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We could ask him and hold him as a material witness for forty-eight hours while we got an ADA to get us a search warrant for his apartment.
But neither Rich nor I could bear to sit at our desks while waiting for an ADA to find a judge to sign a warrant. Not while our one suspect, Michael Dunn, was walking around with a gun.
Our plan was simple and entirely legal. We would pick Dunn up and bring him back to the Hall for questioning about the shooting of Lou Doe at 77 Geary.
That would buy a little time, and maybe Dunn would give up information we could use to arrest him for murder.
Dunn had told us that he was a creature of habit. Every morning he got to his office by nine, he spent his day doing legal research, and at the close of business he went home. What he’d called his “Groundhog Day life.”
I hoped today would be just another Groundhog Day for Michael Dunn.
I turned the police radio down to a hiss and watched the early-morning traffic on Leidesdorff, a charming street a few blocks from Sydney G. Walton Square, eight or nine blocks from both 77 Geary and the spot on Mission Street where Millie Cushing had been gunned down just over a week ago.
It had been very loud on Mission after Millie died. I remembered every minute of that night with high-definition clarity. I had stood there in the fog, surrounded by hundreds of flashing red and blue lights, with the shrieks of law enforcement vehicle sirens speeding toward the murder scene from all points.
If he was strolling around the area at that time, Michael could have seen the light show. Hell, he could have called dispatch himself.
CHAPTER 86
I FELT THE adrenaline rush before my brain made the connection.
Michael Dunn was walking toward his office building right on time.
I said to Richie, “There. See him?”
The man who more or less resembled Jimmy Fallon was passing the intersection at Commercial Street, heading toward us on Leidesdorff in the direction of the three-story building where he worked nine to six, five days a week.
He wore a knit cap over his brow, and both hands were shoved into the pockets of his windbreaker. He looked straight ahead and passed our backup team without noticing them.
I grabbed the radio mike and said to Nardone, “Bob. Suspect is on foot walking north on Leidesdorff, just passed you, wearing a black jacket, black knit hat.”
“Copy that,” Nardone said.
“Stay in your car until I need you.”
Conklin and I got out of the squad car and walked toward Dunn, stopping him on the sidewalk.
I said, “Mr. Dunn. Glad we found you. We need to ask you some more questions.”
“I have a meeting at nine fifteen,” he said. “Why don’t I get back to you?”
He started to walk past us, but Conklin put out a hand to block his passage.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dunn,” Conklin said. “This is very important. We have some photos to show you, and we need you to help us clear up a few questions. Has to be right now. This just can’t wait.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Why would you ask that?” I asked.
&nb
sp; “Because you’re coming at me like I’m a suspect.”
“Mr. Dunn. Michael,” I said. “We need your help. The longer it takes to find whoever shot your mother, the greater the likelihood that the case will go cold or that the shooter will kill someone else.”
Dunn planted his feet, and from the rage on his face, I thought he was going to punch me or run.
“Get away from me,” he said. “Get the hell away from me.”
