“He said he was going to make me feel the way he did all these years. Watching himself lose everything. He said he was going after you.”
“That’s why you came back,” I said with a sigh, “wasn’t it? All that stuff about wanting to set things right. Make amends with me. That wasn’t it at all.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’d already pissed away so much. I couldn’t let him take the rest, the part that was good. That’s why I’m here, Lindsay. I swear it. I’m not lying this time.”
My head was ringing. I had a murder suspect loose. Shots had been fired. I didn’t know what to make of this. What to do about my father? How much did he really know? How to deal with Coombs now? With Chimera?
“You’re telling me the truth? For once? This is my case, my big, important case. I have to know the truth. Please don’t lie to me, Dad.”
“I swear,” he said, his eyes hooded with shame. “What’re you going to do?”
I glared at him. “About what? About Coombs, or us…?”
“About this whole mess. What happened tonight.”
“I don’t know.” I swallowed. “But I do know one thing…. If I can, I’m bringing Coombs in.”
Chapter 92
BY TEN THE NEXT MORNING, I had a search warrant in my hands. It granted access to Coombs’s room at the William Simon. Half a dozen of us rushed over there in two cars.
Coombs was out in the open. There were things we could nail him for: like attempted murder of a police officer and resisting arrest. I had put out an APB on him and sent a team to go over the meet house where everyone had scattered the night before.
I asked Jill to meet Jacobi and me at the William Simon. I was hoping against hope that we’d find something in Coombs’s room that would tie him to one of the murders. If we did, I wanted a warrant in motion immediately.
The same Indian desk clerk let us in the room. It was unkempt, a row of crushed beer bottles and soda cans lining the windowsill. The only furniture was a metal-frame bed with a thin mattress, and a chest of drawers with his toiletries on top, a desk, a table, and two chairs.
“What’d ya expect”—Jacobi smirked—“… a Holiday Inn?”
Several newspapers were littered about, Chronicles and Examiners. Nothing out of the ordinary. On a ledge to the side of the bed, my eyes fell on a small marksmanship trophy—a prone sharpshooter aiming a rifle with the inscription Regional 50 Meter Straight Target Champion and Frank Coombs’s name.
It made my stomach turn.
I went over to the desk. Stuck under the phone were crumpled receipts and a few numbers I didn’t recognize. I found a map of San Francisco and the surrounding areas. I yanked out the drawers of the desk. An old Yellow Pages, some take-out menus to local restaurants, an out-of-date city guide.
Nothing…
Jill looked at me. She shook her head, grimaced.
I kept searching the room. Something had to be here. Coombs was Chimera….
I kicked a desk drawer in, sending a lamp toppling to the floor. In the same frustrated fit, I grabbed hold of the mattress and angrily ripped it off the bed.
“It’s here, Jill. Something has to be.”
To my surprise, a manila envelope that had been between the mattress and the box spring fell to the floor. I picked it up and spilled the contents onto Coombs’s bed.
It wasn’t a gun or something taken from the victims… but it was a virtual history of the Chimera case. Newspaper and magazine articles, some of them going back twenty-two years to the trial, one from TIME magazine, detailing the case. One, headlined “POLICE LOBBY DEMANDS COOMBS ARREST,” had a picture of an Officers for Justice rally at City Hall Square. Scanning through it, my eye was drawn by a slashing red circle Coombs had made, highlighting a quote ascribed to a group spokesman, Patrol Sergeant Edward Chipman.
“Bing-o.” Jacobi whistled.
Continuing on, we came upon articles on the trial and copies of letters from Coombs to the POA demanding a new trial. A faded copy of the original Police Commission’s report on the incident in Bay View. There were lots of angry comments penned in the margins by Coombs. “Liar,” boldly underlined, and “Fucking coward.” A bold red bracket highlighted the testimony of Field Lieutenant Earl Mercer.
Then a series of current articles, tracing the most recent murders: Tasha Catchings, Davidson, Mercer… a blurb in the Oakland Times about Estelle Chipman with a scrawled-in comment, “A man without honor dishonors everything.”
I looked at Jill. It wasn’t perfect; it wasn’t something we could tie directly to a murder case. But it was enough to remove all doubt that we had found our man. “It’s all here,” I said. “At least we can make this stick for Chipman and Mercer.”
She thought awhile, then finally bunched her lips together and gave me a satisfied nod.