“Give them all a thorough inspection, Mr. Beadle,” Brady said, looking like he was going to shake the guy until he picked out the shooter.

What if, in his panic, Beadle picked someone out?

What if he fingered a good and innocent cop?

Beadle’s eyes bored in on each of the six photographs; he took Brady’s advice and didn’t rush.

“I don’t recognize anyone,” Beadle said, finally. “Is one of these men the killer?”

Brady’s relief was apparent.

“No,” he said. “You did fine.”

We wrapped up the interview and I said good night to the office. Or I tried to.

Reporters were waiting for me outside the Hall, a bunch of them surging up from Bryant Street, stampeding toward me as I stood on the top of the Hall’s front steps.

Now that I knew what Jason Blayney looked like, it was easy to pick him out of the crowd.

Chapter 30

BLAYNEY WAS AT the leading edge of the pack of reporters, some of whom I’d known for years. Others had to be out-of-towners who’d just blown into the Bay Area for a big, banging story that would be making headlines indefinitely: murder at the Ellsworth compound.

The reporters were on the move, sticking elbows into ribs, treading on toes, jostling video equipment as they angled for position on the Hall’s front steps.

Microphones advanced.

Cameras fired in a 180-degree arc around my face.

I’d been mobbed by the press hundreds of times before, but today, I’d been told to keep my mouth shut and let Brady do the talking.

Jason Blayney called out to me, “Sergeant Boxer. What does Harry Chandler have to do with the bodies at his house? Is he a suspect?”

Overlapping questions came at me like flights of arrows: How many bodies had been found? Had the victims been identified? Had the SFPD arrested anyone?

“Is Harry Chandler a suspect, Sergeant?”

“Lindsay, please give us something, okay?”

I looked for a way out, but the crowd was dense and shifting, too thick to bull through. I reminded myself to adopt the wise and cool mind-set Bec Rollins had advised.

Suddenly, that seemed like a good idea.

I took a breath, said, “Sorry, everyone. You know the drill. I have nothing to tell you at this point. I have to protect the integrity of the investigation. That’s all I’ve got, so if you’ll please excuse me, I’ll see you some other time.”

The reporters weren’t taking no way for an answer. I looked around for anyone leaving the Hall of Justice who could step in and take the cameras off me. I was hoping to see the DA or Jackson Brady.

But that wasn’t happening, and Jason Blayney was still in my face.

“Sergeant Boxer, the public has a right to know something. If there’s a murderer on the loose —”

“Mr. Blayney? We can’t give out information about an ongoing investigation. You know that, or you should know that. You want a statement, contact Media Relations in the morning. Thank you.”