CHAPTER SEVEN

It’d been several months since Lennon had reason to be in the Tenderloin neighborhood. It seemed that even in that short time, the stark squalor and human misery on Hyde Street, onto which she and Ambrose had just turned, had increased significantly.

It was Thanksgiving Day, and apparently none of these people had anywhere to go. Or maybe it was early enough that they hadn’t made their way over to one of the churches serving meals.

She had called the Gilbert House the day before and wasn’t surprised when she was told they’d be staffed this morning. Places like that didn’t get a day off. The homeless problem didn’t go away on holidays. Neither did crime.

She’d been forced to park several blocks away, and as they began walking toward the Leavenworth address, she saw Ambrose glancing around, the expression on his face slightly stunned. “When was the last time you were in the city?” she asked.

He glanced over at her. “It’s been years.”

She stepped around some trash. “Compared to the suburbs, this must look like a dystopian hellscape.”

He gave a gravelly laugh. “You could say that. Things are bad here.”

Yes, things were bad here, even if, geographically speaking, the TL was prime real estate, smack-dab in the middle of one of the most expensive cities in the world. San Francisco’s purgatory. Lennon was a local, but even she didn’t know all the historical reasons why gentrification had failed here. But it most certainly had.

“What’d you do in Pleasant Hill anyway?” she asked. She knew it was unwise to become distracted on a street such as this one, but a small sliver of distraction, frankly, was also necessary.

He turned his head toward her, and despite the hollow look in his eyes, his pace didn’t slow. His body language told her he was more surprised by the state of this place than scared by the inhabitants, and that made her feel more at ease with him. She might be able to count on him not to run and hide if they faced a physical threat. For now, however, the only threat was being waged on their olfactory lobes.

“We did a lot of everything. My interest area was missing persons, but there aren’t a lot of cases there, so when we learned they couldn’t spare any agents here in San Francisco and were contacting local field offices regarding this case, I volunteered for the chance to get some experience related to violent crime.”

He’d said it smoothly, but Lennon had this odd feeling that he’d rehearsed his answer. Was there something more to this case that the FBI knew but weren’t sharing with them? “Why exactly was the FBI called in on this case, though? I mean, I get that the idea of a serial killer always alerts the feds, but we aren’t even certain that’s the case yet. It seems ... early for you—or any agent—to be here working this case.”

Ambrose stepped around a pile of vomit on the sidewalk. “I think they might be concerned about a new street drug taking hold. A few years ago, a drug that’s a mix of fentanyl and a horse tranquilizer called xylazine started becoming more widely used. It began as a small problem, but it’s since blown up. I don’t think the government wants to be caught on the wrong side of something like that again.”

“Is that the zombie drug?”

“Tranq. You’ve heard of it?”

“Yeah.” She’d personally seen the effects, too, namely the rotting wounds that often led to amputation. And she’d heard of a case in Oakland where a man literally ate part of his friend’s face while under the influence. And it didn’t respond to Narcan, which was a whole other problem. “So it’s not so much the serial killer possibility but the worry that the homemade drug found at the scene is a mix of hallucinogens that causes people to become homicidal?”

“Possibly. Either way, it’s best to get ahead of the situation. These things can easily become political. They affect the state of health care and a hundred other bureaucracies. At the moment, it’s not known if the drug was cooked up in someone’s basement, an illegal lab, or if it came across the border.”

Ah. Political. Well now it all made sense. The feds were involved because the government was afraid this might come back to bite them in the ass and raise questions about certain policies they preferred not to have questioned. And so they’d sent Ambrose Mars to keep them informed.

She thought about the conversation with Clyde regarding hallucinogens being a mental experience more than a physical one. “From what I know, hallucinogens typically bring about euphoria, not violent tendencies.”

“But in the right combo, and with the right triggers, maybe it’s more likely to bring out violent tendencies than other mixes of drugs,” he said.

She cocked her head to the side. “True, I guess. I’ve heard of people having bad trips. Maybe it caused one of those. You know, the people given that drug thought the other person was a giant spider or something, and attacked accordingly? I’m halfway tempted to volunteer to take it just so we know what we’re dealing with.”

He gave her an uneasy look.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “I didn’t even smoke weed in college.”

“I’ve never heard of such a unicorn.”

“That’s me. Unicorn extraordinaire, at your service.”

He gave her a boyish smile that somehow seemed completely out of place in this gritty landscape. She had this strange instinct to tell him to put that away, as though the vestiges of innocence behind that expression might suddenly and violently become corrupted on this filthy street. What? Did she imagine the stale air itself was toxic to sweetness?

