Police Headquarters, Monday 9:12 AM
āJenkins!ā
His head pulled upright like that of an African gazelle when startled at a watering hole by the sound of a twig snapping accidentally under the paw of a stealthy predator. Maybe that was just a sneeze, he thought. Maybe. Alert, he strained to filter out the background din. Nothing. He went back to his reading.
āJenkins!ā
There it was again, but closer this time.
āWhereās Jenkins?ā
He recognized that growl, and by its Doppler shift, it was coming up fast behind him. He jerked his heels off the wastebasket and yanked the steaming coffee mug from his lips, splashing a dose on the pages of his latest issue of True Detective, which he quickly flung shut and slipped under a stolen vehicle report. Lieutenant Robert Jenkins, swiftly wiping several fugitive doughnut crumbs from his chin, reeled his head around to see the department head, Captain Stan White, strutting down the path between the rows of desks littered with a dozen detective staff who were either tapping away on computer keyboards, talking prattle, or flipping through stacks of papers as they squeezed their telephones between ear and shoulder. They parted like cars on a two-lane road, yielding the right of way to a black and white, sirens blaring, as the captain barreled through them. They closed ranks behind him in his wake. Captain White cultivated a no-nonsense, tough-guy image and wore it tight to his skin like body armor. He downshifted as he approached Jenkinsā desk, and, as if he were a traffic cop flagging a commuter through an intersection, waved a manila folder in a southbound direction. āIn my office, now!ā he grumbled. Jenkins pried himself from his chair and merged a pace behind him.
Every time Jenkins stepped into the captainās office, he felt as if he was trespassing the bounds of a mausoleum. It wasnāt decorated in a way that invites company or makes a soul feel cozy. Thin parallel layers of light sifting through the cracks of thick wooden blinds hanging like ribs against the windowpane etched a grate of glare and shadow across the opposite wall tiled in bronze plaques, framed certificates, and a collection of photographs picturing the captain shaking hands with a generation of mayors. A human skull stared vacant from the top of a filing cabinet, and the cadaver of a desiccated weeping figure collected dust in the back corner, a present, at one time, from his department to celebrate 20 years of service in law enforcement. Captain White dropped into a frayed armchair. As he lurched forward against a cluttered and scarred mahogany desk, his chair scratched along the linoleum like a lid sliding closed on a stone sarcophagus. He twisted the knob on the side of a bankerās lamp that then spilled light over a pile of forensic journals and glowed as green as kryptonite through the cover glass.
āWhatās up, Captain?ā Jenkins asked as he closed the door behind him, flicked the light switch on, and took up a standing position by the gallery wall.
The captain shot a brief but annoyed glance at the overhead light. āWeāve got, what we thought, is an unclaimed vehicle in impound, a white Subaru station wagon,ā the captain replied, placing the fingers of his right hand lightly on the manila folder and skimming it back and forth across a small clearing on the top of his desk. āWe were just about to sell it off on auction when Gonzales over in Motor Pool noticed a large stain on the cargo liner.ā
āBlood?ā Jenkins inquired, starting to feel a little like a dog being teased with a Frisbee.
āWe donāt know yet.ā
āHow long has the car been back there?ā
āThatās a problem,ā the captain replied. āItās been over six months. According to an inventory log, it was towed from Seaport Boulevard on January twenty-third.ā
āAnd no one followed up? No one checked the registration?ā
āApparently, it fell through the cracks.ā
āAny record of who may have had access to the vehicle since then?ā Jenkins pressed.
āNo.ā
āAnd the towing company? Any record of who towed the vehicle?ā
āFell through the cracks,ā the captain responded.
āFell through the cracks?ā Jenkins asked incredulously.
āDo you remember Sergeant Hayes?ā
āOf course, he got transferred downtown to credit card fraud.ā
āIt was his case. When he left, it fell through the cracks.ā
āBut cases get reassigned,ā Jenkins noted. āYeah, itās the responsibility of the departmentā¦er, ah, never mind Captain.ā
Captain White glared up at Jenkins. āAnyway,ā the captain continued, āI just had Henderson check it out. The vehicleās registered to an Erica Holmes in the city.ā
āCan she come get it? I hate to think of the accrued storage fee sheāll have to pay but at least sheāll have her car back and maybe we can get an explanation for the blood stain.ā
āAgain, now, we donāt know itās blood, and, unfortunately, she canāt come claim it,ā the captain replied.
