Kirkwood informed me over the phone that a few organized supremacist groups operated out of Northern California, offshoots of the Klan or some crazy neo-Nazi skinheads. He said that maybe the best thing would be to contact the local chapter of the FBI, who kept a much more active eye on them. Gay bashing was more his thing.
Bringing in the FBI at this stage didn’t fill me with enthusiasm. I asked Kirkwood to give me what he had, and an hour later he came up, carrying a plastic bin crammed with blue and red folders. “Background reading.” He winked, dropping the bin heavily on my desk.
At the sight of the mass of files, my hopes sank. “You got any ideas about this, Stu?”
He shrugged sympathetically. “San Francisco’s not exactly a hotbed for these groups. Most of what I gave you here seems pretty benign. They seem to spend most of their time hoisting back a few beers and shooting off ammo.”
I ordered up a salad, figuring I’d spend the next couple of hours at my desk with a bunch of nutcases railing against blacks and Jews. I pulled out a handful of files and opened one at random.
Some sort of militia group, operating up in Greenview, near the Oregon border. The California Patriots. Some summary information supplied by the FBI: Activity Type: Militia, sixteen to twenty members. Weapons Assessment: Minor, small to semi-automatic arms, over-the-counter. On the bottom it had: Threat: Low / Moderate.
I skimmed through the file. Some printed materials with logos of crossed guns, detailing everything from population shifts from “the white, European majority,” to media cover-ups on government programs to promote test-tube fertilization of minorities.
I couldn’t imagine my killer buying into this claptrap. I didn’t see him on the same wavelength at all. Our guy was organized and bold, not some pumped-up backwoods bozo. He had gone to elaborate lengths to hide the murders in the MO of a hate crime. And he had signed them.
Like most serials, he wanted us to know.
And to know there would be more.
I leafed through a few more files. Nothing jumped out at me. I was starting to have the feeling this was a waste of time.
Suddenly, Lorraine burst into my office. “We caught a break, Lieutenant. We found the white van.”
Chapter 20
I STRAPPED ON MY GLOCK and grabbed Cappy and Jacobi on the way out before Lorraine had even finished filling me in. “I want a SWAT team out there,” I yelled.
Ten minutes later, we all screeched up to a makeshift roadblock on San Jacinto, a quiet residential street.
A radio car on routine patrol had spotted a Dodge Caravan parked outside a house in tony Forest Hills. What made him sure this was the car we were looking for was the decal of a two-headed lion on the rear bumper.
Vasquez, the young patrolman who had called in the van, pointed toward a tree-shaded Tudor halfway down the block, the white minivan parked at the end of the driveway. It seemed crazy. This was an affluent neighborhood, not a likely haven for criminals or murderers.
But there it was.
Our white van.
And Bernard Smith’s Mufasa.
Moments later, an unmarked SWAT vehicle rigged to look like a cable TV repair truck pulled onto the street. The team was headed by Lieutenant Skip Arbichaut. I didn’t know what the situation entailed, whether we would have a siege or possibly have to break our way in.
“Cappy, Jacobi, and I will go in first,” I said.
This was a homicide operation and I wasn’t letting anyone else take the risk. I had Arbichaut deploy his men, two around back, three manning the front, and one with a sledge with us in case we had to bust in.
We strapped on protective vests and donned black nylon jackets identifying us as police. I clicked my 9mm off safety. There wasn’t much time to get nervous.
The SWAT truck started down the street, three black-vested snipers hugging its opposite side.
Cappy, Jacobi, and I followed the truck as cover until it pulled to a stop in front of a mailbox marked 610. Vasquez was right. The van was a match.
My heart was racing now. I had been in many forced entries before, but none with more at stake. We cautiously wove our way to the front of the house.
There were lights on inside, some noise from a TV.
At my nod, Cappy pounded the door with his gun. “San Francisco Police.” Jacobi and I crouched with our guns ready.
No one answered.