaken fully, she would not be able to move. By the time he got back to the crematorium, the computer said the oven was ready, and he pushed the Go icon on the touch screen. The retort door opened, the charger pushed the coffin into it, and the door slid closed again. In an hour and a half, when the oven had done its work and Tom had crushed what was left of her in the mortuary s pulverizer, he drove home with Marja sitting beside him in a little cardboard box in the passenger s seat. She had lost a lot of weight -- one hundred sixteen pounds down to just over four and a half. I guess the human body
really is 95% water. Tomorrow the two of them would drive to the estuary and he would do a little fishing, but tonight he still had work to do.
Chapter 4 The young UC student thrashed back and forth on the floor of the mortuary s business office. She remembered awakening for a short time from what seemed to be a very pleasant dream, but could not move, and the person with the rag had come back before she was fully awake and drugged her again. As far as she could tell, the whole building was silent, but the business office was separated from the working part of the mortuary by a heavy door designed to prevent any noise to reach the painstakingly decorated place of peace where the bereaved and prospective future clients negotiated their contracts and spent their money. Likewise, the walls were heavily soundproofed, so the sounds of the dead being helped on their way into the hereafter would not be heard by those who were paying for this service. She stopped struggling for a time and just listened. Was it her imagination or did she hear the rhythmic pulsing of the pulverizer? Sometimes, especially when the subject was big-boned, one could feel, rather than hear, the grinding of what remained in the retort after the furnace had done its job. Who had done this to her and why? She thought whomever it was had to be a man the arm that had pinioned her was much too strong to have been a woman s, and the voice was deeper. Would the guy come back in here to rape her, kill her, or what? She struggled again with all her might, but finally lay still, knowing she could not defeat the bonds. She listened and prayed until her exhausted body gave up and she fell asleep again.
Chapter 5 As he neared his home on Keeler Street in the Berkeley hills, Tom killed the headlights in case any neighbors were still awake. The last thing he needed was some old biddy insomniac seeing him arrive at this hour. He parked half on the sidewalk in front of his house like everyone else who lived in the neighborhood. Berkeley s population had grown to the point that it had run itself out of room, and though the police and fire departments hated the way people parked up here, they could not do much about it. Most houses in this part of town had been here for seventy years. Every household now had at least two cars, but most houses had only the one-car garages that were all their owners needed at the time they were built. The streets were narrow and could not be widened without destroying a lot of real estate -- real estate that was some of the most prestigious and expensive in the Bay Area. Any official who tried to push through a change like that would soon be out of a job. Many of Berkeley s most influential people lived in these hillside neighborhoods. By parking half on the sidewalk and half on the street, the people had found that two full-sized cars could just pass each other traveling in opposite directions without hitting those parked alongside, and so they had been parking that way for years. Marja had insisted that her car, an almost-new BMW 3-series Tom had purchased for her, got the garage. Tom placed Marja in her box on the floor, locked the Suburban quietly with the door switch rather than the fob button that would sound the horn. Once inside the house, he went down to the garage, shut off the switch to the motion sensor light over the door, and unscrewed the bulb on the automatic door opener. Starting the BMW, he opened the
door of the now-darkened garage. He backed into the street, headlights off, and the smooth six-cylinder engine whispered the little car towards Marin Avenue. Once out of the neighborhood, he turned on the headlights, made a right, and drove down the steep hill to the large concrete circle, the unique hub of North Berkeley, one of the country s first roundabouts and far ahead of its time, where five major arterials came together. He went around the circle and down Sutter Street to Shattuck, eventually arriving at Live Oak Park. The parking lot was empty, and he parked the car where the shadows were deepest. He was still wearing the heavy vinyl gloves he had donned after delivering the coup de grace to Marja. They made his hands sweat and he did not like them, but Tom was not a stupid man and had no intention of leaving his DNA about. He locked the car and walked into the park, down toward Cordinices Creek, and found a spot beneath a giant oak. He lay down on his back in the thick layer of fallen leaves, wriggling around to disturb them and leave an imprint. He pulled his knees up and back as far as he could, then dug in and pushed with his feet, furrowing the leaves and earth on either side of the lower part of the impression, and then deepened the center of the furrows with a finger, painting a picture in dirt of high heels digging up the ground seeking traction. He stepped away from the scene he had created and examined his handiwork. Satisfied, he threw a pair of Marja's skimpy thong underwear from the dirty clothes hamper a couple feet away, and melted into the shadows, placing his feet carefully to avoid moving the fallen leaves until he came to a walking trail. This was part
of another unique Berkeley innovation, a labyrinth of trails, mostly invisible from the streets that wound back up into the Berkeley hills and home. Gone, baby, gone.
