The Cable Car Killer: (Jack Beckett Book Eight)

Prologue

It was an August morning in San Francisco and a man walked into the 11 th floor offices of Far Western Insurance. He was nervous and upset, and he asked to speak with someone about the care his sister was receiving. Far Western sold many types of insurance, but specialized in long term care. He was told to wait in the well-appointed company lobby. A half hour later an assistant escorted him to the office of one of Far Western’s executives.

A psychologist will tell you that two people with a similar psychological need will be attracted to each other in a crowded room even if they have never laid eyes on each other. Perhaps it is an energy that is mysteriously conveyed between two people. An abuser, for example, will recognize a person susceptible to abuse. A controlling man will be drawn to a person who can be dominated. And that morning, the executive recognized the man who could carry out his plot as soon as he was seated across the desk from him.

A conspiracy is a secret plan or agreement between two or more people for an unlawful purpose such as murder or extortion. In many cases, the conspiracy is carried out in total secrecy by one or more of the conspirators for the benefit of all the conspirators. That morning a conspiracy was hatched that kept law enforcement and city officials in the dark for days.

This is how it played out.

The Cable Car Killer is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 David G. Baxter

All rights reserved

5.2.21

1

Click, clack, click, clack; the sound could be heard by everyone aboard Cable Car 24 as it pulled away from the station near Fisherman’s Wharf. The Powell-Hyde Line car passed near Ghirardelli Square just after 9 am on Wednesday, a foggy August morning. It climbed the Hyde Street hill and wound its way down to Union Square, an area with big department stores and famous hotels. There it turned around and made its return trip.

Twenty-seven people were on Cable Car 24 when it returned to the Fisherman’s Wharf station. Twenty-six got off. When the conductor, a burly guy named Walt, walked up to the lone passenger still on the car, he noticed that her head was slumped forward, as if she was sleeping. She wasn’t sleeping. She was dead.

Walt called over the grip, a young guy named Sal.

I think she’s dead, Walt said.

Sal was a nervous guy, and his hand began to quiver.

Are you sure? he asked. Maybe she’s asleep.

I checked her pulse. She doesn’t have one. That usually means the person is deceased.

Sal thought about shaking her to make sure Walt was right, but couldn’t bring himself to touch a dead person.

What do we do? Sal asked.

We do nothing, Walt said. Don’t let anyone on this car. I’ll call the cops.

Jeez, Sal said. I'm supposed to be off in ten minutes.

Not tonight, pal. You’re going to be here for a while.

Lt. Johnny Houston responded to the call along with two uniformed officers. Walt and Sal had done their part, keeping the curious crowd away from Car 24. With a nod from Houston, the officers set up a crime scene perimeter with yellow tape. Onlookers were pushed farther back and told to go about their business. Some left. Others stayed, drawn by the novelty of a potential murder on a cable car. By then, the rumor had spread that one of the passengers was dead. A pretty, young woman at that.

Houston told Sal and Walt to stick around. He planned to get their statements as soon as he examined the body. Houston pulled on a pair of latex gloves and took an object from his pocket that looked like a pen. He wrapped the pen in a glove, too, making sure not to contaminate the body as he poked around. The victim’s eyes were wide open, and he wished he could close them, but that would be left for the coroner.

The woman looked to be in her mid-20s. She had dark brown hair, cut medium length. She was trim and other than being dead, she seemed to be in good shape. She was conservatively dressed in dark brown slacks and a lightweight cashmere sweater. Her shoes were stylish but reasonable for anyone who planned to walk a distance.

A purse sat beside her. The assumption was it belonged to the woman. Houston decided to look inside for some type of ID, as well as anything of interest. He quickly opened the Hobo bag with a pull of its zipper. It was medium-sized and made of leather, a quality bag and fairly new by its appearance. He saw the wallet right away. It also was made of leather and was black. It had a gold monogram and a gold zipper. It looked expensive.

He opened the wallet. It had cash, about $200, and credit cards. And a driver’s license issued in California. The photo matched the dead woman, as well as photos from the DMV can match an actual person; they are notoriously bad. Her name was Heather Elliot. Right away that got Houston’s attention. There had been a high profile kidnapping three days ago. The victim was a young woman from a wealthy family. And Houston was almost certain her name was Heather Elliot.

