After he’d found out Tennant’s identity, and tracked him back to the ramshackle house, it had pleased him to learn the names of all the lynch party, and more so that they — all the men at least — were still in the land of the living. What he hadn’t expected was for Tennant to be so forthcoming in the description of his father’s suffering. Perhaps it was because the asshole expected to die in agony and wished to take away some of the satisfaction from his punisher by basking in the gory details. Or maybe it was simply the man’s nature to brag, even if it meant further torment before he died.
‘I burned that sick motherfucker! It’s what the bastard deserved. I wasn’t like the other pussies that were having second thoughts. If I hadn’t thrown the gasoline over him I’m sure they’d have let him down, and rushed him to the nearest hospital to have his bullet wound seen to. Not me, though, no fucking way!’
The man listened to Tennant’s rant, dispassionately.
‘Do you hear me, you sick fuck? I burned your precious daddy. You should have seen him dance. Jesus! The screams. How half of Arkansas didn’t hear him I’ll never know. He was a fucking coward in life and he was a fucking coward in death.’
The man was sickened by Tennant’s lies. He had everything he needed from him — the names of each of the murderers, and a full description of each of their respective crimes. He did not need to listen any longer. He pulled tight the chain-link noose. Tennant gagged. His eyes bugged. The chain would strangle him completely, but not immediately. First Tennant must endure the agony of the links tearing into his flesh. He would like to allow the bastard to suffer the torture, but Tennant’s sickening false condemnation of his father had piqued his anger. He kicked the stool from under Tennant’s feet.
Tennant dropped like a stone, the links of the chain snapping around his throat, bunching up folds of grey skin beneath his clamped jaw. His tongue was forced between the gaps in his teeth, forming small blood-red balloons. His legs kicked and spasmed.
The man shot Tennant in the chest.
Then he began to pile the trash from the cellar floor around Tennant, watching him all the while. The bastard’s eyes were dulling, even as they bulged from their sockets. He leaned down, flicked his cigarette lighter and gave flame to the pile of trash.
The chain ensured that Tennant couldn’t scream, but he tried anyway, a keening noise that escaped him like steam as the flames danced up his legs and caught in the fabric of his trousers.
‘Who’s the fucking coward now?’ the man asked him, before firing once more into his chest.
Still, Tennant lingered. He was shuddering as the flames writhed over him.
The man shot him in the head.
Chapter 23
Studying it from outside, the police station on Vallejo Street was about the prettiest I’d ever had the pleasure of visiting, but once through the doors I forgot all about the tasteful architecture and concentrated on the reason why I was there. If I ended up in a cell, staring at the bare walls and featureless steel door, I’d have ample opportunity to think about the lovely views I was missing while killing time.
I approached a desk sergeant. In movies and books, desk sergeants are always trying to do ten tasks at once and barely give the time of day to someone making an enquiry. Often they are bad-tempered and shout a lot. Seems that the sarge here bucked the cliché somewhat. He was a rosy-faced guy, chubby in the shoulders and neck. All he needed was a white beard and he’d make an ideal department store Santa Claus. He was leaning on his fists, watching my approach, offering me a ‘come hither’ smile. ‘How can I help you, sir?’
‘I’m here to speak to Detective Jones, if he’s available?’
‘Detective Jones? My, my.’ He looked down at some list pinned beneath the level of the desk, running a finger down it. ‘We have three Joneses here, can you be more specific?’
‘Gar Jones,’ I said. ‘Homicide.’
The sergeant tapped the sheet. Smiled at me. ‘Of course, our friend Garforth,’ he said. He reached for a telephone, raised both eyebrows my way. ‘Your name please, sir.’
‘Joe Hunter,’ I said. No reason to lie.
His lack of recognition was a good sign; it meant that Jones and Tyler had not yet put out that APB I was worried about.
The sergeant spoke into the phone. He only frowned mildly at me once before hanging up. ‘You’re in luck, Mr Hunter. Come on through.’ He opened a flap in the desk, and unlatched a swing gate to allow me passage. As I stepped past him he made the counter secure once more, before indicating a door to his left. ‘Follow me, please.’
Just because the sarge was polite didn’t mean he wasn’t setting me up for an arrest once I was out of public view. If he was going to put the cuffs on me once we were through the back then so be it. I wouldn’t resist. There was no sense in making the situation more awkward than it already was.
As it was, when we passed through the door a female patrol officer was coming down the hall, her arms filled with investigation files.
‘Ah, Officer Brockovich! You’ve timed it just right.’ Without waiting, the sergeant reached and took the folders from her. ‘Will you escort this gentleman to the Homicide office for me? He’s here to see Gar Jones.’
The cop gave me the once over, checking out the state of my jacket. She glanced at the sarge and they both raised their eyebrows. The sarge possibly winked at her, but from the angle I couldn’t tell. Whatever signal he gave her, she smiled sweetly and asked me to follow her. Can’t say that I minded: she was a looker with a curvaceous figure that her uniform couldn’t conceal. If anything her utility belt helped accentuate her hips and the way in which they swayed.
‘The sarge seems like a decent feller,’ I said.
Without turning she said, ‘He’s one of the better bosses.’
‘So… what do you make of Garforth Jones?’ To be honest, I’d believed Gar was the shortened form of Gary, and the name was an odd one to my ear.
‘I couldn’t possibly comment. It would be unprofessional of me.’ She turned and flashed me a conspiratorial smile. It would have been better if her eye-tooth hadn’t glinted; it would have made it look less like a shark attack.
‘Sounds like I’m in for a pleasant time,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You have my sympathies.’
She led me down a utilitarian corridor, passing closed doors and then into an open space dominated by cluttered desks. There were a handful of detectives making calls, or trawling through information on their work terminals. One man was sitting on the end of a desk, swinging his feet as we walked in. It was as if we’d caught him skiving duties and he stood up quickly. For a second it looked like he would cut us off, but Officer Brockovich anticipated him. ‘Gar’s expecting us.’
The detective scrutinised me up and down, before jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s back there in the confession box.’
The confession box? I thought it was station slang for an interview room, but I guessed wrong. When Brockovich knocked and then opened the door, I saw the detective was referring to the dimensions of the room. I’d been in larger store cupboards. There was barely room for the desk and computer, let alone the husky form of Gar Jones whose chair was jammed sideways on to the desk. He was hunched over the monitor, tapping at the keyboard with one index finger; it couldn’t have been easy on his posture. He stood up sharply, and I was prepared for him to start on me immediately. He surprised me by sticking out his hand to shake. Taken off guard I accepted his hand without thinking. ‘Thanks for coming in at such short notice,’ he said. Then he held up a finger. ‘Give me a second, huh?’