And is that the impression you get of Agent Ambrose Mars? Sweetness? Sort of, though of a different kind than she’d ever been acquainted with before. And perhaps that was the oddity that had set her off balance upon first meeting him. He was this distractingly attractive man who’d likely seen more wickedness than most based on his job, and yet there was something almost ... guileless about him. Unusual.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Lennon taking in the graffiti that was splashed over every available surface of the empty stores and old buildings that served as a backdrop to the line of tents where the homeless lived. She brought her hand to her nose, inhaling the fragrance of her hand lotion in a vain attempt to block out the intense smell of urine and feces.

“God, that makes my eyes sting,” he said, his voice muffled by his own hand.

“It’s not a natural way to live.”

“These people are ill,” he said. “Twisted by drugs and who knows what else.”

He wasn’t wrong. It was terrible. And truthfully? Even though it was her job to help society, to wade through the ache and the ugliness, to show up anywhere— anywhere —there was a victim, she wanted to turn away from this. She wanted to leave, get in her car, and drive anywhere other than here. She wanted to pretend it didn’t exist, because even she felt helpless to help these people. And God but that was a depressing feeling.

She stepped over and around the trash that littered the sidewalk, glancing into the gutters that were filled with needle after needle, some capped, most not.

Lennon’s head swam. It wasn’t just the stench of piss and vomit that filled the air. It was something else, something deeper and more cloying, a hormonal fear sweat that seemed to hang suspended underneath the more identifiable odors of human waste. A noise she couldn’t even identify came from one of the tents, and she picked up her pace, not wanting to know what was going on in that small nylon capsule that smelled like death.

This type of scene always struck her with a singular thought: My God. These are humans living like this. And how had this city—or any city, for that matter—ended up in a place where this was even halfway normal?

They turned onto the street where the Gilbert House stood. An old woman was cackling to herself on the corner as she walked in circles, flailing her arms. Others, obviously strung out, shuffled past the woman, paying her little mind, one man’s pants hanging so far down his hips it was a wonder they weren’t falling off. There was a man curled up near the wall of a building, his mouth hanging open, the pipe that had put him in that state still perched on his bottom lip.

They walked on, passing two liquor stores, one at each end of a block, a strip club featuring a performer called “Lil’ Baby Girl,” a vape shop, and other businesses that had metal roll-down, garage-type doors signaling they were currently closed.

“Hey, mama, what’s a fine thing like you doin’ down here?” a man said, stepping out from a doorway, blocking their path and causing Lennon to startle and take a quick step to the side. He came closer, and she smelled his scent—weed and human stink. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had open sores on his cheeks.

“My man,” Ambrose said, holding up his hand. “You’re cool.” He reached in his pocket and took out some bills and handed them to the man. “Go get yourself something to eat, okay?”

The man’s eyes lit up before he grabbed the bills from Ambrose’s hand. “Bless you. Thank you, my brother.” Then he turned and veered away, off to spend those few dollars on whatever vice was calling out his name. As long as it wasn’t her, she didn’t care what it was.

She let out a breath and continued walking. “Lieutenant Byrd said you have a way with people. Is doling out cash your secret?”

“Not always, but it’s generally the quickest method.”

“I’m sure.” She stopped in front of what was obviously once a single-family home but now served as a shelter for men affected by homelessness. The sign that told them they were at the right place was obviously hand painted and featured a rainbow and a peace sign and a number of bluebirds, wings spread. There was something sad about it, and Lennon looked away.

A heavy metal security gate covered the front door, and Lennon pressed the bell, glancing over her shoulder as though the man who’d looked like a zombie might be hot on her trail. And though she saw a few obvious junkies shuffling along the sidewalk, none of them seemed interested in Ambrose and her. None of them seemed interested in much of anything other than putting one shaky step in front of the other.

“Hello?” a voice came over the intercom next to the gate.

Lennon leaned in. “Inspector Lennon Gray and Agent Ambrose Mars here. I called yesterday and spoke with Ellen? She said someone would be available to answer a few questions.”

There was a pause, and then the woman who’d greeted them said, “Hold on, please. I’ll be right out.” Less than ten seconds later, the inner door swung open, and an older woman with short black curls stepped onto the porch. Both Ambrose and Lennon held up their respective badges, and the woman unlocked the gate, granting them entry.

They closed the security gate behind them and followed the woman inside the house. It smelled wonderful: literally a breath of fresh air. Lennon assumed that wherever the kitchen was, it was bustling with people cooking up a feast for the men who lived here. They stepped into a large foyer with a set of steps in front of them. A man was just disappearing around the bend in the stairs, and a few other men sat in a room to the right, where there were tables holding older-looking computers, and bookshelves on the far wall.

“Ellen left a note,” the woman told them. “I’m Myrna Watts. I’m the director of the house. Is this something that requires privacy? We only have one office here, and staff are currently using it, but I can ask them to step outside.”

“This is fine,” Lennon said. “We won’t take much of your time.”

Ms. Watts nodded. She didn’t look alarmed or concerned by their visit, and Lennon wondered if perhaps the police came by somewhat often to inquire about one of their boarders.

