It was after 6 p.m. when Brady pulled up a chair to our desks, tightened his white-blond ponytail to keep his hair out of his eyes, and, gripping a red grease pencil, made notes as we summarized our last ten hours.
Item one: Miranda White Barkley was in a cell waiting for her lawyer. Two: Conklin had traveled with SWAT through the tunnel under Barkley’s house, which was a short sprint to the nearest commuter rail station; Barkley had probably boarded the train and could now be anywhere.
“Son of a bitch,” Brady said.
We talked about Barkley, clever enough and physically able to dig out an exit. No doubt he’d been well trained by the military. At this point, Brady told us, teams were stationed to watch his house, and Caltrain had pulled surveillance footage from the ticketing area at the Twenty-Second Street station.
“Three,” said Brady, nodding to Conklin. “Stempien is going through Barkley’s devices now.”
“Item next,” I said. “Randi told me that she deliberately fired over our heads. She didn’t hit anyone, so that could be true. The slugs she fired were blanks.”
As Brady made notes, I thought about the two bodies, one sprawled across the desk, the other lying faceup on the carpet. Two perfectly placed kill shots had done that.
Who had done the shootings and why? What on earth would have motivated Barkley to murder the Barons, and how did those killings link up with the homicides of drug dealers in LA and Chicago at precisely the same time?
Brady pushed back his chair, linked his hands behind his neck. “Bottom line,” he said, “we don’t know where Barkley is, the wife ain’t talkin’, and there’s no known connection between Barkley and the Barons. Got a whole lot of parts on the floor of the shop, but can’t make a car.”
I repeated a version of what Joe always says to me when I’m overstimulated and a wreck about how much time is flying by.
“It’s ‘day one,’ Brady. Day one and we have Randi White Barkley in custody. That’s a start.”
Brady added that the picture of Leonard Barkley standing behind his car door on San Anselmo Avenue two days before the killings had been disseminated to every cop on the force—Northern, Central, and Southern Stations, as well as the motorcycle cops and the Sheriff’s Department.
Brady said, “I don’t have to tell you, unless we nab the son of a bitch, we gotta break the wife.”
Randi hadn’t cracked while she was in pain and with me questioning her. Conklin was good with everyone, but he was especially good with women. His sincerity always came through.
I said, “Sounds like a job for my partner.”
Cappy called over from his desk, “Hey, Richie. Cindy’s on the tube.”
Brady rearranged things on my desk until he got his hand around the remote. He pointed it at the TV mounted on the wall, where it could be seen throughout the squad room, and boosted the volume.
And there was Cindy Thomas standing in front of the Barkleys’ house, miked up, made up, a lower-third screen graphic displaying her name and San Francisco Chronicle. Brian Whalen, a TV reporter from the local CBS affiliate said, “Cindy, can you bring us up-to-date on the incident that took place here this morning?”
“Brian, this is what we know. This man”—she held up an enlargement of a photo I had scrutinized dozens of times—“Leonard Barkley, is wanted for questioning in the murders of Paul and Ramona Baron.”
“You’re saying he’s a suspect in those murders?”
“The police department is calling Barkley a person of interest. He may be a witness and have useful information. The incident this afternoon involved the police trying to bring him in, but he got away, and his whereabouts are unknown.
“If anyone knows or sees this man, do not approach him. He’s presumed to be armed and dangerous. Call the SFPD hotline immediately.”
She gave the number.
Then she added, “Mr. Barkley, if you’re listening, the police want you to know that your wife has been injured by gunfire and is in police custody. Please call the number on the screen. The SFPD and your wife need to speak to you.”
I was pretty sure that if Barkley was watching from his bunker, he was scoffing and loading his weapon. Brady muted the volume on the TV.
He said, “Before you start looking for leakers, I’m Cindy’s police source.”
I said, “You told her?”
“Thanks, Brady,” said Conklin. “We owed her one.”
“That’s what she said. Y’all go home now and brace for a deluge coming over the tip line. Let’s hope for a lead that pays off.”