The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 43

After I'd hit up the Museum of Science and Industry, I went back to my room and changed into more comfortable shoes for the "Gangsters and Ghosts" walking tour. By the time I got back, I was ready to experience those enticing bed covers. Sinking into the down pillows and comforter was like coming home to a place I'd never been. As I was giving myself a mental pat on the back for coming up with such a clever advertising slogan, and then realized someone probably already had the same idea, I drifted off to sleep. The next thing I knew, the alarm was going off, and eleven hours had passed.

Despite the great night's sleep, my movements were a little stiff as I climbed out of bed. But things were rapidly improving by the time we arrived at the Chicago Diner.

Dale exuded more confidence than I had in Mark making an appearance at the appointed time – he had, after all, bailed in the middle of the phone call that led to us coming here – so I was mildly, but pleasantly, surprised when he walked in the door of the diner. Mark was wearing a polo shirt, which revealed the big man's muscular biceps and the tattoo sleeves down his arms.

His reluctance to talk to us about Ricky Mason and Brian Pierce was obvious, but he seemed determined to get this done – a lot like most people feel about dental appointments. When we placed our orders, I asked our server if we could have some privacy once our food arrived.

In spite of the circumstances, Mark seemed to have an easy-going nature that belied his size, soft-spoken with a pleasant disposition – what Californians might think of as a surfer-dude vibe. I leveraged his eagerness to get this over with as my cue to plunge right in. I started off by recapping where things stood.

"I think you know that the police are looking at Ricky Mason as one of two people who beat a man named Brian Pierce to death," I said, "and dumped his body in an alley two months ago. They have DNA and prints. You've never been in any trouble that we know of, so your biologics aren't in the system. But I think all of us at this table know that once they have samples to compare, one of those sets of DNA and prints will match yours. We have reason to believe that in part because the police have a voice recording of an individual calling the San Diego police tip line. That's not something people do unless they got dragged into something they wanted nothing to do with, and now their conscience is bothering them.

"That's why I'm here. I care about the story, not about the conviction, so circumstances and the reasons behind things mean something to me. I have no idea how this situation will turn out, but my experience tells me that when someone in your position can get that part of the story in front of the public, things go much better for them. That depends on the role you played in the homicide and how cooperative you are with the authorities when the time comes, but still..."

"I understand what you are saying," Mark said, "and this has been bothering me for a long time. I've had time to think about it, and I want to go back home, put this behind me, and have a chance for a decent life once I've paid my debt."

"Tell me, then, in your own words, what happened that night and the next day," I said as I pulled my digital recorder from my purse. "I am going to record this, but it's for my ears only to reference so I get the story right."

"I'll never forget that night for the rest of my life," Mark said. "I've never been involved in violence like that before, ever, and I wake up nights remembering what happened. Every moment is seared into my brain."

"How do you know Ricky Mason?" I asked.

"I didn't before that night. I mean, I'd seen him around, but we never connected. He had a reputation for sneaking roofies into drinks to get dates, but I'd had too many vodka Redbulls and I didn't care. He picked me up at The Loft for a sleepover. I rode in his car, left mine in the lot.