Outerlands
Michael Witherspoon
May 14th 1:35 am
Corner of Greenich and Grant Streets
Michael Witherspoon stood on the corner under a streetlight. He had finally made the decision. One that would prove fatal before sunrise.
He dialed Sean and left a message,
“We need to meet. Nowhere where we can be overheard, your ears only Sean. Sorry I’m dragging you into the shit. But I guess cleaning up after me is what you signed up for. Seven? On the Beach? Delete this.”
Michael had built a life by knowing things, valuable things. Then deciding who got that knowledge and when.
What Michael didn’t know was Jasper Kincaid’s right- and left-hand men were across the street in the shadows with a night vision camera and a parabolic microphone bringing his voice and face up close and personal to Kincaid, ensconced his Wizard of Oz suite in the Broadway House basement. Michael knew how Kincaid loved pulling the strings. But Michael didn’t feel his string tightening around his neck, yet.
He had been in a lot of buildings owned by Kincaid, Trident Properties really. But Michael had never been in the basement of the Broadway House. Upstairs, certainly, for charity events or celebrations at closing another deal.
Decades ago, the Kincaid brothers and Trident Properties were his first clients. Until now, Kincaid knew what Micheal knew, pretty much in real time. Michael’s latest decision was to whom his loyalty belonged. For the first time since back in the 1980’s, it was not to Jasper Kincaid.
Kincaid gave his men simple instructions over the com line, “Guys, that meeting’s not happening. Just enough drugs for the ride. I need to have a conversation with him before dawn. Bring him to the basement.”
Sean Blacke
May 14th 7:35 am
Ocean Beach, San Francisco
The fog season came early to the Outerlands. Ocean Beach was already lost in a salty wet mist as clingy as a brother-in-law the divorce didn’t lose. Sean knew everything was wrong when he saw the seagulls pecking with something man-sized, twenty feet above the tide line. His stomach tightened. He switched into handle-it-mode.
Ten minutes after his 911 call he saw the silhouettes of two of San Francisco’s finest, struggling to cross the sand under the weight of their equipment belts. Chuck, Sean’s chocolate lab, wasn’t struggling. He charged back from the edge of the water and flipped him the ball. Sean flung it into the gray. The ball was keeping Chuck occupied. Away from what had been fascinating the flock of seagulls when they arrived, the body of Michael Witherspoon, Spooner. Sean and Spooner were best friends.
Sean’s normal was to remain controlled dealing with carnage. It was his experience that violent death required calm observation and calculated reactions.
When he turned on his phone that morning, while the coffee water was boiling, he listened to a voice mail from Michael asking to meet on the beach. Before the water boiled, the message was deleted. There was a hint of fear in Michael’s voice. Not something Sean had heard before.
The cops arrived where Sean was standing, a few feet from the body. The older one, a Latina, and from the size of her forearms and the callus build-up under her eyebrows, Sean guessed had an MMA hobby. She spoke with a voice sure Sean’s answers would be useless or lies. Still, it was her job was to ask,
“You found the body?”
In what Sean’s mother described as the proper way to answer a cop’s question, “One word. The second word is to be avoided, whenever possible.”
Sean said, “Yes.”
“You were down here throwing the ball for your dog?
As if on cue, Chuck tossed the ball at Sean’s feet. He picked it up and sailed back towards the sound of the waves. Again just, “Yes.”
His answers were completely true. Not the complete truth. Nothing about the voicemail setting up his meeting with Spooner, the now dead body. Nothing about Spooner, Michael Witherspoon, being his best friend. But he was throwing the ball for Chuck when he found the body.
“You touch the body?”
Easy, “No.”
Again, completely true. What he touched was the man-bag Michael always carried with his phone, ID, credit cards, business cards, condoms, and sometimes other recreational items. It was currently tucked inside the back of his jeans under his ski parka, zipped up against the wind.
“Did you know the deceased?”
Shit, no one-word answer.
That required a nuanced explanation,
“I do. Did, I guess… Michael Witherspoon. A realtor. I live in a garden apartment of one of is buildings. He’s my landlord, I guess. I deal with someone in the office.”
