“No. I used to see him every day for about a year in the Starbucks across the street. Sometimes we’d say hello, share a newspaper. He seemed nice, and when he asked if I knew of a place he could rent cheap . . . well, I needed the money.”
This child had let a stranger move into her apartment. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to report her to her mother. Instead I asked, “When do you expect Mr. Tenning home?”
“Around eight thirty in the morning. Like I said, I’ve always left for work by the time he comes in, and now that I’ve got a coffeemaker at work, I don’t go to Starbucks anymore.”
“We’re going to want to search your apartment.”
“Absolutely,” she said, pulling her key out of her handbag and offering it to me. “I really want you to. My God, what if I’m sharing my place with a murderer?”
Chapter 103
“JUST LIKE MINE,” Cindy said as we walked into Portia Fox’s apartment. The front door opened into a large living room facing the street — roomy, sunny, furnished in office-girl modern.
There was a galley-style kitchen off the living room, but where Cindy’s dining room was open, Ms. Fox’s had been boxed in with plasterboard walls and a hollow-core door.
“He stays in there,” Ms. Fox told me.
“Any windows in his room?” I asked.
“No. He likes that. That’s what sealed the deal.”
It was too bad that the dining room had been walled off, because now we’d need either permission from Tenning to enter it or a search warrant. Even though Tenning wasn’t on Fox’s lease, he paid rent to her, and that gave him legal standing.
I put my hand on the doorknob to Tenning’s room on the off chance that it would turn, but no surprise — the door was locked.
“You have a friend you can stay with tonight?” I asked Ms. Fox.
I put a patrolman outside the apartment door while Portia gathered up some things.
I gave Cindy my keys and told her to go to my place. She didn’t even fight me.
Then Rich and I spent another two hours questioning the tenants of the Blakely Arms. We returned to the Hall at ten p.m.
As grim as the squad room was during the day, it was worse at night, the overhead lighting giving off a deadening white illumination. The place smelled of whatever food had been dumped into the trash cans during the day.
I threw a container of cold coffee into the garbage and turned on my computer as Rich followed suit. I called up a database, and although I was prepared for a long search for Garry Tenning’s life story, everything we needed flashed onto my computer screen in minutes.
There was an outstanding warrant for Tenning’s arrest. It was a small-potatoes charge of failure to appear in court for a traffic violation, but any arrest warrant was good enough to bring him in.
And there was more.
“Garry Tenning is employed by Conco Construction,” Rich said. “Tenning could be patrolling any of a hundred job sites. We won’t be able to locate him until Conco’s office opens in the morning.”
“He have a license to carry?” I asked.
Rich’s fingers padded across his keyboard.
“Yep. Current and up-to-date.”
Garry Tenning owned a gun.
Chapter 104
THE NEXT MORNING a heavy gray torrent came down on San Francisco like one of the forty days of the flood.
Conklin parked our squad car in a vacant construction zone on Townsend in front of Tower 2 of the Beacon, a residential high-rise with retail shops on the ground floor, including the Starbucks where Tenning and Fox had met.
On a clear day, we would have had a good view of both the front doors of the six-story redbrick Blakely Arms and the narrow footpath that ran from Townsend along the east side of the building, leading back to the courtyard and rear entrance.
But today’s rain nearly obliterated our view through the windshield.
Inspectors Chi and McNeil were in the car behind us, also peering through the downpour. We were scanning the locale for a white man, five six with thinning brown hair, possibly wearing a uniform and probably packing a Colt revolver.
Unless he changed his pattern, Tenning would stop at the Starbucks, then cross Townsend, arriving “home” sometime between 8:30 and 9:00.
We were guessing that Tenning would take the footpath to the rear entrance of the building, use a key to the back door, and take the fire stairs, avoiding tenants.
I watched through the blurred windows as pedestrians in trench coats, their faces shielded by black umbrellas, stopped at the Walgreens, dropped off laundry at Fanta dry cleaners, scurried for the Caltrain.
