CANELLI PULLED IN BEHIND a San Mateo County Sheriff’s car. I cleared our own car with San Francisco Communications, and we stepped out onto a narrow dirt road. No more than two tire ruts, the road led into a seaside grove of twisted, wind-stunted juniper. I could understand why it had taken twenty-four hours to locate Winship’s van. The area where we now stood was bleak and deserted, an underbrush-tangled slope dropping steeply down to the rocky shoreline, far below. Only during the warmest months of the year would hikers venture into this rough terrain. At the thought, I turned up my collar against the raw winter’s wind.
A deputy sheriff checked our credentials, then led us to the van. It tallied perfectly with Judy Blake’s description: color, body condition, rust spots and the unmistakable smokestack, cocked at a crazy angle. I wondered whether it had purposely been bent into that Toonerville shape.
The van’s interior was dirty and cluttered. A tattered sleeping bag was spread out on a plywood panel that had been covered with a foam-rubber pad, badly stained. A cardboard box of canned food lay on the floor beside another box filled with tools, cans of oil and miscellaneous Volkswagen parts. The car’s upholstery was worn and ripped. The odometer registered 4,000 miles, translating to 104,000.
Querying the deputy, I learned that the van had been found less than two hours ago. It had only been in the past hour, when the blood was found, that San Mateo had organized a search for Winship. At about that time, someone had remembered our A.P.B., and advised San Francisco Communications. The technical crews hadn’t arrived, but the deputy assured me they were on their way.
“How many men have you got in the area?” I asked the deputy.
“Searching for the driver, you mean?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’d say about—” He calculated, frowning heavily. “I’d say about eight. Maybe nine. I mean, our department don’t exactly have unlimited resources, you know, Lieutenant. I mean, we’ve got to—”
“Can you show me where the blood was found? I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“Oh. Right. Sure thing. It’s right here, Lieutenant. Right over here.” He pointed down the narrow road.
I told Canelli to stay with our radio and followed the squat, bandy-legged deputy down the sharp slope of the road. About twenty-five feet from the car, we came to a break in the thick-growing scrub. A precarious footpath led down to the rocky beach, a hundred feet below. The deputy took the path, needlessly warning me to watch my footing. At the first bend, he stooped and pointed out an unmistakable smear of blood on a cluster of ice plant.
“So far,” he said, “that’s all we’ve found. But like I say, it’s only been an hour since—”
Holstered at his belt, his walkie-talkie beeped.
“Blakely,” he barked officiously. “Come in.”
“We found him,” a metallic voice said. “Or, anyhow, we found somebody. Dead.”
“Where?”
“Just go down the path. We can see you, from where we are. He’s down in the rocks, here, about fifty feet up from the surf. Just keep a-coming, and we’ll tell you where to turn.”
Blakely shot me a self-satisfied look, then turned and led the way down.
Again, Judy Blake’s description had been accurate. Winship looked as she’d described him: greasy-haired, pimply-faced, dressed in tatters. Tumbled among a pile of black, lichen-crusted boulders, he lay with his arms and legs spread wide, his broken torso wedged tightly between two boulders. His mouth was open wide, as if he were screaming for help. All of his front teeth were broken; one lens of his glasses was shatter-starred. He wore a dirty yellow sweat shirt stained by two saucer-size patches of dried blood. Centered in each stain was a bullet hole.
Looking up toward the path, I could plainly see broken branches that marked his fall. He must have fled down the road to the footpath, where he’d been shot. The impact of the bullets could easily have pitched him crashing down the slope.
I turned toward the bandy-legged deputy. He was staring down at the body. His normally ruddy face was greenish now.
“Is your name Blakely?”
“Y—yessir.”
“Are you in command here?”
“Well, I—” He swallowed. With some effort, he wrenched his gaze away from the body. “I—I guesso,” he said finally. Then, blinking, he nodded. “Yeah, I’m in charge.”
“Are you sure your lab crew is on the way?”
He blinked again, focusing his eyes vaguely. “Yeah. Sure. Th—they were going to fingerprint the van. You know—to find out who stole it.”
“All right. Good. Now, in addition, you’ll need the coroner. And you’d better organize an inch-by-inch search of the area around the van and down the road to the footpath where we saw the blood. The assailant may have used an automatic weapon, and the shell casing might be in the underbrush. Also, you’ll want to keep everyone off the road and the path until the area’s been photographed. Completely photographed. That’s vital. And, of course, you’ll want to photograph him.” I pointed to the corpse.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”
I looked closely at the deputy. As he stood irresolutely staring down at the victim, Blakely was again turning pale. He was swallowing rapidly; his brows were gathering in a perplexed frown. I touched his shoulder. Slowly, he turned to face me. His eyes were dull. His mouth hung slightly open.
Lowering my voice and stepping very close, I pointed up the slope. “Get up to your car,” I ordered, “and put in a call for your superior officer. Tell him to come to your assistance. Immediately. Tell him that it’s my request. I’ve got to get back to the city, fast, but I’m going to leave Inspector Canelli with you. Until your superior arrives, I want you to do exactly as Canelli says. He’s an experienced homicide officer, and he’ll take full responsibility.” I paused. Then, speaking very softly and very distinctly, I said, “You’d better not screw up any evidence here, Blakely. Because if you do, it’s your ass. Do you understand?”
As I spoke, I watched him closely. When I saw his eyes clearing with the first spark of anger, I repeated the threat, then turned abruptly away and began climbing the rocky hillside.