He balanced his crutches against the doorway to ring the bell. Almost immediately, the door opened to a very pretty red-haired woman in a Stanford sweatshirt. The house smelled of oak and baking bread. He gave his little waif grin.

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said, ‘but is this where Dismas Hardy lives? I’m Jeff Elliot with the Chronicle and I’d just like to ask him a few questions.’

‘It’s interesting you should ask that,’ Hardy said. ‘It came up just today downtown.’

‘What came up, the homicide question?’

They’d moved into the dining room, and Frannie had poured a black and tan – Guinness and ale in two layers -for her husband. The reporter, really not much more than a kid with a pair of bad legs, had a cup of coffee. Frannie, pregnant, had a glass of water and sat quietly nursing Rebecca, listening.

‘Well, the odds are good that whoever it is, he’s probably recently dead. It could be a straight drowning, but we had to consider the fact that somebody killed this guy and dumped him in the ocean.’

The reporter had his dictaphone on the table between them.

‘But,’ Hardy said, ‘we’re still a long way from knowing that. I don’t believe the coroner’s even had a chance to examine the thing yet. At least he hadn’t by the time I left the office.’

‘Is that normal?’

‘Well, if there was a body to go with it, he’d have done something I’m sure. But we haven’t got anything from Missing Persons, at least not yet. They’re checking other jurisdictions, I’m sure.’ Hardy shrugged. ‘It’s a process, that’s all. They’ll get to it.’

Frannie finished nursing and went to the back of the house to put down the sleeping infant. When she got back, Dismas had finished his beer and she could tell by his look that he was fading. He hadn’t slept, after all, in two days.

They were talking about Pico Morales pulling out the hand, back at the Aquarium. Frannie went around behind Dismas, massaged his shoulders and cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid this news conference has got to come to an end. I’ve got a tired man here who’s too macho to admit it.’

‘Oh gosh!’ Jeff Elliot looked at his watch, flicked off the tape machine. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. I’ve got to get this story written and filed, anyway.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not much new as a story.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve just got a feeling about this one. It’s somebody’s hand, for gosh sake.’

Hardy nodded. ‘You got a card? I’ll let you know if we find something.’

D.A. CALLS MYSTERY HAND A HOMICIDE

by Jeffrey Elliot

Chronicle Staff Writer

An assistant district attorney conceded last night that the grisly find on Sunday of a human hand wearing a jade ring was a homicide.

The hand was discovered in the stomach of a great white shark – the same animal featured in the movie Jaws - that had been delivered alive to the Steinhart Aquarium over the weekend.

Assistant District Attorney Dismas Hardy, who coincidentally had been present at the Aquarium when the hand was discovered, said the D.A.‘s office was looking into the matter. ’Somebody killed this guy and dumped him in the ocean,‘ Hardy said.

To date, there are no leads on the victim’s identity. Hardy acknowledged that authorities were checking with other jurisdictions in the area.

Although the coroner has not yet performed any tests on the hand, Hardy appeared confident that the victim would soon be identified and an investigation into the probable murder begun.

‘It’s a process,’ Hardy said. ‘They’ll get there.’

Christopher Locke was fifty-two years old and the first African-American ever elected district attorney of the City and County of San Francisco. Locke thought his job essentially took place in the rarefied air of policy. He lobbied hard for the death penalty, for example. He determined whether there would be a crackdown on graffiti prosecutions, on gay bashing in the Mission district; he worked with the police department on coordinating the work of the Gang Task Force. He went to a lot of lunches, spoke both inside the city and around the state on issues involving law enforcement.

Locke’s longtime ally and best friend (to the extent it was possible to have one) was Art Drysdale, with whom he entrusted much of the day-to-day running of the office. Art was fair and firm, too outspoken to be a political rival, a good administrator and even better lawyer. The last thing Locke had time for, or wanted to do, was interact with his junior staff.

But here he was this Tuesday morning awaiting the arrival of Dismas Hardy, four months in the office. Hardy’s file lay next to the Chronicle, open on his desk in front of him.

It didn’t seem to Locke to be much of an article, but it had evidently been enough to prompt a call from some homicide lieutenant to the police chief himself, Dan Rigby, who in turn had deemed it important enough to call Locke at home before he’d had his coffee. Then, fifteen minutes later, he’d gotten another call from John Strout, the coroner, asking what the hell this homicide business was all about.

Drysdale had thought he’d just run down and tell Hardy to button it, but Locke had promised Rigby he’d handle the matter personally, so here he was.

Dorothy buzzed, and a minute later Hardy let himself through the door. Locke remembered him from when he’d welcomed him to the office – a formality about which Locke was punctilious. At the time, Locke had briefly wondered how Drysdale had found an opening on the staff for a male Caucasian.

Hardy wasn’t a kid by any means. This was his second time around with the D.A. He should know better.

‘Don’t sit down, Hardy. This won’t take long.’ Locke busied himself for a moment with Hardy’s file. Without looking up, he said, ‘I notice you’ve got seventeen specially assigned prelims’ – preliminary hearings -’you’re supposed to be prosecuting.‘

‘Yes, sir, that’s about right.’

‘That’s exactly right, according to your file. Am I missing something?’

‘I hadn’t counted them.’

‘Perhaps prelim work isn’t worthy of your time.’

Hardy stood in the classic at-ease position. ‘This is about the article.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘That’s right. It’s about the article.’

‘The quote was out of context.’

‘It happens all the time. I’m wondering why you found it proper to be discussing this matter with the press at all.’

‘I found the hand. I thought the reporter was going for something a little more human interest.’

‘It doesn’t appear he was. It appears you got yourself sandbagged.’

‘Yes, sir, it does.’

‘So I’ve instructed Mr Drysdale to send a little more prelim work your way. The way we do it, we like to have our attorneys work on the cases they get assigned, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And Mr Drysdale will be doing the assigning.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And it would be good policy and a good habit to acquire if you prefaced any remarks you ever make to a reporter with the words “This is off the record.” Understood?’

Hardy nodded and agreed until he was dismissed.

Though Hardy didn’t like him, Aaron Jaans was a decent, even well-respected, attorney. In response to what he considered Hardy’s outrageous offer, he had requested that they talk to a judge in superior court rather than municipal court, before there was even a preliminary hearing to determine whether Hardy’s offer would be made to stick. As a courtesy, Hardy had complied with the request.

Now they were in Judge Andy Fowler’s courtroom and Esme Aiella stood before the bench, next to Aaron Jaans. She was wearing a skin-tight blue tube that began an inch above her nipples and ended four inches below her crotch. Her hair had been straightened and dyed a shade of red that did not occur in nature.