Then he saw a speck of blood on her sleeve. He took the pen and pushed the sleeve up above the blood spot. He saw evidence of a needle mark. He realized this was no ordinary death, especially in a woman this young.

He pulled out his phone and called a local number. The call was answered by Amber Ashton, his partner in homicide. Her desk was ten feet from his.

Yes, Johnny, what’s up? she asked.

I’m down at the Hyde Street cable car station. I happened to be close when the call came in that a passenger died when Car 24 came into the station. Her ID says she’s Heather Elliot. Isn’t Captain Robertson working on a kidnap case with a victim by that name?

Robertson was Captain Sam Robertson, head of Homicide and the department’s lead detective.

Yes, that’s her name, Aston said. But the FBI took that case over yesterday. They are the lead, and we’re still in the loop as supporting the Feds. Yada, yadda. Know what I mean?

Houston laughed. Got it. We’ll run out for coffee when they need some. Anyway, was there a ransom asked on the Elliot girl?

No, Johnny. As I recall the kidnapper didn’t mention a ransom. Interesting, because the father is worth some big bucks as I recall.

This is interesting, he said. They usually ask for money in a high profile kidnapping.

I’ll give Robertson a call and let him know the girl turned up. I’m sure he’ll be interested, she said.

I’ll catch up with you later. I need to get the medical examiner down here. Right now I’m calling this a suspicious death, but the medical examiner will sort that out. How many twenty-something kids die of natural causes sitting on a cable car?

Especially kidnap victims, Ashton added. By the way, expect company. Captain Robertson will probably join you down there once he finds out his kidnap victim ended up dead on a cable car.

Who’s working the kidnap at the FBI?

A special agent named Riley O’Connor. I expect you’ll meet her soon, too.

A regular party, Houston said. Sure you don’t want to join me?

Sounds like you’ve got it covered. I’ve got to call Robertson and break the news. Talk with you later.

Capitan Sam Robertson was a twenty-year veteran of the SFPD. He was a good cop, but also politically savvy. He took the news from Lt. Ashton calmly. This development was strange, but he had seen strange things over the years; life is stranger than fiction he said to himself on more than one occasion.

He picked up his phone and dialed a number he had tucked under the phone. Riley O’Connor answered.

This is O’Connor.

Hello, Agent O'Connor. This is Cpt. Robertson at the SFPD.

Yes, captain, how can I help you?

I understand you took the lead on the Elliot kidnapping yesterday. I’ve got an important development for you.

Thanks for calling. What have you got?

We responded to a call at the Fisherman's Wharf cable car station. One of the passengers didn't get off the car, and the conductor discovered she was deceased. We’ve tentatively identified her as Heather Elliot.

The Heather Elliot?

You’ll have to sort that out. But she was a 24-year-old female with a driver’s license in that name. The photo on the license matched the dead girl on the car. She'll end up at the morgue, and you can get a positive ID from her family.

I've got a lot of questions, as no doubt you do as well. Is the girl still on the car?

Yes, our detective just called it in 15 minutes ago. Our medical examiner is on his way down there.

I’m on my way, too. Are you going to the scene?

I wouldn’t miss it.

2

O'Connor showed up at the base of Hyde Street about 15 minutes later. It was a short drive from the FBI building near the Civic Center; basically a straight shot down Market to Bay then left on Hyde. Before she went, she called in an ERT unit. If it was a homicide, every piece of evidence needed to be collected.

She parked her Crown Vic behind an SFPD unit and walked over to the yellow tape, showed an officer her badge, then walked over to Car 24. She noticed a crowd of twenty or so onlookers behind the tape. She wondered if any had been on the car. If so, they needed to be questioned.

Lt. Houston was on the car standing near the medical examiner. She was glad to see they had not moved the body. She took a few steps up onto the car using the conductor's platform at the rear and walked into a small compartment that was covered by a roof but open on the sides. Wooden bench seats that would have been at home in a park faced each other with a narrow aisle between.

She introduced herself to Houston, then Houston introduced Rod Barker, the city’s medical examiner. O’Connor moved right away to establish control.

Thanks for calling this in, Lt. Houston. If this woman turns out to be Heather Elliot, this becomes not only a highly unusual development but also a likely homicide. I have an ERT team on the way, so you'll need to leave the body where it is.