Again, all true. Only the Catholic Church docked you for lies of omission.
She took his info. Name and number. They did the usual dance over the spelling of his last name, Blacke. “Pronounced Blake.”
Keeping a straight face this long in front of The Law was exhausting. Chuck gave Sean his hungry look. Eventually Officer Ortiz said he could go.
By then her young-looking-partner, Officer John Oh, had set the beach spikes and stretched the crime scene tape around Spooner’s body.
As Sean walked past Officer Oh asked,
“Mr. Blacke, You go to Sacred Heart back in the day?”
“I did.” He didn’t need the second word, but it seemed safe.
Officer Oh looked directly at Sean. Sean noticed he had watched him during his partner’s interview. Sean was certain when Oh asked the question about which high school he attended, Oh had recognized him. Sean thought he knew from where.
Officer Oh explained, “I went to Lowell…”
Of course you did.
Lowell was the high school for the smart kids. Officer Oh looked more than smart. Back then getting into Lowell was a step toward UC Berkeley.
Oh continued, “I was a freshman your senior year. I saw you wrestle when you won State. That was a sweet move you used to stack that kid from Compton.”
Wrestling was where Sean thought a young Officer Oh had seen him. And since nobody came to wrestling matches, even the State Tournament, who didn’t wrestle or was the mother of a wrestler. Sean could have just said thanks, but he wanted to know, “You wrestle? … back in the day?”
Oh smiled as he answered, “I did. 118’s in high school. Didn’t get my growth spurt until I was at Berkeley.”
Officer Oh was an easy six foot. Like his partner, looked to be a gym rat. Only instead of MMA, Sean guessed capoeira or taekwondo. Oh looked twitchy fast.
Chuck was racing ahead. He knew there was water and food in the van. They could have walked from their apartment, but Sean didn’t know what Spooner was going to need him to do or how fast. He thought wheels and concealment might come in handy.
There’s an explanation needed. San Francisco’s real estate transactions can be a contact sport. Occasionally, for a deal to close, an immovable object needed relocation. Sean provides that service to a select group of clients. Spooner had been client number one. There’s a venture capital guy or two. One of those guys is in fact a gal.
But, in San Francisco, those identifiers are fluid.
Detective Erin Logan
May 14th 8:15 am
Homicide Unit Mission Bay Police Station
Detective Erin Logan thought she won the Lottery with her partner, Joe Watanabe. He was really smart, but unlike most men, he didn’t care if you noticed. He kind of preferred if you didn’t. He typed faster than her, or anybody else she had ever seen. His ability to spin random facts into probable cause on a warrant application was becoming legendary. While he could drive, he didn’t prefer to. He also understood that him standing silently, and watching, while she asked people questions, made their partnership greater than the sum of its parts.
Erin called his cell, “Joe, we caught a body. Where are you?”
“I’m out by the Y. But I’m dressed and in my car. I got the text notice. Less than 10 minutes from Taraval beach entrance. You at the House?”
“Of course I am, our rotation started at 8. Geez, how can you be so on top on it that you get in a workout and still wind up first one to the scene.”
“Lucky that way, I guess. Is this a floater?”
“No, Ortiz and Oh caught it. She said he ain’t pretty but never got wet.”
“I’m crossing Sloat now. I will be there in three minutes. Since I’ll get us signed in record time, you want to stop at Andy Town for coffee and corn muffins. They’re baking strawberry. But the pear is good too.
Erin chuckled,
“You’re a piece of work, Joe. But I’m hungry, so sure. See you on the beach.”
When Erin got to the taped off area around the body, Joe was already suited up and giving directions to forensics. The body was covered by a plastic sheet. She set their two stainless steel coffee cups in the sand outside the crime scene, she stepped into her Tyvek suit, gloves, booties, and ducked under the tape.
Officer Oh signed her in. She called, “Joe, what have we got?”
“White male, five foot ten, well dressed, looks sixties. That’s based on his hands.”
Erin asked the obvious question, “Hands?”
“Yea, just hands because he has really nice shoes on. Not standard beach apparel. Ortiz was right, he is no longer pretty. For some reason looks like seagulls have removed a good bit of his face.”
