The Case of the Vanishing Twin

Foster and Mena transported Gary Yee to the Oakland Police Station. They then booked him into jail, charged him with setting off explosive devices, destroying close to $500,000 worth of vehicles, and extorting one million dollars from the City of Oakland. He was going to need a great attorney and a miracle to stay out of the big house.

OAKLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DIVISION

August 23, 5:45 p.m.

These were all new experiences for 17-year-old Gary Yee, who had never been in jail before. Same thing for the interrogation room, aka the box, that he has been sitting in for the last 15 minutes. It's not as bad as being in a jail cell with bars. Oh, and being handcuffed like the criminal he now is. His life isn't over yet, but he's soon going to have a few critical forks in the road to negotiate. The choices he makes will determine the direction of the rest of his life.

Detectives Foster and Mena were experienced interrogators, and young Gary was in over his head, even if he didn't know it yet. As the two detectives entered the room, Gary didn't stand up to greet them. Standing up would be challenging to do. A jailer had handcuffed him to a metal bar bolted to the table where he was sitting.

"Are you enjoying our hospitality so far, Mr. Yee?" asked Detective Foster.

Gary just looked at him with a kiss my ass look on his face.

"That good, huh?" replied Foster.

"If you don't like it here," chimed in Detective Mena, "just wait until you get to adult prison. That's right, kid. They're probably going to try you as an adult, and then they'll put you in prison with some of the most dangerous people in the state. And they'll just love you."

"Yeah, whatever," replied Gary.

"First things first, Gary," said Foster. "Where's the money?"

"What money?" asked Gary, feigning ignorance.

"You're a smart guy. If you're straight with us, we'll be straight with you," said Foster. "Your only chance of getting out of this without doing hard prison time is to return the million bucks you conned out of the City of Oakland. That's your leverage, and you could probably orchestrate a pretty good deal if you return the money."

"Look," said Gary. I've watched enough TV and gangster movies that I know I don't have to talk to you without a lawyer. And another thing. Either you arrest me for a crime, or I'm free to leave."

"Well, would you look at this guy? He's seen TV and movies," said Detective Mena.

"Look, kid, I've got news for you. We can keep you here behind bars with a whole bunch of bad men that would keep you awake all night for up to three days, or 72 hours. I can tell you right now that you would not enjoy that one bit," continued Mena.

"Yeah, I'm sure you can do all of that, but that doesn't mean I have to talk to you until I have an attorney sitting right here next to me. So you need to let me make my phone call--right now," yelled Gary.

"Okay," said Foster, "You'll get your phone call. Follow me, and I'll take you to a phone."

Gary had no idea who he should call, so he called his dad instead and asked him to find him an attorney. Gary was sure his dad would know the best person to call.

The detectives placed Gary back into the interrogation room and handcuffed him to the table. One hour and 15 minutes later, one of the jailers escorted Mr. Muncie into the room with Gary.

"You must be the attorney my dad called to talk to me," said Gary.

"Yes, I received a call from your father a little over an hour ago. My name is Lowell Muncie, and I will be your attorney for this case."

"Okay, Mr. Muncie. What do we do next?" asked Gary.

"Well, first off, Mr. Yee--"

"You can call me Gary. My dad is Mr. Yee."

"All right, Gary. Do you know what attorney-client privilege is?"

"Well, sort of, but why don't you explain it to me," asked Gary.

"Very well. Attorney-client privilege means that anything you tell me, I have to keep it a secret between you and me. I cannot tell anyone, even the police, about anything that you tell me. You can tell me that you robbed ten banks and killed 50 people over the last two years, and I can't tell a soul what you told me.

"Also, I am your attorney. It is my job to find out the story from you and do my best to keep you out of jail or get you the best deal possible. So, as I said, for me to do that, I need you to tell me everything you know about this case and what your involvement in it is.

"So start from the beginning and bring me up to speed. I need to know your story so that I can do my job," said Mr. Muncie.

"I can tell you anything, and you can't tell the police or anyone else?" asked Gary.

"That's how it works, yes, Gary. You can tell me anything, and I won't judge you or tell anyone else anything that you tell me."

"Okay," began Gary. "The stupid cops came to our house to try to make my dad talk to them about the people he works for. My dad thinks he's fooling my mom and me by saying he works for a Chinese company, but I know--I don't know if my mom knows--that he does bookkeeping for a Chinese gang called the Jackson Street Boys. Those guys are a bunch of crazy fuckers. They sell drugs, they kill people, and all kinds of other bad things.

