RICH WAS ALREADY at the computer when I got to my desk. He looked like he was in fifth gear, his index fingers tapping a fast two-step over the keys. I thanked him for the Krispy Kreme he’d parked on a napkin next to my phone.

  “It was my turn,” Rich said, not looking up as I dragged out my chair and sat down. “Dr. Roach called,” Rich continued. “Said there were fifty-five ccs of gasoline in Alan Beam’s stomach.”

  “What’s that? Three ounces? Geez. Is she saying he drank gasoline?”

  “Yeah. Probably directly out of the can. Beam really wanted to make sure he got it right this time. Doctor says the gas would’ve killed him if the fire hadn’t. She’s calling it a suicide. But look here, Lindsay.”

  “Whatcha got?” I said.

  “Come over here and see this.”

  I walked around our two desks and peered over Conklin’s shoulder. There was a Web site on his screen called Crime Web. Conklin pressed the enter key and an animation began. A spider dropped a line from the top of the page, made a web around the blood-red headline over the feature story, then skittered back to its corner of the page. I read the headline.

    Five Fatal Shootings This Week Alone

    When are the cops and the DA going to get it together?

  The text below was a sickening indictment of San Francisco’s justice system - and it was all true. Homicides were up, prosecutions were down, the result of not enough people or money or time.

  Rich moved the cursor to the column listing the pages on the site.

  “This one - here,” Rich said, clicking on a link called Current Unsolved Murders.

  Thumbnail photos came up.

  There was a family portrait of the Malones. Another of the Meachams. Rich clicked on the thumbnail of the Malones and said,............