She opened her phone and quickly located the photo of the man who’d been wearing the pants with Gilbert House written on the tag. It was a close-up taken at the morgue, and the deceased now appeared to be sleeping. Lennon turned it toward Ms. Watts. “Do you recognize this man?”

Ms. Watts lifted the glasses hung on a chain around her neck and took Lennon’s phone to better see the photo. As the woman studied the image, Lennon’s eyes moved to a bulletin board near the door. There were flyers and notices and one brightly colored invitation to the Heroes for Homelessness Annual Rays of Hope Award Dinner, featuring DJ Fair Play. Was there anyone who didn’t fundraise off the homeless population? Where did the money go? And who exactly deserved an award when the problem was so out of control? Where were the heroes they spoke of? “Oh, dear,” Myrna said, pulling Lennon’s attention back to her. “That’s Cruz. He’s stayed here off and on for the last couple of years. He preferred the streets, unfortunately.” She sighed, her shoulders lifting and falling. “He’s dead, right? I’m not surprised, but ...” She looked back and forth between them. “If you’re here, his death must have been connected to a crime.”

“Yes, Ms. Watts. We believe he was murdered.”

Ms. Watts shook her head. “I’m not surprised. I’m actually shocked he lasted as long as he did. He’d been brought back from the dead so many times, he was sometimes called Tony Narcan.”

“Tony?”

“That’s his first name. Sorry, most of us around here referred to him as Cruz. But that was actually his last name. Anthony Cruz. How did you connect him to this place?”

Lennon felt the first zing of hope that they’d pulled a thread that might unravel more leads. “He was wearing a pair of jeans that had the Gilbert House on the tag.”

Ms. Watts gave Lennon a small, sad smile. “Ah, I see. Yes, we give all the men a clean outfit and a bag of toiletries when they get accepted here.”

“Are there conditions to staying here?” Ambrose asked.

Ms. Watts nodded. “They must commit to staying for ninety days, during which time they’re clean and sober.” She gestured toward the large room to their right, where a couple of tired-looking men sat staring at computer screens and two more sat near the bookshelves, one snoozing and the other reading a magazine. “We help them create a résumé and then job hunt. We have a room full of professional attire upstairs that they’re free to borrow from for interviews.”

“You said Mr. Cruz stayed here a few times. Did he complete his ninety days?”

“Mr. Cruz never even completed nine days.” She sighed again. “We really shouldn’t have kept taking him back, but ... that man had a gentle soul. And honestly? It seemed like he wanted to get clean, it really did. He never could quite find the strength to follow through.” She frowned. “I do remember him talking about a miracle treatment the last time I saw him.” She gave a wistful smile. “I’d heard talk like that before in reference to addiction. There’s always some new pill that’s going to fix them, you know? Take away all their cravings. If a fix like that existed, I’d put it in the water myself.”

Miracle treatment. Unfortunately, she’d heard people talk like that too. And the pharmaceutical industry was all too happy to go along with that false idea. A substance to fix an addiction to a substance and then another one after that. And on and on.

“Do you have any idea where he tended to hang out?” Ambrose asked.

Ms. Watts puckered her lips to the side as she thought. “I’m not sure. But if anyone would know, it’s Darius Finchem. His father used to run the youth outreach program over on Golden Gate, but Darius took over about five years ago.”

Ambrose looked up. “Youth outreach?”

“Mm-hmm. I know it’s surprising, but Cruz was only twenty, even though he looked quite a bit older. Drugs and lack of medical care will do that to you. Anyway, maybe twenty isn’t even a youth by definition, and Cruz was too old for the center. But Darius has his father’s heart, and the man can’t turn anyone away. And he knows everything that goes on in the Tenderloin, and most everyone who lives on the streets has taken advantage of one of the programs there. He used to deliver meals, but that stopped because of some permit issue or another.”

Lennon was tempted to roll her eyes. “Figures,” she muttered. Of course bureaucrats had deemed it necessary that folks pay a fee and fill out a stack of paperwork before feeding hungry people.

Lennon quickly scrolled through the other victim photos she had in her phone, asking Ms. Watts if she recognized them too. But the woman shook her head sadly. “I wish I could help with those ones as well.”

“We appreciate what you have given us,” Lennon said. It was more than they’d arrived with. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Tell Darius that Myrna said hi when you see him. There are only so many of us who still live and work here and haven’t given up on the TL yet.”

Lennon made the executive decision that they’d drive over to the youth center rather than walk, especially since she wasn’t sure it would be open. They went the opposite way around the block to her car this time, to avoid the worst section of Hyde Street. Agent Mars might call her a coward, but she could only handle so much squalor and suffering in one day. She had to hand it to the people who worked in neighborhoods like this one, trying to make things better, day after day—and likely seeing little, if any, improvement, whether that be in individuals or the area itself.

