Cindy and her college friend, TV reporter Lori Hines, sat up front in the KRON4 sound van.
The front seats were cramped, but the windshield gave them a wide view of the cordoned-off street and the mob of law enforcement on both sides of the tape. Inside the van, behind them, sound equipment and video monitors lined both long sides, where a half dozen video techs edited Lori’s interview and maintained contact with production at the studio.
Dead ahead was the jazz center, a modern, nearly transparent corner building. The lobby and café inside it had been open to the public. Until now. The sidewalk outside the open doors was the scene of a triple homicide, a horrific crime.
Upon arrival, law enforcement, both local and FBI, had cleared the teeming lobby. The streets on both sides of the building and all access points were closed to anyone without a badge.
Lori, having squeaked inside before the police perimeter was locked down, had gone live with her report fifteen minutes ago.
By the time Cindy had arrived, police cruisers had been parked across the lanes as barricades, yellow tape and the thin blue line were in place. Cindy felt damned lucky that she’d seen the KRON4 van and that Lori had invited her inside.
Now Lori’s cameraman ran the unedited video for Cindy. He had captured thirty seconds of the bodies lying on the sidewalk in front of the jazz center. Cindy had seen many murder scenes, but something about the bodies lying in broad daylight on a public sidewalk was frightening to her.
In the video the camera turned to Lori, who, with her voice catching in her throat, told her audience that guitarist Neil Kreisler had been shot dead with one bullet to his head. This murder had happened just outside the entrance to the jazz center. Kreisler’s two bodyguards, names still unverified, had also been brought down by single kill shots to the head.
Lori said to the camera, “There was another person in this group of musician and bodyguards, a minor who was unharmed, and in his best interests this station will not release his name. But I did speak with him before he was taken away by a police escort.
“This witness told me that he didn’t see the shooter. One minute he was walking up the stairs near Kreisler. One bodyguard was in the lead. The other was bringing up the rear. According to the young man, the guard behind him was shot first. The leading guard screamed, ‘Get down,’ and this young man did get down and that probably saved his life.”
Lori went on to say that the witness didn’t know anything about the shootings or why the victims were killed. He had told her that it all happened super fast, and after the first shooting he didn’t see anything because he was lying on the pavement with his arms crossed over the back of his neck. When it was quiet and he looked up, he realized that he was the only survivor.
“Thank God he was spared,” Lori said. “And now the investigation into this terrible crime begins.”
Lori gave a hotline number and signed off.
But the Lori of right now was sitting next to Cindy, and she told Cindy what she couldn’t say on air.
“The witness is Kreisler’s son, Anton. Security guards who work for the jazz center heard the shooting, and when it stopped, they came outside, grabbed the poor kid, and let him call his mother. The security people saw no sign of the shooters.”
“Thanks for the guided tour,” Cindy said. “It’s good of you to share.”
“Happy to do it, Cindy. But a shorter version of this video went live. Every news outlet in the country has the story, but maybe you can get it onto your blog while it’s still warm. Don’t mention the witness’s name unless you can get it from someone you love in the SFPD.”
Cindy thought, That’ll be the day.
She watched through the windshield as CSI unloaded the halogen lights. They were still taking pictures, but soon the ME would take the bodies away.
“I have a tidbit for you,” Cindy said. “Before I left the office, I heard that two drug dealers were shot in Baltimore.”
“Huh. So the war on drugs heads east.”
Cindy said, “And that’s not all. The Baltimore victims were shot at different times; one at around midnight, the other at about 3 a.m. Plus, those shootings didn’t happen at the same time as the jazz center shootings.”
“I see what you’re saying. The killings weren’t synchronized,” Lori said. “The MO is changing. Where is Kill Shot when you really need him?”
“I’ve kept the porch light on,” Cindy said, “but Kill Shot has gone dark. Maybe all he wanted was a platform, some limited exposure—and we gave it to him.”
“Or maybe,” said Lori, “he’s dead.”