Chapter 6 Pickering s alarm shrilled at six o clock in the morning. He had only allowed himself about three hours sleep, but he had never needed much of that anyway. He ran his tongue over the smoothness of the temporary cap on his upper right molar. The gum was a little sore around it but overall the tooth felt great. He and Dr. DeWitt had had a lively conversation about fishing, hunting, and not chewing ice, while the dentist removed the broken portion of the tooth and prepared it for a crown. He and DeWitt had known each other for some twenty years, and he had been in the dentist's chair before Marja's body had cooled in its cotton and wool cocoon. Pickering did not bother showering or shaving just climbed into his fishing clothes, brewed a pot of coffee and filled his thermos, and went down to the garage. He got his fishing rod and tackle box, put them in the Suburban next to Marja, and headed for the Berkeley Marina's fishing pier. The pier, originally three and a half miles long, was built by the Golden Gate Ferry Company, and used from 1927 to 1939 to transport passengers across the bay from Berkeley to the Hyde Street ferry terminal in San Francisco. With the opening of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, the ferries became redundant, and most of the pier was abandoned and allowed to decay, the first three thousand feet being retained by the city for recreational purposes, mainly fishing and crabbing. He bought bait from Gid, the old man who was always in his little shack by 6:00 AM, and walked the half mile to the far end of the pier with his little load, which, in
keeping with the tradition of Berkeley pier fishermen, consisted of a folding aluminum chair, tackle box, thermos, and beer cooler. Instead of beer, the cooler contained something much more dry. It was a typical East Bay morning, overcast with fog, making visibility poor and the pier somewhat slippery. The bay smelled like stale fish and garbage, as it was not yet high tide. Even now, the smell from the bottom occasionally could remind one of the "stinking east bay" referred to by longtime Berkeley residents who had lived there in the days when raw sewage was pumped into the bay from the city. Pickering cast his line, a fresh sardine decorating the hook, as far out as he could, sat in the chair next to the rail, and surreptitiously dropped handfuls of Marja's cremains into the water lapping at the pilings twenty feet below while waiting for the fish to bite. He was one of the first Saturday fishermen, and the few that were there had distanced themselves from one another on the pier, so as not to encroach on one another's territory. Pickering doubted anyone would notice his extra-piscatorial activity. He only fished long enough to dispose of what was in the box, not caring to look at what he was dropping. He had cremated her purse along with the body, and whatever remained of it and its contents also went into the bay. After exposure to 2000 degrees, there was not much. Every now and then his fingers would feel some small hard object, but whether it was a piece of bone, a fused bit of metal, the remains of her cell phone, or a hunk of melted glass or jewelry, he neither knew nor cared. By the time he was finished, there was no evidence that Marja Pickering had ever existed. He gathered his equipment, drove back home, showered, changed into his bathrobe, and called 911 at 9:05.
