November 28, 2003, San Francisco Chronicle, Anatomy of a murder: Retracing the steps of Dan White, by Maitland Zane,

November 28, 2003, San Francisco Chronicle, Anatomy of a murder: Retracing the steps of Dan White, by Maitland Zane,

Editor's Note: This excerpt from "Blood on the Steps," Maitland Zane's narrative nonfiction work-in-progress about the events that shook San Francisco in 1978, deals with the assassination of Mayor George Moscone. Former Supervisor Dan White had learned that Moscone was not planning to reappoint him to the supervisor's job that he resigned a short time before. White believed that Supervisor Harvey Milk, the first openly gay elected official in the nation, had urged Moscone to deny him the reappointment. The content is based on Zane's reconstruction of the day from his interviews with the mayor's secretary and his bodyguard, and with White's top aide.

Dan White's devoted aide, Denise Apcar, said it was no big deal for her to drive her boss to work. White only had one car, a beat-up VW that his wife, Mary Ann, used to get to and from the Hot Potato, their kiosk at Pier 39. So it was no surprise when White phoned her about 10 a.m. on Nov. 27, 1978, and said, "Will you come get me right now?"

The Whites' new home at 150 Shawnee Ave. was typical of the bungaloid, pastel-colored residences of the Outer Mission, a small house with a garage below. A half-block west was a freeway, Interstate 280, and a mile north was City College.

Apcar had seen White the day before, when he had looked rested and calm. But when she got there this time, "he was a completely different person. He was all fired up. Highly charged, like he was ready to go to a ball game or make a speech. He looked burned out and was almost crying. But he was holding it in, as if he were doing everything he could not to cry. A shattered individual, no doubt about it."

"What'd he say on the way downtown?"

" 'Did the mayor call you?' 'No,' I said. And he said, 'I want to go see him. I want to give him and Harvey a piece of my mind.' He was on the verge of tears. I didn't say a word to him, for this was a different person than I'd seen. I felt if I talked to him I'd crack. He said, 'Doesn't he think I'm a man? Doesn't he think I can take it?' "

When Apcar dropped Dan off at City Hall about 10:30 a.m. the assassin was carrying a fully loaded revolver in his belt, plus 10 extra bullets wrapped in a handkerchief so they wouldn't jingle. Climbing the dozen steps, White peered inside the ornate front door, with its fanciful gold trim. The cop at the metal detector was not one whom White recognized, so he headed for the building's north ramp, from McAllister Street.

Apcar had a key to the back door, but she had gone for gas. William J. Melia Jr., a civil engineer working in the Department of Public Works soils testing lab, saw White pacing back and forth. Then he heard a window open in an adjoining room and saw White clamber through.

"Hey, wait a second!" he yelled.

White stopped and said agreeably, "My aide was supposed to come down and let me in but she took off."

"And you are ...?"

"I'm Dan White, the city supervisor. Say ... I've got to go." With a cheery wave, the man who had been fighting back tears 10 minutes before headed up a back staircase.

Mildred Tango, a mail clerk making her rounds, had a key to the unmarked back door to the mayor's suite, and White just followed her in, turning on the Irish charm when he presented himself to the mayor's secretary, Cyr Copertini.

"Spectacular," she told me when I asked how he looked. "He was wearing a tan gabardine suit that sort of glowed. He said, 'Cyr, can I see the mayor?' And I said, 'He isn't free now, but let me check.' "

Excusing herself, she went next door and found Moscone in his shirtsleeves sitting at his Swedish modern desk, a curving white slab with a tiny screen recessed from the view of anyone else, so he could watch ball games during boring staff meetings.

"George was surprised. A little dismayed, a little uncomfortable. 'I'll see him, but he'll have to wait a minute.' "

Mel Wax, the mayor's press secretary, found Dan standing by Cyr's desk.

Dan White's devoted aide, Denise Apcar, said it was no big deal for her to drive her boss to work. White only had one car, a beat-up VW that his wife, Mary Ann, used to get to and from the Hot Potato, their kiosk at Pier 39. So it was no surprise when White phoned her about 10 a.m. on Nov. 27, 1978, and said, "Will you come get me right now?"

The Whites' new home at 150 Shawnee Ave. was typical of the bungaloid, pastel-colored residences of the Outer Mission, a small house with a garage below. A half-block west was a freeway, Interstate 280, and a mile north was City College.

Apcar had seen White the day before, when he had looked rested and calm. But when she got there this time, "he was a completely different person. He was all fired up. Highly charged, like he was ready to go to a ball game or make a speech. He looked burned out and was almost crying. But he was holding it in, as if he were doing everything he could not to cry. A shattered individual, no doubt about it."

"What'd he say on the way downtown?"

" 'Did the mayor call you?' 'No,' I said. And he said, 'I want to go see him. I want to give him and Harvey a piece of my mind.' He was on the verge of tears. I didn't say a word to him, for this was a different person than I'd seen. I felt if I talked to him I'd crack. He said, 'Doesn't he think I'm a man? Doesn't he think I can take it?' "

When Apcar dropped Dan off at City Hall about 10:30 a.m. the assassin was carrying a fully loaded revolver in his belt, plus 10 extra bullets wrapped in a handkerchief so they wouldn't jingle. Climbing the dozen steps, White peered inside the ornate front door, with its fanciful gold trim. The cop at the metal detector was not one whom White recognized, so he headed for the building's north ramp, from McAllister Street.

Apcar had a key to the back door, but she had gone for gas. William J. Melia Jr., a civil engineer working in the Department of Public Works soils testing lab, saw White pacing back and forth. Then he heard a window open in an adjoining room and saw White clamber through.

"Hey, wait a second!" he yelled.

White stopped and said agreeably, "My aide was supposed to come down and let me in but she took off."

"And you are ...?"

"I'm Dan White, the city supervisor. Say ... I've got to go." With a cheery wave, the man who had been fighting back tears 10 minutes before headed up a back staircase.

Mildred Tango, a mail clerk making her rounds, had a key to the unmarked back door to the mayor's suite, and White just followed her in, turning on the Irish charm when he presented himself to the mayor's secretary, Cyr Copertini.

"Spectacular," she told me when I asked how he looked. "He was wearing a tan gabardine suit that sort of glowed. He said, 'Cyr, can I see the mayor?' And I said, 'He isn't free now, but let me check.' "

Excusing herself, she went next door and found Moscone in his shirtsleeves sitting at his Swedish modern desk, a curving white slab with a tiny screen recessed from the view of anyone else, so he could watch ball games during boring staff meetings.

"George was surprised. A little dismayed, a little uncomfortable. 'I'll see him, but he'll have to wait a minute.' "

Mel Wax, the mayor's press secretary, found Dan standing by Cyr's desk.