Crime Scene

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I had yet to see a picture of Triplett as an adult. The Zhao murder file contained his mugshot, one of six in a photo array provided to Nicholas Linstad, who had circled him and written in the margin this is the person I saw outside Donna Zhao’s apartment building on 31-10-1993.

  The photo in the album was a candid, taken while Triplett leaned over a plane.

  He sure hadn’t grown up any smaller.

  Wearing a gray hoodie. Same as the guy I’d chased. Same as the person Linstad spotted lurking near Donna Zhao’s building. The same gray hoodie found blood-soaked and wrapped around the murder weapon.

  I said, “That his usual getup?”

  Fletcher laughed softly. “I guess you’d call it his uniform. I told him he could keep it on as long as he left the hood down. So as not to obscure his peripheral vision, you know? Can’t have people bumping into each other, especially not someone his size. But he’d forget.”

  “Is this the only photo you have of him?”

  He paged forward, finding a second candid. Useless, because Triplett had spotted the camera and was averting his face, blurring his features.

  I said, “He didn’t like having his picture taken.”

  “You got that right,” Fletcher said. “Shy boy. Afraid of his own shadow, except when he got into the work.”

  I pointed to the adjacent photo. “What’s that?”

  Fletcher squinted. “The rocker? Julian made it. Based on a Hans Wegner design. I’d gotten him away from my stuff, away from Chippendale, the usual. I wanted him to have a broader notion of what was possible. Yeah, I forgot about that. He worked on it a long time. The original has a woven seat, but we didn’t want to start messing with caning, and the grain was nice, so we kept it plain mahogany. Real pretty. And that’s before we put the stain on. Finish it in cherry, you get some good depth of color.”

  I said, “May I?”

  He waved consent, and I slipped the print out of the sleeve. I turned it over to read the date printed on the back: Mar-19-03.

  “Chairs were his thing,” Fletcher said. “He loved making them. Regular sitting chairs. The rocker was a one-off.”

  I’d sat in one of Julian Triplett’s chairs, in the reverend’s office.

  I’d seen the rocker, too, before. Or its twin.

  “What’d he do with it?” I asked. “Did he sell it to someone?”

  “I told him he should go around to the local stores, he could get some good money. He didn’t care, gave all his work away. Mostly we auctioned the pieces off. We do an auction every June, to raise money for this place.”

  “This particular piece, though, the rocker,” I said. “Any idea who has it?”

  “Shoot, I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

  I nodded. “Mind if I borrow this? The ones of Julian, too. I’ll get them back to you, promise.”

  He hesitated, then removed the prints from their plastic, taking a last look before handing them over to me. “You’ve seen it, now. He did some fine, fine work.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Hustling to my parked car, I called Tatiana. She didn’t pick up.

  “Call me,” I said, getting in. “It’s important.”

  I drove to my office.

  It was eleven thirty, the building sleepy. In the squad room a single DC sat at his desk, a rookie named Jurow. He did a double take as I entered.

  “Can’t stay away, huh?”

  “Working for God and Country.”

  “And overtime.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up and went to my computer. I propped the print of the rocking-chair-in-progress against the monitor and opened the Rennert file, scrolling through the flicks Zaragoza had taken at the scene.

  Exterior; body; downstairs; second floor.

  Attic.

  The rocker only appeared in a couple of shots, and when it did, it was off to the side, or out of focus in the background, caught in the frame as Zaragoza captured something of greater evidentiary value.

  I called Jurow over.

  “Take a look at these and tell me if you think it’s the same chair.”

  He set down his coffee mug, studied the screen, the print. “Could be.”

  “Not definitely.”

  “This one”—the print—“looks lighter to me.”

  “It’s unfinished,” I said.

  “Hold the phone. This guy has seven thingies. And this one has eight. Right?”

  I saw what he meant: spindles. The one on the screen appeared to have fewer, which would blow my theory out of the water.

  “It might be the angle,” I said. “Or this one here has a broken spindle.”

  He shrugged. “You asked. I’m telling you what I see.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Gun to my head?” he said. “Sixty–forty, no.”

  “Thanks, man. Have a good night.”

  “You too,” he said, mystified.

  —

  EN ROUTE TO my apartment, I tried Tatiana. Voicemail yet again.

  “Hey,” I said. “I really need to talk to you. I’ll be home in ten minutes. If you get this before, call me. I need to get into your father’s house. Call me, please. Thanks.”

  Back at my apartment I put all three photos on my coffee table and began pacing around the living room. I kept stopping to stare at the print of the unfinished rocker, straining to match it to the image in my mind of the one in Rennert’s attic.

  Why was it so hard? I’d just seen the goddamn thing, twenty-four hours ago. Ellis Fletcher had better recall for detail than I did, and it had been more than a decade for him. But he was a professional. His brain trafficked in shapes and colors.

  Really, though, I knew I was correct. Had to be. Because the photo solved a problem that had been gnawing at me ever since I’d opened the drawer to find the gun gone.

  Why would anyone—either a random burglar or Triplett himself—proceed straight upstairs to the attic? Ignoring the art, the porcelain, furniture, televisions.

