and watched for five full minutes before he went back to fast-forwarding because of the lack of activity. In the hour’s worth of video that he watched, only seven people—including the homeless guy, at about the halfway point—used the steps, all of them except the homeless man coming down from Bush Street.
Besides the residence-challenged individual—whom Glitsky assumed was the as-yet-unnamed witness—the first two people coming down from Bush were women. The first one was Asian and appeared to bemiddle-aged or older, in a long dark coat. The second one, four minutes later, at 10:41, was a white female in her twenties, in jeans and a black jacket. Hands in her pockets, she hesitated slightly as she approached the landing, probably noticing the sleeping homeless man. Then she continued down. To Glitsky, it was probable that Anlya was still alive at this moment, and possibly hadn’t even started the argument that would end in her death, just above and out of the camera’s range.
At 11:04, a white man in a trench coat over what looked to be a suit—he was wearing a tie—descended the stairs in a hurry, almost at a run. He slowed to a full stop at the turnaround, perhaps surprised by the presence of the homeless man there, and Glitsky imagined that this was probably seconds or at most a minute or two after Anlya had hit the street below. This might, he thought, be her killer, coming down to make sure she was dead.
Glitsky stopped the playback and went frame by frame, trying to get a good glimpse of the man’s face. But as he descended, he kept his gaze lowered, eyes on the steps, then down at the homeless guy.
Try as he might, Glitsky couldn’t make out any particular features. The man had a full head of dark hair that he wore fashionably long, just over his ears. He was the approximate height and build of Greg Treadway. Beyond that, he could have been anybody.
Almost immediately after, at 11:05, the homeless man stood up and appeared at the bottom of the picture, although since he trudged up the stairs and therefore away from the camera, his face was never visible, either. At 11:11, a couple—two of the witnesses who’d talked to the police that night?—also in a hurry, as though coming down to look at something specific, entered and then exited the picture. Four minutes later—an eternity!—the next pedestrian appeared on the stairway, a heavyset black man in a kind of a peacoat. He came halfway down, got to the landing, then stopped and seemed to examine the stairway ahead before continuing the rest of the way down.
Finally, at 11:15, a San Francisco patrolman in uniform showed up on the screen. He, too, paused at the landing before heading down the rest of the way.
Much to his frustration, Glitsky was all but certain that he had been watching what was happening during the exact minutes when Anlya andher assailant argued and she was thrown to her death. That reality was right here , just outside the vision of the camera. With the exception of the couple who may have been the ones who stayed around to answer police questions about what they’d seen and heard, Glitsky knew that getting a positive identification of any of these people would probably be an impossible task, since all of them had appeared only briefly, turned the corner, then walked down facing away from the camera. None of them had appeared startled, or looked up, or given any indication they were aware that anything unusual had just happened.
• • •
T HE B ECK WAS spending that same Friday night out with her client. They were sitting across the table from each other in a booth at a pizza place on Clement, and she had assured him that there would be no bill for her time or services. Because she knew that her father—no joke—would surely disapprove of her decision, she felt uncomfortable about this.
But she also felt like it might be her best chance to get to know more, not just about her client but about some of the
Besides the residence-challenged individual—whom Glitsky assumed was the as-yet-unnamed witness—the first two people coming down from Bush were women. The first one was Asian and appeared to bemiddle-aged or older, in a long dark coat. The second one, four minutes later, at 10:41, was a white female in her twenties, in jeans and a black jacket. Hands in her pockets, she hesitated slightly as she approached the landing, probably noticing the sleeping homeless man. Then she continued down. To Glitsky, it was probable that Anlya was still alive at this moment, and possibly hadn’t even started the argument that would end in her death, just above and out of the camera’s range.
At 11:04, a white man in a trench coat over what looked to be a suit—he was wearing a tie—descended the stairs in a hurry, almost at a run. He slowed to a full stop at the turnaround, perhaps surprised by the presence of the homeless man there, and Glitsky imagined that this was probably seconds or at most a minute or two after Anlya had hit the street below. This might, he thought, be her killer, coming down to make sure she was dead.
Glitsky stopped the playback and went frame by frame, trying to get a good glimpse of the man’s face. But as he descended, he kept his gaze lowered, eyes on the steps, then down at the homeless guy.
Try as he might, Glitsky couldn’t make out any particular features. The man had a full head of dark hair that he wore fashionably long, just over his ears. He was the approximate height and build of Greg Treadway. Beyond that, he could have been anybody.
Almost immediately after, at 11:05, the homeless man stood up and appeared at the bottom of the picture, although since he trudged up the stairs and therefore away from the camera, his face was never visible, either. At 11:11, a couple—two of the witnesses who’d talked to the police that night?—also in a hurry, as though coming down to look at something specific, entered and then exited the picture. Four minutes later—an eternity!—the next pedestrian appeared on the stairway, a heavyset black man in a kind of a peacoat. He came halfway down, got to the landing, then stopped and seemed to examine the stairway ahead before continuing the rest of the way down.
Finally, at 11:15, a San Francisco patrolman in uniform showed up on the screen. He, too, paused at the landing before heading down the rest of the way.
Much to his frustration, Glitsky was all but certain that he had been watching what was happening during the exact minutes when Anlya andher assailant argued and she was thrown to her death. That reality was right here , just outside the vision of the camera. With the exception of the couple who may have been the ones who stayed around to answer police questions about what they’d seen and heard, Glitsky knew that getting a positive identification of any of these people would probably be an impossible task, since all of them had appeared only briefly, turned the corner, then walked down facing away from the camera. None of them had appeared startled, or looked up, or given any indication they were aware that anything unusual had just happened.
• • •
T HE B ECK WAS spending that same Friday night out with her client. They were sitting across the table from each other in a booth at a pizza place on Clement, and she had assured him that there would be no bill for her time or services. Because she knew that her father—no joke—would surely disapprove of her decision, she felt uncomfortable about this.
But she also felt like it might be her best chance to get to know more, not just about her client but about some of the
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