Rich and I were both dangerously sleep deprived, so when a man matching Tenning’s description crossed Townsend, no coffee in hand, I couldn’t be sure if he was our guy — or if I just wanted him to be our guy. Really, really badly.
“In the gray Windbreaker, black umbrella,” I said.
A light changed to green, and the stream of traffic obscured our view long enough for the suspect to disappear in the crush of pedestrians on the far side of the street. I thought maybe he’d slipped down the Blakely Arms’ back alley.
“Yeah. Yeah. I think so,” Conklin said.
I called Chi, told him we were about to make our move. We let a couple of minutes pass — then Conklin and I put up our collars and made for the front entrance of the Blakely Arms.
We rode an elevator to the fifth floor. Then I used Portia Fox’s key to unlock her front door without opening it.
I drew my gun.
When Chi and McNeil arrived, Conklin breached the door to Fox’s apartment. The four of us stepped inside and checked each of the outer rooms before approaching Tenning’s private space.
I put my ear to the flimsy door, heard a drawer closing, shoes falling one after the other onto the uncarpeted floor.
I nodded to Conklin, and he knocked on Tenning’s door.
“SFPD, Mr. Tenning. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Get the hell out of here,” an angry voice called back. “You don’t have a warrant. I know my rights.”
“Mr. Tenning, you parked your car in a fire zone, remember? August fifteenth of last year. You failed to appear in court.”
“You want to arrest me for that?”
“Open up, Mr. Tenning.”
The doorknob turned, and the door whined open. Tenning’s look of annoyance changed to anger as he saw our guns pointed at his chest.
He slammed the door in our faces.
“Kick it in,” I said.
Conklin kicked twice beside the knob assembly, and the door splintered, swung wide open.
We took cover on both sides of the door frame, but not before I saw Tenning standing ten feet away, bracing his back against the wall.
He was holding his Colt .38 in both hands, pointing it at us.
“You’re not taking me in,” he said. “I’m too tired, and I’m just not up for it.”
Chapter 105
MY HEART RATE ROCKETED. Sweat ran down the inside of my shirt. I pivoted on my right foot so that I was standing square in the doorway.
I held my stance, legs apart, my Glock trained on Tenning. Even though I was wearing a vest, he could cap me with a head shot. And the paper-thin plasterboard walls wouldn’t protect my team.
“Drop your weapon, asshole!” I shouted. “I’m one second away from drilling a hole through your heart.”
“Four armed cops on a traffic warrant? That’s a laugh! You think I’m stupid?”
“You are stupid, Tenning, if you want to die over a fifty-dollar ticket.”
Tenning’s eyes flicked from my weapon to the three other muzzles that were aimed at him. He muttered, “What a pain in the ass.”
Then his gun thudded to the floor.
Instantly we swarmed into the small room. A chair tipped over, and a desktop crashed to the ground.
I kicked Tenning’s gun toward the door as Conklin spun him around. He threw him against the wall a
nd cuffed him.
“You’re under arrest for failure to appear,” Conklin said, panting, “and for interfering with a police officer.”
I read Tenning his rights. My voice was hoarse from the stress and the realization of what I’d just done.
“Good work, everyone,” I said, feeling almost faint.
“You okay, Lindsay?” McNeil asked, putting a beefy hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah. Thanks, Cappy,” I said, thinking how this arrest could have turned into a bloodbath — and still all we had on Tenning was a traffic violation.
I looked around his rented room, a ten-by-twelve box with a single bed, small pine dresser, two file cabinets that had once formed the base of his desk. The wide plank that had served as the desktop was on the floor, along with a computer and sheaves of scattered paper.
Something else had been dislodged during the fracas. A pipe had rolled out from under the bed.
It was about an inch and a half in diameter, eighteen inches long, with a ball joint screwed onto one end.
A two-part construction that looked like a club.
I stooped down to examine it closely.
