Free Capital Crimes by Jonathan Kellerman

silent. Then she said, “Where I am practically every night. Here, at the lab, working.”
    “Alone?”
    “Yes, alone. Who else works at two in the morning?”
    Davida had been at her desk at two in the morning. Barnes kept his thoughts to himself. “When did you leave the lab?”
    “I didn’t. I slept here last night.”
    “Where?”
    “At my desk.”
    And Barnes thought he had a lonely life. “Do you often sleep at your desk?”
    “Not
often.
” Alice shot him a cold stare.
“Occasionally.”
    “If I offended you,” Barnes said, “that wasn’t my intention. I have to ask sensitive questions, Doctor. Right now, I’m trying to piece together a time line. So you were here all night?”
    Kurtag showed him her profile. Tight lips, squinty eyes. “All night,” she said softly.
    “Alone.”
    “I already told you that.”
    “You’re sure no one saw you here?”
    Kurtag’s smile came nowhere near mirth. “I suppose that means I have no alibi.”
    “Would you mind if I gave you a gunshot residue test—just a swab of your hands?”
    “I would mind because I resent the implication. But go ahead, do it anyway. Then you can leave.”

10

    T he Ronald Tsukamoto Public Safety Building housed both the fire and police departments of the city of Berkeley. The two-story entrance was shaped like a sewing spool with the bottom foot lopped off. It was Deco in style, each of the two semi-circular levels punched with large rectangular windows that sat atop each other with geometric precision. The paint job, however, was pure Victorian—ecru trimmed in robin’s eggshell blue and bright white.
    Once inside, anyone having business with BPD waited in a rotunda with multi-colored abstract mobiles hanging from the ceiling. A spiral staircase with spaghetti-thin railings wound its way to the second story. The station was pleasant and clean, with checkerboard flooring and soft natural light filtering in from the generous windows.
    The actual working interior was plain-wrap cop shop: windowless beige walls, fluorescent lighting, small cubicles with charmless but functional workstations. The equipment was often mismatched, and in the case of some of the computers, sorely outdated. The conference room furniture consisted of white plastic tables and black plastic chairs. Maps of the district, a calendar, a video screen and a chalkboard made up the wall decor. An American flag stood in one corner, the Golden Bear stood sentry in another.
    It had been a hellish morning for Berkeley PD, but it was the captain on the hot seat. At six years away from retirement, Ramon Torres now had to explain to the mayor, the governor, and his highly vocal constituency how a beloved state representative had been nearly decapitated in her office and no one knew a damn thing about it.
    The captain was short, stocky with leathery brown skin and piercing eyes one shade lighter. Each month expanded his bald spot; what little hair remained was black and that offered him some consolation. He winced as he read through the hate-spewing letters penned by Harry Modell, executive director of Families Under God.
    Torres put the missives down and looked across the conference table at Isis and Barnes. Two of his best detectives and they’d learned nada.
    “They’re obviously written by someone who’s bigoted and mean-spirited, but I don’t see enough actual threat for us to act. The First Amendment doesn’t discriminate between civil and barbaric.”
    Barnes said, “I’m not recommending that we prosecute him, Cap, but both Amanda and I think it’d be negligent if we didn’t at least talk to him.”
    Amanda said, “He’s written other poison-pen letters to female members of our state congress. If something happens to one of those ladies, we’ll be in deep waters.”
    Headlines flashed in Torres’s head. Talking heads on the tube, his own name bandied about like a cussword. “How many women are we talking about?”
    “At least two.”
    “What about