Chapter 7 Jody Thiessen slept fitfully on and off until the weekend day crew arrived at 9:00 and set her free. She was shaken from the treatment she had received, but for some strange reason, she was not afraid. Whoever her phantom visitor had been, she realized he had gone to great lengths not to harm her. In fact, she remembered his being very gentle as he lowered her to the floor. The police arrived and made her sit through an interview. She put up with it, even though what she really wanted was to go home, be with her boyfriend, and sleep in her own bed. Could she recognize the intruder's voice? Maybe, but not for sure. But there was something about that voice that stuck in her brain what was it? Maybe she did know the guy. Whatever it was, was way back there. Maybe she d remember after she had a chance to relax. How tall was her assailant? Taller than she, but no taller than the average man, but exceptionally strong. She noticed the cops carefully gathered up all the duct tape with which the man had bound her. She assumed they would look for fingerprints and traces of fibers stuck to it. They finally let her leave, after she promised to come to the station and file a full report on Monday, and she gratefully climbed into her ten-year old Volkswagen and headed for her apartment. Not only was she tired, she still had to write the Marketing essay she had planned on doing last night, and, of course, she would be back here tonight
at ten. She knew Frank Anderson would let her off after what she had been through, even to the point of working the shift himself. He was a nice man and a good boss. The problem was she didn't need to lose any hours of work she needed the money! Living expenses in Berkeley were high, and the cost of credits at UC had just gone up again. She knew her boyfriend would come and stay with her through the next few nights -- after all, he did it half the time anyway -- and besides, she did not think the phantom would be coming back. The whole thing was way to weird to happen twice! What did the guy want in the first place? There was no cash to steal, no vandalism, nothing missing, and she hadn't been raped or harmed. Had it just been a college prank played on her by someone she knew? If so, she didn t think it was very funny.
Chapter 8 Static crackled briefly in the big Crown Vic and then its two occupants heard, Unit 32, see the man at 745 Keeler and take a 10-57 report. Tess Brogan, the Berkeley Police patrol officer riding shotgun, keyed the microphone on the cruiser s UHF radio and answered, 10-4, dispatch. Proceeding to 745 Keeler. Clear. Mike Kingman, her partner behind the wheel, was already reacting and turning up into the Berkeley hills. Wonder if this one s real or another false alarm, Kingman said. For our sakes, I hope it s real, replied Tess. False alarms are a pain in the ass. For their sake though, I m hoping for a false alarm. Kingman booted the big car up the steep roller coaster-like Marin Avenue, and they were soon pulling up in front of Thomas Pickering s home. Kingman was a "car guy", and he admired the shiny black Suburban, with lots of chrome and the high-end wheels, that was parked in front of the house, half in the street and half on the sidewalk. He had to park the cruiser almost a block away in order to avoid blocking the street. Goddamn streets, he muttered, as he shoehorned the big car into a vacant spot. They walked back to 745 and rang the bell. Tess was struck by the contrast between the immaculate car in front of the house and the haggard, unshaven man in the old bathrobe who opened the door. Odd, though. He smells like fresh Lever 2000 she recognized the scent well because she used the soap herself.
Good morning, sir, she said. In situations like this, Kingman usually liked her to do the talking. We were advised you wanted to file a missing persons report. My wife went out yesterday and never came back! Pickering said, sounding distraught. May we come in? The sun s pretty hot in these uniforms. Sorry, the man said. Come on in. Want some coffee? No, thanks, Tess said, and Kingman shook his head in agreement. She noticed her partner s eyes, moving quickly around the part of the house he could see. He s a suspicious cuss, but he doesn t miss much that s why I do the talking while he does the looking. Is there somewhere we can sit and take your report? I m sorry, Pickering repeated. I ve never had to do anything like this before and don t know the drill. Come on back to the kitchen. We can sit at the table. He spilled out the story like a waterfall; how his wife had a hair appointment around 11:30 the day before, while he was at the dentist. How he was used to her coming back late when she went out, but that she had never stayed out all night before. He had not wanted to call and bother the police with a nuisance report, but twenty hours was too long. Hold on just a second, Tess said, opening her metal clipboard and pulling out a form. We sort of have to do this by the numbers, and so far we don t even know your name. My name? Thomas Pickering. That s my name. And how old are you, Mr. Pickering? Fifty-eight. Height and weight?