There was a fine brown stain in the threads where the ball joint screwed onto the pipe. I drew Conklin’s attention, and he stooped down beside me. Our eyes met for a second.
“Looks like this was used as a bludgeon,” Conklin said.
Chapter 106
WE WERE IN INTERVIEW ROOM NUMBER TWO, the smaller of the interrogation rooms at the squad. Tenning sat at the table, facing the mirrored window. I sat across from him.
He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. He had his elbows on the table. His face was turned down so that the overhead light made a starburst pattern on his balding scalp.
He wasn’t talking because he’d asked for a lawyer.
It would take about fifteen minutes for his request to filter down to the public defender’s office. Then another fifteen minutes before some attorney would come up and find his or her client in our interrogation room.
Meanwhile, nothing Tenning said could be used against him.
“We got our warrant to search your premises,” I told him. “That pipe contraption you used to kill Irene Wolkowski and Ben Wyatt? It’s at the lab now. We’ll have results before your PD shows up.”
Tenning smirked. “So leave me the hell alone until he gets here, okay? Leave me alone with my thoughts.”
“But I’m interested in your thoughts,” I said to Tenning. “All those statistics on the papers I saw in your apartment. What’s that about?”
“I’m writing a book, and I’d like to get back to it, actually.”
Conklin came into the room carrying a battery-operated radio. Richie slammed the door hard, then turned on the radio. Loud static came through the speakers. He fiddled with the dials, turned the volume up.
He said to Tenning, “It’s tough getting reception in here. I’d really like to know when the rain’s going to let up.”
I saw the alarm in Tenning’s eyes as the static climbed to an electronic squeal. He watched Conklin thumb the radio dial, starting to sweat now.
“Hey,” Tenning finally said, “could you turn that thing off?”
“In a minute, in a minute,” Conklin said. He dialed up the volume, set the radio down on the table. “Can I get you some coffee, Garry? It’s not Starbucks, but it’s got all the caffeine you could ask for.”
“Look,” Tenning said, staring at the radio, his eyes jitterbugging inside his head, “you’re not supposed to question me without my lawyer. You should put me in a holding cell.”
“We’re not questioning you, buddy,” Conklin said. He picked up a metal chair, set it down with a loud bang right next to Tenning, and sat beside him.
“We’re trying to help you. You want a lawyer — that’s fine,” Conklin said directly into Tenning’s ear. “But you’re giving up your opportunity to confess and cut yourself a deal. And that’s okay with us, isn’t it, Sergeant?”
“Fine with me,” I said over the radio static. I fiddled with the dial, found some ’80s heavy metal, turned it up so that the discordant electronic twang almost vibrated the table.
“We’re going to exhume the dogs you killed, Garry,” I said over the music. “Match the teeth up with those wounds in your arm. And we’re going to match the DNA from the blood on your club to your victims.
“And then Inspector Conklin and I are going to sign up for front-row seats for your execution in twenty years or so, unless of course you want to have me call the DA. See if we can get the death penalty off the table.”
I looked at my watch. “I figure you’ve got about ten minutes to decide.”
A band called Gross Receipts launched into its jarring rendition of “Brain Buster.” Tenning shrank into a ball, wrapped his arms over his ears.
“Stop. Stop. Call off the lawyer. I’ll tell you what happened. Just please, shut that thing off.”
Chapter 107
IT WAS STILL POURING when I parked behind Claire’s SUV.
I cut across the street in the lashing rain, ran fifty yards to the front door of Susie’s. I opened it to the ringing beat of steel drums and the smell of curried chicken.
I hung my coat on the rack inside the door, saw that Susie was coaxing her regulars into a limbo competition as the band tuned up.
Susie called to me, “Lind-say, get out of your wet shoes. You can do this, girl.”
“No way, Suz.” I laughed. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen this before.” I showed myself into the back room. I buttonholed Lorraine and ordered a Corona.
Yuki waved to me from the back booth. Then Cindy looked up and grinned. I slid onto the banquette next to my best friend, Claire. It had been a while since we’d been out together as a group. Way too long.
