“That’s the one.”
“Shit,” Richie said. “Tell Brady about this.”
“He’s the one called me, told me to find you and tell you to get down there.”
“Is Morales in?”
“She’ll be in later. Sergeant Boxer is taking the day off. It’s all on you and about a hundred uniformed cops until the day shift comes in.”
Conklin went to his desk, collected his weapon, and put on his jacket. Then he jogged downstairs and checked out an unmarked car from the lot outside the ME’s office.
He drove north through the morning rush on the Embarcadero. It was a twenty-minute drive to the Wharf even with the siren on and a clear lane. Which he didn’t have.
As he wove through traffic, Conklin thought about Professor Judd, how he’d come in yesterday morning wearing a cashmere overcoat on top of his pajamas, how he’d bulled his way into the squad room, then demanded that Conklin listen to his dream.
Conklin had said, “Let’s hear it, Professor. Did someone get whacked? Or should I say, is someone about to get whacked?”
Judd had dragged out the story, talking about the arc of light, the watery eclipse, the moving walkway, and the gradual realization that he was dreaming, until Conklin had shouted, “Will you get to the fucking point?”
“There was a shooting,” Judd had said.
“Who got shot?” Conklin asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know? How is that? Weren’t you there?”
“I didn’t see a person go down, and I didn’t see the shooter.”
“So let me get this straight. You had a dream. You essentially left your body, materialized at the aquarium, and that’s where you heard a shot.”
“That’s right.”
The little professor had stuck out his jaw, daring Conklin to argue with him. He had crumbs on his chin and on the collar of his pin-striped pj’s.
Conklin said, “Nobody has called in a shooting. So you didn’t see a victim in your dream, and there’s no victim in real life, either. I can’t do anything with this, Professor.”
Judd had said, “I guess I’m going to have to be my own detective.” He patted his hip, as though he were packing a gun. “I’ve got a license to carry.”
Conklin had said, “Thanks for coming in, Professor.”
Now there had been a shooting at the aquarium. Had the professor’s drea
m been another fulfilled prophecy? Or had the professor gone and shot someone?
Conklin called Inspector Paul Chi.
“Chi, it’s Conklin. Do me a favor. You and Cappy go pick up Professor Judd and bring him to the Hall. Just hold him for questioning. You don’t have to tell him anything. Just nail him down. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Chapter 74
CONKLIN PULLED HIS car up to the command post—three black-and-whites and a clump of cops standing in front of barricades blocking the entrance to Pier 39. Conklin leaned out of his window, signed the log, and asked the sergeant what was up.
The sergeant told him, “One victim, shot through the head. It’s a mess in there. Put your waders on.”
Conklin drove straight ahead to the turnaround in front of the Aquarium of the Bay, a tacky-looking white building with peaked roofs, awnings, flags, and a large blue cutout of a shark on the wall.
He parked his vehicle, then called Brenda to say that he had arrived at the scene. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, feeling that whatever had happened inside the aquarium was his fault. That he should have paid more attention to that twerpy professor. That instead of posting a team at the aquarium, which he could have done, he’d told Professor Judd that there was nothing he could do.