  He went there with a goal in mind.

  He knew what he wanted and where to find it.

  He’d seen it before.

  He’d been there before.

  Although Tatiana hadn’t said so, I had to believe the same problem had occurred to her. Possibly not. The violation of the break-in left her distraught. Learning Triplett’s name had staggered her all over again. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

  Footsteps thumped up the stairs, uneven gait on the uneven carpet.

  I glanced at the clock on my DVR.

  Two thirty-nine a.m.

  The lock turned and Tatiana entered in a burgundy cashmere sweater, skinny jeans, and heels. She saw me and bristled. “I said don’t wait up.”

  “Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  She stooped to remove her shoes. “I didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

  “Can I borrow the key to your dad’s house?”

  She straightened. “Why?”

  “I need to check something.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe nothing. Can I have it, please?”

  She stared at me like I was crazy. I’m sure I looked it.

  “What’s going on, Clay?”

  Hands on hips, eyes blazing.

  No way to avoid the truth. I showed her the print. “That, I believe, is your father’s rocking chair.”

  “So?” She brought her face closer to the picture. Only then did I realize that she reeked of pot. Green irises, red sclera. Like Christmas come early.

  “In the attic,” I said. “You don’t recognize it?”

  “I never noticed every piece of furniture he has. It’s chaos up there. Does that make me…what, unobservant? Why’s it matter?”

  “It might not,” I said. “That’s why I need to go over there. To find out.”

  “You’re weird,” she said. “Who gives a shit?” Giggling. “You’re the chair-man.”

  I tapped the photo. “This was made by Julian Triplett. I spoke to a man toni
ght who knew him personally. He made furniture after he got out of prison.”

  A beat. Then her gaze snapped back toward the coffee table.

  I’d carelessly left the candids of Triplett in plain view.

  She said, “Is that him?”

  She snatched up one of the prints, gripping it with two hands.

  “Careful, please. It’s not mine.”

  “That’s him,” she said. “God. He’s huge. He’s a…a monster.”

  “Tatiana.” I gently pried open her fingers, extracted the print before she could damage it. “Sit down. Let me get you some water.”

  “I don’t want any water,” she said, grabbing at my arm. “I want to look at him.”

  I removed the prints to the safety of the kitchen and filled a glass from the tap.

  “I said I don’t want water.”

  “You’ll feel better.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “Don’t you fucking judge me,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  “I am dealing with a lot of shit in my life,” she said.

  “I know.”

  I don’t judge people who get high. Nor do I want to have to reason with them.

  I said, “Please give me the house key.”

  She said, “I’m coming with you.”

  —

  ON THE RIDE over, she said, “Just so you know, I was fully intending to wake you up and fuck you.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Rain check?”

  She declined to respond.

  We pulled up to the house.

  “I feel like we were just here,” she said.

  “We were.”

  I let Tatiana go ahead of me on the stairs, so I could catch her if she fell. Her ass pumped furiously.

  In the attic, we switched on lamps, climbed over junk to reach the rocker.

  It had one broken spindle in back.

  I hadn’t noticed before. It was at the extreme left end and it had been sanded flush with the top and bottom rails.

  Tatiana gestured for the print of the rocker-in-progress. I handed it to her, watching her eyes flick back and forth, her lips purse and retract in concentration. I’d seen her like this before, on the morning we met.

  She said, “I’m sure there are a billion others out there that look exactly like it.”

  A concession, of sorts. She hadn’t said no.

  “Humor me for a second,” I said. “Say it’s the same chair. How’d it get here?”

  “The chair fairy brought it.”

  “The man I spoke to said Triplett auctioned off some of his pieces for the school benefit. He wasn’t sure of this one. Maybe your dad reached out to them.”

  “How would he know about it in the first place?”

  “He got word Triplett was out of prison and decided to make amends.”

  “Amends for what?” She shoved the print at me. “He did nothing wrong.”

  “I’m not saying he did. But maybe he felt he did. Several people told me he was broken up. You yourself said he didn’t like to talk about it.”

  “Yeah, cause it destroyed his life.”

  “That’s my point. He needed to find a way to deal with it.”

  “He did deal with it,” she said. “He bought a gun. You don’t do that if you’re feeling guilty, you do it if you’re scared.”

  “I’m sure he was scared, at one point. But what if he got to know Triplett—”

  “Whoa. Whoa. They’re not friends.”

  “Is that impossible?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is.”

  “Your father was a psychologist,” I said. “Maybe he saw Triplett as a patient.”

  “He didn’t have patients. He was a researcher.”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t think clinically.”

  “Clinically? You’re a shrink, now? Well, sorry, you need to go to school for that. Who gives a shit? Chairs? I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

  “Keeping an open mind,” I said. “Like you asked me to.”

  “You made it sound like there was nothing left to think about,” she said. “First you’re telling me he wasn’t pushed—”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “Then I don’t get what you’re trying to achieve. Okay. Fine. They knew each other. They played checkers. Why’s it matter?”

  “That doesn’t strike you as significant?”