When my beer came, Cindy proposed a toast to me for the takedown of Garry Tenning.
I laughed off the toast, saying, “I was extremely motivated, Cindy. I didn’t want a roommate, and you were going to have to move in with me permanently if we didn’t catch that bastard.” Yuki and Claire hadn’t heard the details, so I filled them in.
“He’s ‘writing’ this book called The Accounting,” I told them. “It’s subtitled A Statistical Compendium of the Twentieth Century.”
“Come on! He’s writing about everything that happened in the last hundred years?” Yuki asked.
“Yeah, if you can call page after page of statistics ‘writing’! Like, how much milk and grain were produced in each state in each year, how many kids went through grade school, the number of accidents involving kitchen appliances —”
“Jeez, you can Google that stuff,” Yuki said.
“But Garry Tenning thinks The Accounting is his calling,” I said as Lorraine dropped off beer and menus. “His paycheck came from being a night watchman at a construction site. Gave him ‘time to think big thoughts,’ he told us.”
“How’d he even hear all those people and their noises in his closed-off little room?” asked Claire.
“Sound travels through the plumbing and the vents,” Cindy said. “Comes out in weird places. Like, I can hear people singing through my bathroom air duct. Who are they? Where do they live? I don’t know.”
“I’m wondering if he doesn’t have hyperacusis,” said Claire.
“Come again?” I said.
“It’s when the auditory processing center of the brain has a problem with noise perception,” Claire told us over the racket in the back room and the clanking of dishware from the kitchen. “Sounds that others can barely hear are intolerable to the person who has hyperacusis.”
“To what effect?” I asked.
“It would make the person feel isolated. You stir all that up with explosive-anger disorder and sociopathology, well, you get Garry Tenning.”
“The Phantom of the Blakely Arms,” Cindy said. “Just tell me there’s no chance he’s going to get out on bail.”
“None,” I said. “He confessed. We have the murder weapon.
He’s in and he’s done.”
“Well, if he really has this auditory disorder, Garry Tenning is going to go absolutely bug-nuts in prison,” Yuki said as Lorraine brought our dinners.
“Hear! Hear!” said Cindy, pointing at her ears.
We dug in, swapped stories and worries, Claire telling us that her workload had doubled and that “We’re having a farewell pour for Dr. G. tonight. He got a job offer he couldn’t refuse. Somewhere in Ohio.”
We toasted Dr. Germaniuk, and then Claire asked Yuki how she was feeling these days.
“I’m feeling a little bipolar,” Yuki said, laughing. “Some days I think Fred-a-lito-lindo is going to convince the jury he’s a legitimate psycho. The next morning I wake up absolutely sure I’m going to beat Mickey Sherman’s pants off.”
We got into a good-natured competition to name Claire’s unborn baby, Cindy calling out, “Margarita, if she’s a girl,” and winning the next round for free.
Way too soon, dinner had been reduced to bones, coffee had been served, and hungry would-be diners were backed up in the doorway.
We tossed money at the check on the table and dared one another to rush into the rain. I was last out the door.
I drove toward Potrero Hill, absorbed by the rhythm of the wiper blades and the halos around oncoming headlights, finding that the vacuum of silence in the wake of the tumultuous day and the camaraderie with my friends was bringing me back down.
Joe wouldn’t be sitting on my front steps when I got home.
Even Martha was still on vacation.
Thunder rumbled as I ran up the steps to my apartment. It was still raining when I went to bed alone.
Chapter 108
RICH AND I FRETTED AT OUR DESKS the next morning, waiting for Mary Jordan to come through the gate. She arrived ten minutes late, looking rattled.
I invited the Westwood Registry’s office manager to join us in the windowless cell we call the lunchroom. Rich pulled out a chair, and I made coffee — black, two sugars, the way she’d taken it when we’d seen her last.
Women's Murder Club [06] The 6th Target Page 19