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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.