  “What strikes me as significant, Clay, is that a homicidal maniac broke into my father’s house and took a gun. I mean for God’s sake, yesterday you’re like, he’s on the loose and my life is in danger, now you’re putting him and my dad in a fucking buddy comedy—”

  “I didn’t say any of that.”

  She backed away from me. Held out her hands. “Stop. Please. Stop.”

  Her eyes were wet.

  I said, “I didn’t—”

  “You implied it,” she said. “All right? Okay? Is that accurate enough, Mr. Officer? I thought you wanted to help me.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “Then why are we wasting time with stupid shit? You should be looking for him. Whatever.” She pushed on her closed eyes with forefinger and thumb. “I can’t deal with this right now. My head is fucking splitting.”

  She brushed past me and went downstairs.

  —

  AS I REACHED the freeway on-ramp, she said, “Take me home, please.”

  “To your place?”

  She nodded.

  “If that’s what you want,” I said.

  “I do.”

  We didn’t speak for the rest of the ride.

  I pulled up outside her duplex. Tatiana unbuckled herself and opened the door, pausing to glance at me resentfully. “Are you coming or not?”

  I felt briefly lost for words. “You want me to?”

  “I said I want to go home,” she said. “I didn’t say I want to be by myself.”

  I sighed and got out of the car.

  CHAPTER 27

  It was my second consecutive late night, and the next day I woke up late. Like the last time I’d stayed over, Tatiana was nowhere to be seen. Somehow I didn’t think she’d be bringing breakfast.

  Nevertheless, I decided to stick around a bit, in case she did return. I texted to let her know I was up, made myself a cup of tea, and sat on her living room futon. The banker’s boxes had been shoved up into one corner like refugees. I laid the ukulele in my lap, plucking at it as I charted the possibilities that had been brewing overnight.

  Scenario one: the chairs were not the same.

  End of story.

  A no-frills explanation, and Tatiana’s obvious preference. For years she had conceived of Julian Triplett as a malicious force, nameless and faceless, responsible for everything that had gone wrong in her father’s life. Having to redraw the boundaries galled and disoriented her.

  Scenario two: the chairs were the same, but Rennert had come into possession of it indirectly—buying it at the school auction, say.

  His little secret. Write a check, take the thing home, lug it upstairs, give it a place of honor. An object, hard, undeniable, taking up space where he lived, giving him something tangible to focus on when he meditated on his sins.

  No relationship between him and Triplett, other than the fantasies in Walter Rennert’s head.

  End of story.

  Scenario three: the connection between the two men was not slight, but personal and ongoing. I gravitated toward this explanation for the same reasons Tatiana hated it.

  How else would Triplett know where Rennert lived?

  How had Triplett, a man of limited intelligence and resources, gotten into the house?

  Simple, once you assumed a direct link: he knew where the spare key was hidden.

  Or—too terrifying for Tatiana to consider—he had a key of his own.

  If Triplett and Rennert did have a relationship, what kind?


  How far back did it go?

  The ugliest question of them all: why did Triplett need a gun?

  Why now?

  Hearing voices again? Frantic to purge them, by any means necessary?

  Another target in mind?

  Maybe Rennert, once upon a time, had promised him something. Money. A token of reconciliation, offered rashly. Offered to put him in the will, even.

  Triplett’s disappointment when his prize didn’t materialize.

  Hatred toward the true heirs.

  Tatiana’s face was plastered all over the house.

  The gun drawer wasn’t the only part of the desk that had been messed with.

  The liquor cabinet had been opened.

  Abandoned bottles, racked tumblers.

  But that wasn’t true a few months ago.

  A few months ago, there’d also been pills. One of which was an antipsychotic. Prescribed by a urologist who got squirrelly when questioned.

  Pills Walter Rennert had no medical reason to take. Pills you took if you were schizophrenic, if you suffered from hallucinations and delusions.

  Rennert was a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. He could talk to Triplett for hours, months, years, but he couldn’t prescribe medication.

  He’d have to get someone to do that for him.

  The time had come to pay Louis Vannen, MD, another visit.

  —

  BACK AT MY apartment, I texted Nate Schickman the candid of Triplett. Still ten years out of date. But better than twenty.

  The rest of the day went to small tasks: stripping sheets off my couch, restocking the fridge, jogging. Waiting for Tatiana to call or write back. By sundown I had yet to hear from her. I pushed it out of my mind and sat down with my laptop.

  I’d tried going to Vannen’s office and gotten the brush-off. A little more aggression was in order.

  If I’d been at work, doing actual work-related stuff, I could’ve used Accurint. Inside of ten seconds I’d know everything about him. Current address, previous addresses, relatives, associates. But I was at home, on my own time, and he was unlisted, forcing me to get creative.

  Using an archived article in a community newsletter (“Local Sisters Turn Old Sweaters into Warm Hugs for Foster Kids”), I was able to connect him to his daughters, both at Stanford, both with hyphenated last names. That led me to Vannen’s wife, Suzanne Barnes. Plugging her into a people finder yielded a residential address in Orinda.