interviewed.
“Ian’s lost and sick. Why aren’t you out on the street looking for him instead of giving me the third degree?” she said.
“We’ll have a better chance of finding him if we talk to the people who know him best. And that’s you.”
Misty paused. “Fine. Five P.M.”
At four thirty, Lieutenant Tang pulled up in front of Jo’s house in an unmarked car. She honked like an impatient teenager. Jo hopped in and Tang peeled away from the curb.
“Got a plan to tackle this psychological non-autopsy?” Tang said.
“The groundwork’s the same for evaluating Kanan’s situation as for a case of equivocal death. Build a personality profile of the subject.”
Tang headed downhill. Jo braced herself against the incline. They passed a woman in her seventies out walking her beagle, chugging up the sidewalk like Tenzing ascending Everest.
“I’ll evaluate him using the NASH rubric,” Jo said. “Try to determine whether his brain injury is natural, accidental, or a case of attempted suicide or homicide.”
In conducting a psychological autopsy, Jo normally reviewed police and accident reports along with the victim’s medical, psychological, and educational history. She interviewed a victim’s family, friends, and colleagues. Reactions by friends and relatives to a person’s death were particularly pertinent. So were early warning signs of suicide and any indication that somebody had intended harm. She looked at things the victim had written, learned about his hobbies, reading habits, taste in music. About his fantasies, fears, and phobias. She tried to find out whether he had enemies.
She explained to Tang. “I’ll build a timeline of events leading up to Kanan’s injury. Maybe that’ll help us find out what happened to him.”
“Fine. You play the good shrink. I’ll strip the bark off of Misty Kanan.”
“You think she needs it?”
“If Kanan’s involved in a bungled heist, how likely is it that his wife’s oblivious?”
Jo considered that. She had her doubts. “Let’s get the lay of the land. Build up to that slowly.” She glanced at Tang. “This is still somewhat unofficial on your part, isn’t it? Let me take the lead.”
They beat Misty Kanan to her house, a flat-topped postwar stucco home in the Richmond District north of Golden Gate Park. The houses were packed together like shoeboxes, the street a vista of asphalt, concrete, and overhead electrical wires. But cherry trees were in bloom. Bright fistfuls of blossoms had turned the curbsides an aggressive pink, brightening the view. In many cities, the neighborhood would have been considered the tough end of middle-class. But in San Francisco, if you dropped a burger wrapper on the sidewalk and gave it a street number, it was worth $500,000. The Kanans were doing well.
They parked at the curb. The rain had stopped. The clouds were broken, and along the western horizon the sun was a screaming orange. Tang huddled into her coat, chewing gum and biting her thumbnail.
Jo said, “Are you fighting the urge for a nicotine fix? Because that would be good.”
“I’m on pins and needles, praying my dream date asks me to the prom.”
“Neato. I hear this year’s prom theme is Carrie .”
Tang hunched in her jacket. Jo backed off and shut up.
Down at the south end of the street, a midnight-blue Chevy Tahoe turned the corner from Fulton. It was tricked out with hunting lights and a bull bar. Misty Kanan was behind the wheel. She cruised up the street and turned into the driveway.
Jo and Tang got out and walked over. The Tahoe idled on the driveway as the garage door went up. Misty put down her window.
“Let me to go in and turn off the burglar alarm. I’ll come around and open the front door,” she said.
She drove into the garage. The brake lights glowed hot red, exhaust swirling around them. Jo and Tang went to the front door and waited in a blustering wind. After several cold minutes, Misty let them in.
“Sorry. I
“Ian’s lost and sick. Why aren’t you out on the street looking for him instead of giving me the third degree?” she said.
“We’ll have a better chance of finding him if we talk to the people who know him best. And that’s you.”
Misty paused. “Fine. Five P.M.”
At four thirty, Lieutenant Tang pulled up in front of Jo’s house in an unmarked car. She honked like an impatient teenager. Jo hopped in and Tang peeled away from the curb.
“Got a plan to tackle this psychological non-autopsy?” Tang said.
“The groundwork’s the same for evaluating Kanan’s situation as for a case of equivocal death. Build a personality profile of the subject.”
Tang headed downhill. Jo braced herself against the incline. They passed a woman in her seventies out walking her beagle, chugging up the sidewalk like Tenzing ascending Everest.
“I’ll evaluate him using the NASH rubric,” Jo said. “Try to determine whether his brain injury is natural, accidental, or a case of attempted suicide or homicide.”
In conducting a psychological autopsy, Jo normally reviewed police and accident reports along with the victim’s medical, psychological, and educational history. She interviewed a victim’s family, friends, and colleagues. Reactions by friends and relatives to a person’s death were particularly pertinent. So were early warning signs of suicide and any indication that somebody had intended harm. She looked at things the victim had written, learned about his hobbies, reading habits, taste in music. About his fantasies, fears, and phobias. She tried to find out whether he had enemies.
She explained to Tang. “I’ll build a timeline of events leading up to Kanan’s injury. Maybe that’ll help us find out what happened to him.”
“Fine. You play the good shrink. I’ll strip the bark off of Misty Kanan.”
“You think she needs it?”
“If Kanan’s involved in a bungled heist, how likely is it that his wife’s oblivious?”
Jo considered that. She had her doubts. “Let’s get the lay of the land. Build up to that slowly.” She glanced at Tang. “This is still somewhat unofficial on your part, isn’t it? Let me take the lead.”
They beat Misty Kanan to her house, a flat-topped postwar stucco home in the Richmond District north of Golden Gate Park. The houses were packed together like shoeboxes, the street a vista of asphalt, concrete, and overhead electrical wires. But cherry trees were in bloom. Bright fistfuls of blossoms had turned the curbsides an aggressive pink, brightening the view. In many cities, the neighborhood would have been considered the tough end of middle-class. But in San Francisco, if you dropped a burger wrapper on the sidewalk and gave it a street number, it was worth $500,000. The Kanans were doing well.
They parked at the curb. The rain had stopped. The clouds were broken, and along the western horizon the sun was a screaming orange. Tang huddled into her coat, chewing gum and biting her thumbnail.
Jo said, “Are you fighting the urge for a nicotine fix? Because that would be good.”
“I’m on pins and needles, praying my dream date asks me to the prom.”
“Neato. I hear this year’s prom theme is Carrie .”
Tang hunched in her jacket. Jo backed off and shut up.
Down at the south end of the street, a midnight-blue Chevy Tahoe turned the corner from Fulton. It was tricked out with hunting lights and a bull bar. Misty Kanan was behind the wheel. She cruised up the street and turned into the driveway.
Jo and Tang got out and walked over. The Tahoe idled on the driveway as the garage door went up. Misty put down her window.
“Let me to go in and turn off the burglar alarm. I’ll come around and open the front door,” she said.
She drove into the garage. The brake lights glowed hot red, exhaust swirling around them. Jo and Tang went to the front door and waited in a blustering wind. After several cold minutes, Misty let them in.
“Sorry. I
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