Five foot ten, one-eighty. Is this report about me or her? It s about her, but it s routine procedure for us to get a description of the person making the report also. Does that bother you? Tess glanced at Kingman, who quickly rolled his eyes up and back. No doesn t bother me just think it s kind of strange, Pickering said. Tess jotted down Pickering s hair and eye color without asking any more questions. OK, she said, Now about your wife. What s her name and old is she? Her name is Marja. Maiden name was Bikel, and she s thirty-five. She s five foot six and weighs about a hundred and fifteen pounds. Do you want to see a picture of her? Tess nodded, and Pickering got up, went into another room, and returned with one of their wedding pictures. Perfect, Tess said. May we keep this, or can you make a copy for us? I can make a copy on my all-in-one. I think communication and data transfer equipment are important these days, don t you? In our profession, definitely! The officers exchanged a discreet, knowing look when they noticed the age difference, and the woman s striking face and figure. If you don t mind my asking, Mr. Pickering, how long have you been married? Tess asked. She was glad Mike was keeping quiet, as she could sense Pickering was beginning to relax and open up. He had seemed pretty tight when they arrived. Only about two years. My first wife and I were married for twenty-eight, but she got pancreatic cancer and died.
I m sorry. Cancer s a horrible disease, isn t it? Do you have any kids? Yeah, but they're out of my life. They're both on the East coast and both of 'em are mad at me. They didn t think I should have married Marja and now they re worried about their damn inheritance. Pickering s voice seemed to take on a hard and brittle edge; strangely different from the demeanor of the man who had first answered the door. This guy sure as hell isn t going for the father of the year award. Tess asked about Marja s habits, her history, and the exact sequence of events that day. She asked him about the Pickerings friends and acquaintances and found that Pickering thought that most of his and Shirley s friends had shared the opinion of their children; that Thomas had made a big mistake in marrying Marja and they did not like her. As one would expect, he said, this feeling was spearheaded by the wives, and in the world of middle-aged married couples, the wives make most of the social arrangements. Pickering's words came out bitter. "You know how most middle-aged women feel inadequate and uncomfortable with a beautiful thirty-five year old around? You know, they're getting fatter and dread getting into a bathing suit? They've got cellulite now, and wrinkles, and they sag where they didn't used to -- that kind of stuff. So they get jealous and don't want to associate with someone like that, and that cuts the younger wife's husband out of everything, too." Evidently, most of the Pickerings' former friends had drifted away over the past two years, leaving the new couple socially isolated. Tess nodded, putting herself in the younger woman's place and imagining the cold reception she herself might have gotten under similar circumstances. Even in her imagination, the discomfort was palpable, and she had no trouble believing the man's
assessment of his situation. When she finished making her notes, she asked if they could examine the rest of the house. Do whatever you have to do. I just want my wife back, Pickering said. He sat in his chair looking forlorn until the two officers left; then got up and went to the computer. The sad look turned to a smile as he went to his Internet favorites and clicked on Facebook.