"My dad won't tell the police anything about who he works for. So the police decided to make him talk by threatening to put me in jail. One of the cops downloaded some illegal programs on my laptop computer, and then they stole my laptop and took it with them.

"Well, that really pissed me off because I use my laptop for lots of things. I need it, and I have tons of things loaded onto it. They wouldn't give it back to me, so I came up with a plan of my own.

"You can learn just about anything you want online, including the Dark Web. So I learned how to make small explosive bombs, and I put them under like 12 cars all around Oakland. I set all of them to go off at 3 a.m. on August 14. Those bombs worked. I blew all 12 vehicles to shit, which was way cool.

"So then I sent a letter to the Mayor of Oakland and demanded them to pay me one million dollars in ransom, or I'd blow up a bunch more cars. I planned out everything. I even hired these two guys to help me. I paid them each a thousand dollars and told them that they would be helping me out with a scavenger hunt. They really fell for it. They weren't very bright.

"The Mayor did everything I asked her to, and I ended up with a cool million bucks. And I have it hidden where no one will ever find it. So that's my story. Everything was going fine until the police showed up today and arrested me.

"So what do we do next, Mr. Attorney?" asked Gary.

"You should know that they have you dead to rights after finding that currency band in your pickup truck. It's an exact match for the $10,000 bundles of money they paid out as ransom to the so-called bomber. So if you do have the money, we have some leverage to make a deal. If you're not the person with the money, and they found that band in your truck, you're pretty much screwed. That's a powerful bit of circumstantial evidence that they can stuff down your throat and probably convict you for this thing.

"So tell me. Do you or do you not have the one million dollars?" asked Muncie.

"Okay. Okay. I have it. But I have it somewhere where no one will be able to find it."

"That's all well and good, Gary. But you have to decide if you want to return the money and stay out of prison, or you want to deny you have the money and let them send you to prison for several years, and then maybe spend the money later. I can tell you that prison is probably the most horrible thing that can happen to anyone. It's your decision. You tell me what you want to do."

"How about if I offer to return most of it but keep like $200,000. Would that be enough to keep me out of jail?" asked Gary.

"I doubt it, Gary. I think they're gonna want it all back, at the very least. How about this? You offer to return all of the money in return for no jail time and no obligation to reimburse the owners of the cars you blew up or their insurance companies?

"In your current position, if you can get them to accept that, then you should thank God and start going to church every Sunday because that would be a gift of the highest fucking order," replied the attorney.

"Yeah. Great. But the only way they're gonna get their money back is if I don't have to spend any time in jail, outside of this bullshit today. Run it by them and see what they say."

"I'll let you know what they say, Gary," said Muncie as he was leaving.

Gary didn't have the sense to realize just how good a deal that would be if the City of Oakland accepted it.

THE LATE MELISSA STEIN'S VACANT HOME

1987 MAGELLAN DRIVE, MONTCLAIR (OAKLAND), CALIFORNIA

August 23, 5:50 p.m.

"Where the hell am I--are we?" said Nikki when she finally regained consciousness and saw her client, Roni Blake, holding her head in her lap and doing her best to dab away the blood from the side of her head with a towel.

"Thank God," exclaimed Roni. "I wasn't sure you were going to wake up. You took a very serious whack to your head. And to answer your question, we're presently locked in a secret bedroom in Gwen's late mom's house in Montclair."

"A secret bedroom? Where is it? I've checked out her house and basement twice and never found a secret anything, especially something as large as this room," I said.

"You remember that closet with the shelves with the canned goods on them at the bottom of the stairs?" said Roni.

"Yeah, I remember that closet. I looked at it twice. Don't tell me. It's--"

"Exactly," interjected Roni. "There's some kind of release handle on the side of the shelf, and when she pulled it, the shelf opened up like a door, and this bedroom is on the other side of it. It's pretty cool, except if someone is holding you a prisoner here. Do you know how long I've been here? I've lost track," said Roni.

"You disappeared nine days ago, Roni. We weren't sure what happened. Detective Wheeler and I both had a suspicion that Gwen was involved, and we even came here and looked around. Of course, the secret door in the closet fooled us. It pisses me off to know that you were within feet of us, and we didn't know it," I said with anger.