āWhy not?ā Jenkins asked, cocking his head slightly like a puzzled beagle.
āWe got a hit on a cross-reference. Sheās a missing person.ā
āThis just keeps getting better,ā Jenkins said, starting to salivate like one of Pavlovās dogs. āHow long has she been missing?ā
āA report was filed on January twenty-fourth.ā
āThe day after her car was towed?ā
āIt seems so,ā the captain responded. āNow, for the part youāre not going to like.ā
āYouāre giving the case to someone else?ā Jenkins asked, deflated.
āNo, Iām giving you the case, but youāre going to be working with a partner.ā The captain seemed to brace himself for what he knew was coming.
Jenkins stood there for a moment and let his brain sift the particulates like a coffee filter. āA partner?ā Jenkins asked skeptically. āIs this a disciplinary action? Captain, I can handle a missing person.ā
āBob,ā the captain responded, his voice taking on an edge, āIām tired of relying on the backlogged county lab. Weāve acquired the equipment, and weāve hired someone to do DNA for us. Sheās a graduate from Berkeleyāa molecular biologistāand I want her to work with you on this one.ā
āSheās fresh out of school?ā
āYep.ā
āOh, for Peteās sake, Captain. Donāt saddle me with some wet-behind-the-ears rookieāsome CSI wanna be! You canāt expect me toā¦.ā
āYouāll be fine,ā the captain interrupted.
And there they were. Those three words: āYouāll be fine.ā This was hardly the first time heād heard them, and he knew they werenāt meant to reassure. But, rather, they were a demarcationāa line he didnāt dare cross. They were the signals that the discussion was over and that any further attempt to influence an outcome would be a waste of their times.
āHereās the missing personās report,ā the captain said, handing Jenkins the manila folder. āYour partnerās name is Helen Chang. Sheāll be meeting you at the Subaru in the back lot.ā With that, the captain turned his attention to a stack of reports piled on the left side of his desk. āAnd Jenkins!ā the captain said without looking up.
āHmm?ā
āThe light!ā
āRight, Captain,ā Jenkins sighed, flipping the light switch off and stepping out of the office. He did not catch the captainās glance again as he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Back at his desk, Jenkins lifted the metal case containing his crime scene evaluation equipment onto his desk and flicked the latches open. He verified its contents against his checklist:
Satisfied that all his equipment was in place, he headed through the gauntlet of detectives that cluttered his passage to the back of the building.
āHey, Bob!ā a rough voice called from his right. It was Detective Sanders. āHeard you have a new partner. Just be yourself there, buddy! If she bails on you, I win five bucks.ā
āWas I the last person to know about this?ā Jenkins sighed to himself, shaking his head slowly as he left the floor into the hallway.
Lieutenant Bob Jenkins had been a detective for close to a quarter of a century, and heād seen it all, from the missing toddler heād tracked down to the digestive system of a neighborās boa constrictor to the serial killer, the whack job from The Mission District, who dispatched his victims with a syringe full of Drain-O. (The press had dubbed that psycho āThe Pipe Cleaner.ā) The assaults, the kidnappings, the blackmailings, the murders.ā¦ Jenkins had come up against each one on that unsavory list. And every time he closed a file, every time he cracked a case, he gave credit to what he believed was his best crime-solving tool ā¦ his gut. He could feel a crime scene. Its color. Its texture. Its layout. Its smell. Everything told a story, and it was his gut that took it all in. It was his gut that nagged him to look in places that others on the force wouldnāt dream of. It was a feeling in his gut that had always led him to the bad guy. His gut spoke only to him. Jenkins worked alone.
But now, here he was, the guy they mockingly called a gumshoe and a maverick, getting partnered up. His gut began to churn. A partner, he thought. And a graduate from Berkeley! At least the tie-dye T-shirts have gone out of style. But sheāll probably have a tattoo on the small of her back, and her ears will be plugged into an iPodāsomeone consumed by the latest gizmos and gadgets. How am I going to make a criminalist out of someone like that! Solving crimes is about interrogating witnesses, chasing down leads, and crawling around the dirt inside the criminal mind. Itās about getting all that grunge hurled at you and trying not to let too much of it stick to your heart in a permanent way. Sheād better at least be damn good with DNA.
Jenkins paced down the corridor toward the back impound lot, carrying his case in one hand and the manila folder in the other. He flipped the folder open with a downward snap of his wrist and read the missing personās report. There, in the upper right-hand corner, was ...