Houston nodded.

Let me know if you want us to run toxicology tests, Barker said. Happy to assist, but I understand the FBI may want to do the lab work.

O’Connor paused, watching Barker’s expression for a few seconds. She had a good bullshit detector, and she quickly determined Barker was sincere.

Thank you, she said. This is a high profile case. We'll keep it in-house. That said, what's your gut reaction to what we see here?

Death was sudden, he said. Her eyes are open, an indication that death came quickly. The needle mark is fresh. This is a guess, but I wouldn’t rule out a drug overdose, something that overwhelmed her in a matter of seconds.

Drug guess? O’Connor asked.

Once again, strictly guessing, I’d say heroin.

O’Connor smiled.

We guess alike. Now I need to figure out how she overdosed right here in plain sight. I haven't talked with the conductor yet, but I'm sure this car was full of passengers this time of year.

Houston chimed in. The two guys onboard are standing over there. The small, thin guy is the grip, and the big guy is the conductor.

Thanks, she said. How about passengers? Any still around?

Hard to say, Houston said. I haven’t had time to fan out and ask questions.

O’Connor nodded.

I need a favor, Lt. Houston.

You want me to run out and get some coffee, right? He smiled.

No, I get my own coffee, O’Connor said with the hint of a smile. But I do want to canvass that crowd before it slips away. You’ve got two uniforms here, and the two of us make four. Let’s get out there and find out if there are any passengers still here. Just get names and phone numbers for now. I need to know if anyone saw anything.

Good idea, Houston said. He gazed at the crowd behind the ropes. Looks like twenty or twenty-five people. I’ll get my two guys started on the left flank, and you and I can come in from the right flank. If anyone tries to slip away, step out and grab them.

You’ve done this before, O’Connor said.

Houston smiled.

I’m an old dog in police years.

Houston excused himself and left Car 24 to talk with his men. Barker put a few things back into his black bag, and O’Connor scanned the crowd just beyond the ropes. She noticed a tall figure at the back of the crowd. He wore a black hoodie and was watching O’Connor, or so it seemed. As if he sensed that the action would shift, he turned and walked down the hill back toward the Maritime Museum on Beach Street.

O’Connor was tempted to go after him. Her gut said he was maybe more than a curious onlooker. But she had just agreed to a plan with Houston, so she watched him walk away.

But she was tempted. She was tempted to run after the man in the hoodie.

Charles Jackson was a talk show host on radio station KNBQ, a popular talk radio station based in San Francisco. He hosted the popular show Talk Now. He was in his studio getting ready for the 10 am show when his producer walked in with a manila envelope. It had Jackson’s name on it and the notation Information about kidnap victim Heather Elliot.

I thought you should see this, the producer said as he handed the envelope to Jackson. It was dropped off at the front desk by a woman who said it was for you. When Maggie asked what it was about, the woman turned and walked out.

Jackson looked at the envelope for ten seconds, then up to the producer who was still standing five feet away.

Stick around, Bill. I want you to witness me opening this envelope. If it’s news, I’ll need to document everything that happened.

The producer nodded. He was in agreement. He then motioned for Jackson to proceed.

Jackson opened the envelope and found a single sheet of white paper. A message was on the paper, and it gave Jackson a jolt of adrenalin before he read it. The letters were cut from magazines and pasted to the surface of the white paper. Jackson had seen this before when he read a book about the Bay Area’s most notorious killer – The Zodiac killer.

The Zodiac killer named himself in a series of letters and claimed responsibility for the murder of five people back in the late 60s. He demanded that his letters be published on the front page of Bay Area newspapers, or he would kill again. The Zodiac's letters were similar to the one Jackson was holding, individual letters from publically available media cut out and strung together to form words.

Jackson stared at the letter he was holding but didn’t say a word. Finally, the producer spoke up.

Charles, are you ok?

Jackson came out of his momentary trance.

Yeah, I’m ok. But this could be trouble.

3

The cable car turnaround at Fisherman’s Wharf sits on the corner of Hyde and Beach Street. Behind it is a grassy area that slopes downhill to Jefferson Street and the Hyde Street Pier. As O'Connor began to exit Car 24, she could see the cars parked on Jefferson. She noticed the tall man in