"That's okay. I wouldn't have found you either," replied Roni.

"How often does that bitch come into this room? Does she bring you meals a couple of times a day?" I asked.

"Yeah, she does. She brings meals usually twice a day," replied Roni.

"Well, we're gonna come up with a plan for the next time she comes in here. Now there's two of us against one of her. Putting me in here with you wasn't the brightest thing she's ever done. Now she's gonna pay for it."

"What did you have in mind?" asked Roni.

"Okay. Here's what I think we should do," I started.

1527 FARALLON WAY

OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA

August 23, 7:30 p.m.

Donna was playing hide and seek with Detectives Wheeler and D'Agosta and refrained from going out on any of her kill dates for a little over two weeks. That was long enough for the detectives to at least temporarily call off their nightly stakeouts of Donald and Donna's house. But tonight, she had set up a date. She was meeting a nice 32-year-old man for drinks at a trendy place in North Oakland called The Copper Spoon. They had a limited dinner menu but great cocktails.

Donna was wearing her favorite blonde wig, exquisite makeup, and a stunning cocktail dress with four-inch spike heels and a very sexy mixed blue-colored cashmere & silk Ibiza scarf. She wasn't looking to dazzle her date; she was looking to knock his shoes off.

She pranced out the front door, got in her car, and drove off to the Copper Spoon at 40th and Broadway, Oakland, her first date with a male twin named Frederick Molina, who had no idea that this was his last day on Earth.

THE COPPER SPOON, COCKTAIL LOUNGE

4031 BROADWAY, OAKLAND

August 23, 7:55 p.m.

After parking her car, Donna walked into the cocktail lounge like she didn't have a care in the world. The fact that she could act so care-free when she would be taking someone's life within a few hours was a testament to her demented frame of mind. She took the term sociopath to new levels.

Several men followed every sway of Donna's hips as she sashayed seductively over to the table for two, where Frederick Molina, age 32, was waving his hand to get her attention. He was happy to see her. Everyone else was jealous that they weren't sitting where Frederick was seated.

"So nice to finally see you," said Frederick as he stood to pull her chair out. "I have to say; I'm not disappointed."

"Neither am I," replied Donna. "You are a very handsome man."

"What would you like to drink?" he asked.

"They have great cocktails here. I'd like to have a Can't Duplicate You #2."

"At this point, I'd have to agree with that statement, but about you, not the drink," responded Frederick.

"Can I get you two some drinks to start with?" asked the young lady.

"Yes," replied Frederick. "We'll both have the Can't Duplicate You #2s."

"Excellent choice," she said. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

The next hour and a half were filled with laughter and light touches to each other's arms and hands as the drinks kept flowing. Donna had become an expert at fattening up the pigs for slaughter. At 9:45, Donna suggested they go for a ride. It was a balmy evening in Oakland, which was rare, even for August. She suggested a quiet place for them to go park and continue their scintillating conversation. Frederick was probably rocking with a.10 or higher BAC, so he was willing to go wherever Donna suggested. He was feeling lucky tonight.

Emeryville Marina Park was very similar to the Berkeley Marina. It was right next to the Bay, had several places to park, and didn't have much foot or vehicle traffic this time of night.

"Let's go for a little stroll by the water," suggested Donna.

OAKLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT

HOMICIDE DIVISION

August 24, 9:05 a.m.

"Dammit," said Detective D'Agosta.

"What's the problem?" asked Wheeler.

"Grab your stuff. We just received a call about a body lying at the water's edge at Emeryville Marina Park. I have this bad feeling that Deadly Donna was just biding her time, waiting for us to call off our stakeouts, so she could go out hunting again."

"I hope you're wrong. If you're right, this will be Donna's seventh victim. She's racking up quite a count. What's with Oakland and serial murderers these days. We're starting to get a bad rap. Everyone knows that Oakland is a nice, safe place to live," said Wheeler.

"Yeah, right," replied D'Agosta.

EMERYVILLE MARINA PARK

EMERYVILLE (OAKLAND), CALIFORNIA

August 24, 9:50 a.m.

Shoe booties in place, latex gloves covering their hands, Wheeler and D'Agosta trudged through the moist grass to the lifeless body lying half in and half out of the water. The dead man was on his back with open eyes staring at the sky without seeing the beautiful blue sky that had greeted the Bay Area this summer morning.