Chapter 9 The Berkeley Police Department was not large by the standards of modern U.S. cities. With 187 sworn officers, the ratio of officer per 1000 residents was 1.82, lower than the national average of 3.0. Consequently the city, even though regarded by many as a halcyon place to live, had a higher than average crime rate, particularly in the south and west sections. The department was one of the first to require its officers to be college-educated, adopting the principle of quality over quantity. The pay for a patrol officer was good, but considering the educational requirements, not spectacular. It was somewhat more than that of a garbage collector; a job which requires no higher education at all and entails very little risk. Because of the recession gripping the state, the City Council kept the force small even though the population was growing. The sworn officers were smart and dedicated to their work, but even with a support staff of about 100 in the central station on Martin Luther King Way and Addison Streets, and the few small substations throughout the city, they had a hard time keeping up with their steadily increasing work load. The sworn officers nominally worked either four ten or three twelve-hour shifts per week, but with the city's reluctance to hire new personnel, overtime days were a common occurrence. Tess Brogan and Mike Kingman were putting Pickering s and the other reports they had taken that day into official form at the central station. The two had only been partners for eighteen months, though they both had over five years service on the force. In addition to their educational requirements, Berkeley had been one of the first cities to allow women to perform all regular duties rather than restricting them to safe
office work. The two sat next to each other at adjacent computer terminals, Mike hunting and pecking and Tess hammering the keys like an executive secretary. She was the one working on Pickering s report. She stopped and looked at her partner. Mike, remember that guy we interviewed this morning the one with the missing wife? Yeah, Thomas something, wasn t it? Poor bastard. He looked like shit. He chuckled, but not in a happy way. Any guy that age with a wife like her has to know she s getting nailed somewhere else. When you re his age you usually need the little blue pill, and Mr. Midnight doesn t raise his head that often. He raised his eyebrows as he looked at her. What would you do if you were her and married to an old guy? You re young, and your equipment s the same, maybe even better than hers. He leered at her in a friendly way. Pickering was his name, and you re an asshole, and you're going to be a dirty old man when you grow up, Tess said in an affectionate tone. You never give up, do you? Mike had been trying unsuccessfully to get her into bed since they had met, but though the two had become close and she was attracted to him, she was nervous about taking him as a lover. She did not want to lose a partner and a friend over the complications that arise when sex is brought into a working relationship. Never will, either. was the cavalier reply. He turned serious again. But anyway, what about the guy? Maybe nothing at all. I've just been thinking about it and I thought it was weird that he waited so long to call if he was that worried.
Could've been he thought he still had to wait twenty-four hours to file a missing persons report, like in the old days. Yeah, maybe. Lots of people don t know they don t have to wait that long anymore. You re probably right about her though I d bet money she s having at least one affair maybe more than one. And your meaning is I don t know, Mike. Something just didn t seem right. Perhaps it s cause he did look like shit, but I could smell the soap on him so I knew he d just taken a shower. He doesn't wear a beard, but hadn t bothered to shave. My dad always shaved right after he showered. So did most of the guys I've known. It s just one of those feelings. All the guys you've known, huh? I'm not real sure I like the sound of that." Kingman gave her a sideways look and she knew what he was thinking. "Well, we gave the place a pretty good once-over and didn t find anything unusual, and the guy didn t seem psycho or anything just tired and worried. You think he had something to do with her disappearance? Not really just a strange feeling that things aren t quite Kosher. I m sure if she doesn t show up, detective division will get involved anyway. I ll buy that, Kingman replied. Meanwhile, let s use your flying fingers to get the rest of this stuff in the computer so we can get out of here! It s Saturday night.
Chapter 10 Late that night, the hard-working central computer at the Berkeley P.D., having received Brogan and Kingman s missing persons report, automatically cross-referenced it to those filed by others, including Traffic, and flashed a message to Patrol Division that a 2007 BMW, registered to Thomas and Marja Pickering, had been found abandoned at Live Oak Park. According to the park s director, it was there when he came to work early that morning and was still there, and he wanted it out. Park rules specified no overnight parking, but this vehicle had obviously been there part, if not all, of the previous night, and all day as well. Kingman s cell phone on the nightstand belted out the theme from the movie "Rocky," rudely jerking him out of a pleasant dream. He was not happy at the phone's intrusion, and came close to throwing the innocent electronic device across the room. He looked at the screen before answering. 1:15 AM what the hell did Central want with him? Kingman, he said. Hey Mike! It s Ken. Ken Curtis was the desk Sergeant who worked nights. It was not a shift most officers relished, but Curtis was a widower with grown children who had no interest in rattling around an empty house and preferred the company of his police family. Sorry to blast you out of bed, son, but I just got a flash from computer central and you need to know about it now. Go, Sarge, said Kingman, snapping awake and feeling like he was back in the service. He got up, turned on the light and sat on the end of the bed.
