So I know you’re already asking yourself “why the hell would they be bringing a retired cop, a civilian, to an active crime scene – especially considering that he was the prime witness to a related crime?”

It’s a fair question and it deserves a response. Truth is, I had no clue.

On the ride over I kept asking myself the same question, why would Gilda want me there? I was a good Detective but I certainly wasn’t the most senior or most experienced during my time with the SFPD. I was good at smelling things out thanks to my refined olfactory senses but by now that would be meaningless.

I sure hoped to hell that this wasn’t yet another attempt by my former lover to get me to return to the job. That wasn’t going to happen.

It turned out that the house in question was on Fillmore, up in the hill above the Marina District and only a few doors down from a former Mayor. There were cars everywhere and I would have hated to be in that traffic without my escort. When we got to the house the first thing I noted was that the owners and probable victims were much richer than me, and given the opulence and parking were most likely old money. I was escorted up the front walkway and we were met by Gilda in her full Captain mode.

“Captain,” I nodded, acknowledging her status here.

“Gary,” she replied, “thanks for taking time from your busy schedule.”

“His usual schedule,” Alex Martin threw in.

Gilda looked sharply at her detective. “Yes, we all know Gary’s flaws. Let’s put that aside for a moment.” She turned back to me. “Before we go in I want you to steel yourself. This is pretty damned awful.”

“Why am I even here?” I asked. “I didn’t even actually see the crime scene at the massage parlor. I don’t know what I’m supposed to notice.”

“You’ll understand in a moment. Follow me.”

Oh, this was bad. Even though I had an alibi provided by two uniforms and a member of her own squad she still wanted to see a visceral reaction from me. It’s the sort of thing that police including myself back in the day would do – hold back on a key revelation and see how the person you’re talking to will react to it. The body language alone in those circumstances could give you a dozen clues.

This meant that the connection between the cases was most likely me. Maybe I should consider getting out of town for a while.

We walked in the front door and followed the procedural tape and floor markers to the kitchen – a big kitchen like you see in television commercials with an island in the center and most people dream they could own, except this one was littered with bodies. There was blood everywhere, with bits of grey matter stuck to various walls. All of the walls. Each had a small hole in their foreheads and a larger one exploding out the backs of their heads. It was disgusting.

“They were all facing each other when they were shot,” I noticed. I let that rattle around in my head for a moment. “How the hell is that even possible?”

Detective Eric Clapton came into the kitchen from an outer room. “I know,” he said. “You’d think that at least one of them would have run; that at least one of them would have been shot from behind. Even if the killer was sitting on the island in between all of the victims he couldn’t have shot them all at the same time. The law of averages says that at least one of them would have ducked or run.”

I looked back down at the bodies and too a look at the faces. There was no one there I knew. I stood back up and looked to Gilda. “Again, why am I here?”

The captain looked to Clapton, who nodded. “Follow me,” he said, turning and walking the way he came. I followed him into the next room and had my mind blown.

The next room was some sort of gathering room, with a big TV on one end and artwork on the walls. It was the artwork that got my attention. It was a painting of me, with my back to the audience, holding a bloody knife and standing over the body of a hooker. The background was a look up Kearny Street northwards from Bush Street. In the painting I wasn’t wearing a shirt and was in much better shape than I really am and while you couldn’t see my face, but you could easily make out my scars. They were all there, and they were all correct.

I was shocked, body language and all.

“What the fuck is this shit?” I asked.

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Clapton replied. “You do any modeling?”

I shook my head. “Never. I mean, my scars are no secret and certainly they’ve been seen, but I have no fucking clue what this is doing here, or even how it was done.”

Captain Gold came up beside me, looking at the painting. “We’re checking out who did the painting now,” she said, “but you might notice that the paint is still fresh and not completely dry.”

She was right, now that I looked closer. It was a professional job, with neat brush strokes and some technique, but it was very recently done. Maybe in the last 24 hours even.

“Someone out there has a real hard on for you,” Gilda said.

“Question is,” added Eric, “was it the killer or the victims?”

I stared numbly at the painting for a moment, soaking in the details. They got my scars almost exactly right – so the artist has seen me shirtless or a photo of me that way. In general I don’t like people to take my picture with the scars showing, so it was more likely to have been someone who had seen me.

That would narrow down the list to about a hundred massage parlor girls.

“You’re going to raid the massage parlors, aren’t you?” I asked.

Captain Gold nodded. “You were always quick,” she said. “I expect it will only take a few days for them to all put together that we’re trying to connect them to you.”

“That will effectively ban me from every shop in town.”

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not but I appreciate the sentiment.” I sighed. “Looks like I’m in this one whether I want to be or not.”

“I’m afraid so.”

I nodded. “I really don’t want to be a cop anymore,” I said. “I’m done with that life.”

“You’re not going to be a cop now,” Gilda replied, “but we are going to need to consult with you and see what you understand about these crime scenes. I’ll need you to look at crime photos of the first scene to see if there might be anything directed at you there.”

“Can we do that tomorrow?” I asked. “I have something I need to do tonight.” I took out my cell phone and took a picture of the painting.

“What the hell are you doing?” Eric asked, reaching for the camera. I quickly slipped it back into my pocket.

“If you can give me until morning, I’m going to see if I can discover the source of this artwork. Maybe I can save you the trouble of raiding the parlors.”

Gilda looked at me quizzically. “You can do that?” she asked.

“I can, provided someone can give me a ride into Chinatown.”