Erin had made it to Joe’s side. She looked at the body, holding the tarp up. She laid it back down. She said, “Oh, shit.” Mostly to herself.
“You recognize him?”
“Yea, I think so. It’s Michael Witherspoon. He was a realtor. Worked with him years ago. He did me a very big solid. Shit, good guy.”
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It was Joe’s turn for the obvious question, “Is it a problem you know him?”
“I don’t think so. That’s for the Lieutenant. I haven’t spoken to him in… five years?”
The last hour had moved the marine layer about seven feet off the sand. The salt air was no longer clinging to Erin’s face when she turned towards Officer Ortiz and asked,
“Carla, you got the statement from who called it in?”
She opened her notebook and read, “His name is Sean Blacke. He was…”
As she continued to read about Sean throwing the ball for his dog when he found the body, Erin and Joe looked at each other. They both knew Sean, but what Joe didn’t know, and Erin did, was Sean’s legal guardian back when he required one, was Michael Witherspoon, the deceased.
Erin asked, “Mr. Blacke identify the body?”
“When asked, he answered ‘Michael Witherspoon, said he was his landlord.’ He kind of indicated he dealt with Witherspoon’s office.”
Erin would catch Joe up in the car over muffins once they were moving.
The Medical Examiner’s guys were bringing a stretcher and body bag down the beach. About three feet in front of them was Dr. Angela Bettinelli. Erin was glad to see Bettinelli was the examiner. Dr. B didn’t equivocate, so she had wiggle room under a defense attorney’s cross examination.
“Erin, Joe, who we got? We got a who yet?”
Joe answered, “We do, Dr. B. One Michael Witherspoon. Seems the seagulls liked Mr. Witherspoon’s face.”
Dr. B was kneeling in the sand. She carefully lifted the tarp off the body’s head, folding it down over the body’s torso. She breathed in through her teeth, “They certainly did.”
She used a pair of tweezers to remove something from the body’s collar. She sniffed it, “Or they liked what smells to be anchovy paste. Seems unlikely Mr. Witherspoon would have done a face plant in a plate of anchovy paste here at the beach on his own. But let’s not put the anchovy before the horseradish, so to speak. Hey Earl, you forensic guys done with the body?”
“Yea, B. We worked him first. Now we are just shifting a ton of sand. Do you need some cigarette butts, used condoms, or dog shit?”
“Actually, no Earl. We just came for the body. Privilege of a medical school diploma over a MS in chemistry.”
She took some shots of the body in situ, the temperature of the liver, bagged Michael’s hands, and said,
“Ok guys, take Mr. Witherspoon away. Erin and Joe, I’ll text you the schedule of the cut. Looked at the calendar before coming. Likely tomorrow afternoon, unless there is an earthquake.”
Erin said, “Thanks, Angela.” Erin stepped closer and continued quietly,
“Hey B, this vic was a really good guy. I knew him years ago, so even if the LT transfers this away from me. I would like to be kept updated.”
“Sorry to hear he was a friend. I can do that. Let me know after you report to the boss.”
Joe was talking strategy with Earl, “So, I’m thinking fifteen-foot radius from the body. Bag everything but the dogshit. This doesn’t look like a condom event, but who can say? Anything older than twenty-four hours, you can toss later. Use a metal detector from twenty feet south all the way back to the entrance. You guys spilt the gold, jewelry, and coins with us fifty-fifty, OK.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely, You and Erin get half of everything we tell you we found, how’s that sound?”
“About right, Earl. We are going to get out of your way. Call us if you find the murderer buried around here, OK.”
They left Joe’s Subaru parked in an all-day space and started back to the cop-shop. Erin waited until she and Joe got through the first corn and strawberry muffin before she told him,
“So, Witherspoon was Sean’s legal guardian back when Sean and I were in high school. Had been for couple of years, I think.
“That so? And the landlord bit?”
“Michael used to live on the top floor above Sean’s garden apartment, back in the day. Sean was the first one in high school with his own digs. Don’t know if either are still living there.”
