Free The 9th Judgment by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Page B

“Come up, Boxer. And hold on to your dinner.”
    Moviegoers who’d been sent out through a back exit had returned to the front entrance, joining commuters and office workers
     and tourists who had gathered ten deep outside the entrance to 1 EC.
    I held up my badge and edged through the crowd, fending off questions that I wouldn’t answer if I could. A uniform opened
     the glass doors for me, and I entered the mall, a stretch of shops bearing famous logos, now unnaturally empty of shoppers.
    The escalators had been turned off and crime scene tape stretched across the whole western wing of the mall, so I stooped
     under the tape and loped up the stilled mechanical stairs. Jacobi was waiting for me at the top of the escalator, and I could
     see from his face how bad it was going to be before I even got near the bodies on the red carpet.
    I saw the mother first. She’d fallen onto her back. Her pale-blue cardigan was black over her heart from the two shots to
     the center mass, and she’d taken another gunshot wound to the head. I reached over and closed her sightless eyes.
    Only then could I bear to look at the small, still figure lying near her.
    Damn it, he’d killed the child.
    This scene was a horror, and even as I recoiled from the brutality, I was struck by how methodical these shootings had been.
     They had been impersonal, dead-on shots fired at close range.
    Jacobi stepped aside and I circled the body of the child in the capsized stroller, a boy under the age of one. I didn’t need
     to say to Jacobi that it was obvious these killings and the ones in the Stonestown garage were the work of the same killer.
    But where was his signature? Where were the letters “WCF”?
    Jacobi dropped the young mother’s wallet into an evidence bag. “This is Judy Kinski. She had forty dollars in small bills.
     Two charge cards. Library card. She would have been twenty-six years old next week. McNeil is contacting her next of kin.”
    “Witnesses?” I asked. “Someone had to see this go down.”
    “Chi is talking to the ticket seller. Come with me.”

Chapter 35
    THE GIRL IN the movie-theater manager’s office was crying into her hands. She looked up when I entered the tiny space. Paul
     Chi introduced me to the pale young woman and said, “This is Robin Rose. She may have seen the shooter.”
    “Is my mother here?” Robin asked.
    Jacobi said, “She’s on her way. As soon as she arrives, we’ll escort you down.”
    “I didn’t see the shootings,” the girl said between sobs. “I was opening the booth for the seven o’clock show.”
    Chi handed her a wad of tissues and told her it was all right, to take her time.
    “I didn’t hear anything,” she said, blowing her nose. “But when I rolled up the window…”
    I could see it through her eyes. The last moments of her innocence, opening the cash drawer, checking the ticket feed, rolling
     up the metal security window, expecting—what? A couple of people wanting to buy their tickets early?
    “I didn’t believe it at first,” Robin told us. “I thought it was some kind of alternative advertising for an upcoming show.
     Then I realized that those people were
real
. That they were
dead.
”
    “Did you see anyone near the bodies?” I asked.
    She nodded and said, “He must’ve heard the window go up. He met my eyes for a fraction of a second. I saw the gun, so I ducked
     down.”
    The man Robin Rose saw was a white male, wearing a blue-and-white baseball jacket and a cap pulled down over his eyes. She
     didn’t think she could describe him, but she would try. Same with his gun. And she didn’t see which exit he took out of the
     mall.
    Maybe he’d taken the skywalk over to another of the malls in the Embarcadero Center, or he could just as easily have gone
     down the escalator and out onto the street.
    I asked Robin if she’d come in to the station to look at surveillance tape, and then I left the manager’s office with Jacobi.
     He was putting out an