You know that missing persons report your girlfriend filed this afternoon? Dammit, Ken, she s not my girlfriend! Yeah, but you want her to be. Kingman heard chuckling over the phone from the older man and had to smile to himself. Ken was a good guy and had always looked out for him. Anyway, the woman s car turned up abandoned at Live Oak Park today. We ve already phoned the husband and she isn t with him, so the report s probably for real. You sending the crime scene guys up there? Just some uniforms to cordon the area off for now. CSI can do a thorough search in the morning. It s a big park there s a lot to search That s why I m calling you. The Lieutenant told me to have you and Brogan get over there tomorrow and give the crime scene guys a hand. They re gonna be shorthanded, it being Sunday and all. You gonna call Tess and tell her she s working on a day off? No! I know how she likes to sleep I figured you could do that. Asshole. Have a good night, kid. Kingman heard the chuckling continue before the Sergeant disconnected. He got back in bed and set the alarm on his phone for six-thirty. He would call Tess and give her the news then.
Chapter 11 Tess Brogan s alarm and her cell phone rang simultaneously. In one quick motion, she slammed the snooze button on the alarm and picked up the phone. Hello. Morning, pard, came the cheerful voice on the other end -- Mike. Hi Mike, what s up? I didn t want to wake you up too early. You don t sound pissed so I did good, huh? Even though both Mike and Tess had college degrees, they often affected the street talk of those with no education at all. Yeah funny my alarm went off at the same time, so you did perfect. Remember that from now on. Well, here s the deal. Curtis called me from the desk last night. You know that MIA? Her car turned up at Live Oak Park sounds like it was there all night and all day yesterday too, so she s probably really missing. We re supposed to go up there first thing and help with the evidence search. Today? Sunday! Kingman held his phone away from his ear as the profanitylaced diatribe continued. I was going to take the boat out this morning! Hey, what can I say? Wasn t my call I got stuff to do too. I know, I know just bad luck. We supposed to take our own cars up there? Tess had already resigned herself to the day s being just another workday. Naw I ll pick up a cruiser at the station and come get you give you a few more minutes to get beautiful for me.
OK, I ll be in the parking lot by a quarter to eight, in my beautiful blue uniform with the beautiful, heavy, clunky black shoes! Tess clicked off and swung out of her bunk. The cabin cruiser her adoptive parents had left her swayed gently in the waters of the Marina. Tess liked living there. It was quiet most of the time, and since she had inherited the boat free and clear, all she had to do was pay the rent for the slip and the utilities a lot cheaper than renting an apartment from one of the miserly landlords in Berkeley. Most importantly, the boat reminded her of mom and dad, whom she had loved deeply, both killed in an airplane crash five years ago while on their way to Italy for a second honeymoon. Her brother and sister, also adopted, had not wanted the cruiser, so when they divided their parents assets, Tess had taken it, some mutual fund shares, and some cash in lieu of her one-third interest in their two homes, one in Piedmont and one in Palm Springs. Tess had to admit her siblings had probably done better financially in the settlement than she had, but that was hindsight now. She was sentimental about the vessel, it suited her immediate needs, and she knew she would never sell it. She loved the water, and did not want the fuss of maintaining a permanent residence anyway. Mowing lawns and planting flowers held little attraction for her, and at forty-two feet, the big boat offered every amenity a house did -- just in a more efficient form. She stripped off the men s extra-large T-shirt that served as sleepwear and stepped naked into the compact shower with the marine toilet in the corner. Sitting on the toilet, she let the night s accumulation of urine run out. While she sat, she fingered the small locket that hung between her breasts on a fine, gold chain. It was something she wore day and night. Inside was the face of a pretty woman she did not know, with the