“Was that over on Quintara, right off the Lower Great Highway?
“I think so, I was one of the few girls that never stopped by.”
Joe looked confused, “Yea, but…”
Erin almost scoffed, “Joe, we are talking high school here, I was figuring things out, so to speak.”
After a nod, he added,
“Well, I ask because I know that’s still where Sean lives. Nice pad. Simple but nice.”
“Clean toilets, you mean?”
“Yea, Clean toilets. Even furniture. I remember he has an espresso machine.”
They were quiet for about a block, then Erin asked, “You like him for it?”
Joe answered immediately, “Naw, I don’t see Sean covering anybody face with anchovy paste and dumping him on the beach. He seems more impulsive and less showy than that.”
“Yea, me too.”
The silence lasted half-a-block. Joe commented,
“In terms of his statement, Sean’s practiced. So, he didn’t say anything untrue.”
Erin replied, “Practiced? You know about him…and his mom?”
Joe’s tone came from the years of looking at everyone through a cop’s eyes,
“Yea, when we started grabbing the occasional beer, he said he thought he should let me know. Stand up of him, really. Told me the short version of his mom and his ex-wife’s second husband’s demise. But, you know, after hearing the edited version, I had to read the files, both his and mom’s.”
“I read them when I made detective. I thought most of the stuff people said back in high school was BS. And it was, kind of. But the truth of what he did until he was twelve or what his mom was into, really, was way past what kids were saying. And stand up? Sean has always been stand-up.”
They were arriving at the fine new police digs at Mission Bay. Almost the complete other side of town. Joe had one more question,
“You think he might have taken the phone?’
Erin laughed a quick, “Oh yea… What did Earl say? Abso-fucking-lutely.”
While Joe was getting the paper written to get Michael’s phone records and setting up two units from Taraval station to help with searching Witherspoon’s residence. Also confirming it was still the top floor unit above Sean, Erin stepped over the Lieutenant’s office,
“LT, you got a minute?”
Lt. Agapito Bautista clicked his monitor screen to a picture of Boracay,
“Sure, sit down?”
“Thanks… So, Joe and I just caught a body. Michael Witherspoon. I knew him. He was a realtor. He handled the sale of my first condo seven years ago. A TIC back then. He was a friend. I don’t think I’ve seen him in four or five years.”
“I don’t see a problem, but can I ask you two HR sensitive questions?
Erin smiled, “Pito, I can’t imagine you running afoul of HR, but, yea, ask.”
“First question I think I know the answer to but people surprise. Anything romantic that led to nakedness?”
“No, but whenever I saw him, we hugged. He was good people.”
“Did you at the time of his death, owe him money or he, you.”
“Straight no.”
“Thinking the victim was a good guy doesn’t disqualify. Anything else?”
“Yea, there is. A guy named Sean Blacke found the body. He didn’t say anything untrue to Officers Ortiz and Oh, but likely he didn’t provide everything he knew. Both Joe and I know Mr. Blacke through different means. Personally, not professionally.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Mr. Blacke plead to involuntary manslaughter in the death of his ex-wife’s second husband twelve years ago. Tommy Jackson represented him. His ex-wife, Katiana Kuznetsov, became better known after she was a widow.”
“Some stories fade into the mist, only to pop right back into focus when the names are explained. You guys like Blacke?”
“We don’t LT. I mean we will clear him because he is standing there. But the victim had been his guardian. They were close. There are things about the scene we don’t think point at Sean.”
“Sean? Do I need to ask the same to questions?”
“No.” Erin laughed. “But the answers are still no and no. Not sure that’s true for my older sister. But for me, no. I have known him since high school. Joe knows him from the Y and pickup basketball. And beers after.”
“This is supposed to be a major city. And yet, half the time it is a small town. Clear him, or don’t, by the book. I will leave it to you to ask Joe the same two questions about…Sean. If it is no and no, then go get the bad guy, OK?
“Thanks, LT. That’s what I want to do every time. Just this time, even more.”
“Reports regularly in my inbox. Show me how this guy clears, please.”
“Always, Sir.”
Erin left the room feeling the drive of the investigation starting