"What a damn shame," said Wheeler. "Such a young, good-looking guy who made the mistake of going out on a date with a clueless man masquerading as a beautiful woman. Well, at least he never knew he was dating a man."

"I think we need to go rattle Donna's cage and see if we can rile her up and cause her to make a mistake," said D'Agosta.

"That's what she'll be thinking we're gonna do. Let's hold off a bit and see if we can find some clues. I have an idea of something we can try. It's gonna piss Donna off big time, but I don't think there's anything she can do about it," said Wheeler.

"This I gotta hear, Fran. What's your idea?"

OAKLAND CITY ATTORNEY'S OFFICE

CITY HALL 6th FLOOR, OAKLAND

August 24, 10:15 a.m.

Deputy City Attorney Glenda Murano had been delegated the bomber case and felt the enormous amount of pressure from the Mayor's office to get this case solved and wrapped up. Her job as Deputy City Attorney was to put this case to bed and make everyone happy.

"Miss Murano," said the operator, a Mr. Lowell Muncie on the line for you. He says it's regarding the bomber case."

"Thank you. Put Mr. Muncie through, please," replied Ms. Murano.

"Yes, ma'am."

"This is Glenda Murano. How can I help you?" she asked.

"Good morning, Ms. Murano. My name is Lowell Muncie, and I represent Gary Yee, the 17-year-old boy arrested in the bomber case. A detective found a currency band in his pickup truck that appears connected to the million-dollar ransom paid out to someone claiming to be the bomber."

"Yes, that's my understanding as well, Mr. Muncie. Where are we on this?" asked Glenda.

"Besides that band that the detective found in his truck, he says he had nothing to do with the bombings, and on his behalf, I'm asking you to drop all charges against my client. This is a flimsy circumstantial case at the most, and you know it," said Muncie.

"What? And let this little delinquent off scott-free? I think that if this little shit gets off without spending any time in jail at all, the public, and the Mayor, are going to flip out and demand somebody's head, and I'm afraid it might be mine.

"How about this. Gary returns all of the money that we both know he has, he's on the hook for restitution to the insurance companies for all of those cars that he destroyed, and then maybe he keeps his little ass out of jail. That's about the best we're going to be able to accept. People want someone's head and jail time."

"His parents were born in China, but he was born here. He gets great grades in school, and he's a good kid. Society will be better off if we go easy on him and not turn him into a career criminal. Why don't you see if you can run this deal up the flag pole and get everyone to salute it? Gary returns all of the money, the city drops all of the charges, and he doesn't have to pay restitution for the destroyed cars," said Muncie.

"Okay. Let me make sure I've got this correct. Gary returns the money, and he walks. No jail time, and no paying either the owners or the insurance companies for the destruction of the twelve cars because he got mad. Is that the deal we're talking about?" asked Glenda.

"That's the deal. I know the Mayor wants someone's head on a platter, but the longer this draws out, the more pressure and negative pole numbers will be dumped on the Mayor's head. If she can get the money back and put this case to rest, it will be better for everyone. How about this. We can throw in some community service. The Mayor can say that he was a good kid who made a bad decision and watched too many crime movies. He gets straight A's, for Christ's sake. She should be able to sell this to the public. At least give it a try," said Muncie.

"I'll take it back to the Mayor and see if she agrees to it."

"You do that, Glenda, and get back to me soon. Every day that goes by, the pressure is increasing. So I have two words for you: tick-tock."

"Yeah, good-bye," said Glenda.

NIKKI FONTAINE INVESTIGATIONS

GRAND AVENUE, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA

August 24, 10:30 a.m.

"Nora, have you heard from Nikki since yesterday?" asked Max.

"No, I haven't, not since she left yesterday between 2 and 2:30," replied Nora.

"Hey, Jessie, how about you?"

"I didn't hear from her last night or this morning. I'm starting to get worried. Jessie, see if you can track Nikki's cell phone and see where she is," asked Max.

"Okay. Give me a few minutes."

"I'll be in my office. Let me know when you find something," said Max.

"You got it," replied Jessie.

It took Jessie less than ten minutes to locate Nikki's phone.

"Hey, Max. I found it. It looks like it's near Melissa Stein's house in Montclair."

"Great," said Max. "I'll try it again and see if she answers."