The youth center was a small square building sandwiched between two other small square buildings. They found a parking space just across the street and jaywalked when the light down the block turned red and traffic stopped. The door stood wide open, and Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto could be heard from inside. The classical music seemed out of place, and Lennon glanced over at Ambrose and was surprised to see a smile on his lips, as though he’d expected to hear Beethoven pouring forth from a youth center in a drug- and crime-infested neighborhood.

Inside, young men and women were sitting on sofas and easy chairs, feet kicked up as they chatted, one man dramatically playing “air piano” as two people near him laughed. One of the women spotted them, and the others, obviously noting their friend’s expression, turned to see whom she was staring at suspiciously.

A man who’d been sitting on the couch with his back to them stood and turned the music down. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“Are you Darius Finchem?” she asked.

“Guilty as charged.” The man smiled warmly, his teeth white and straight, long hair in dreads and gathered at the back of his neck.

“Yo, Darius, the cops are here to take you in? What’d you do?” one of the young men called, at which the rest of them laughed and snickered.

Darius walked over to Lennon and Ambrose and shook each of their hands in turn. “Officers. Or wait, detectives, right?”

“ Inspector is the title the SFPD uses in place of detective, but yes. What gave us away?” Lennon asked. But she smiled after she said it. The atmosphere in here was anything but hostile.

“You stick out like a sore thumb. But that’s okay. We’re welcoming of everyone at the youth center.” The high-pitched squeal of brakes sounded right outside the door, and Lennon looked over her shoulder to see a bus pulling up out front. Darius leaned around Ambrose and addressed the young people lounging around. “Bus is here,” he said. “Go ahead and start lining up outside.” The men and women all got up and headed to the door, shooting Lennon and Ambrose looks that were only slightly curious as they passed.

“Field trip?” Ambrose asked. Darius moved aside as a couple more teens who had been somewhere in the back of the building headed out the door.

“Yeah,” Darius said, looking at Ambrose and cocking his head. “Mount Tam. We’re going on a hike, and then we’re heading over to Glide Memorial Church for dinner.”

“A hike?” Lennon was honestly surprised to hear that, but pleasantly so. “That’s great. Mount Tam is beautiful.” Lennon had hiked Mount Tamalpais several times with her brother. Amazing trails. Beautiful views. And less than an hour outside the city.

Darius smiled. “My dad always said that nature heals the soul.” He paused, glancing at the line of young people boarding the bus. “Most of these kids are wounded in some way or another, so we take as many field trips as possible. Last week we went to the beach. If nothing else, it exposes them to something other than these streets.”

Ambrose looked away, squinting in a manner that made Lennon think he was holding back some emotion or another. “Your father sounds like a wise man. When did he retire?”

“Just last year. Cancer. But he’s doing well, taking advantage of all that nature he loves so much. Anyway, hey, what can I do for you? I gotta ...” He gestured toward the bus, only a few kids still left to board.

“Yes, sorry,” Lennon said, pulling out her phone. “Myrna Watts over at the Gilbert House sent us to you. She says hi, by the way. We’re trying to identify a couple of people who were, sadly, part of a crime scene. At least one of them frequented this area.”

She held her phone up to Darius, and he frowned at the photo of Anthony Cruz. “Cruz,” he said. “Yeah. He’s dead?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. Is there anything you can tell us about him?”

Darius thought about that. “Me and Pops help serve food at Glide on the regular, and Cruz used to stop by for a meal. But I haven’t seen him in months. Damn, he was a nice dude. What a shame.”

Lennon ran her finger over her screen to the next photo of the older woman, and then the other victims found at the earlier scenes. Darius glanced up at the bus and raised a finger to indicate to the driver he’d just be a minute. Then he studied the photos. After a few moments he shook his head. “I’ve never seen them.”

Lennon swiped to the final picture, the young woman who’d been clutching the teddy bear, even in death. “Aw, shit. Yeah, I know her. She’s a prostitute who works over on Geary.” He met Lennon’s eyes. “Or worked. She’s dead too?”

Lennon nodded even as a small jolt of victory buzzed inside. Another ID. “What’s her name?”

“Cherish. I don’t know her last name or even if that name is real. But it’s what she went by. The women over on Geary will have more information, but you’ll have to pay for it.” His gaze moved upward for a minute. “She might have done gigs over at this basement club called the Cellar. Real sleazy. You can get whatever you want in the back rooms—and I mean whatever you want—but of course, that’s not advertised. You gotta know someone. Several of the girls supplement their income there, but a lot of them consider it too much. And if you know these girls, that’s saying something. The cops used to make busts, but they gave that up.”

A kid slid open one of the bus windows and leaned out. “Hey, Dar, you coming or what?”

He waved at the guy. “Hey, I gotta go,” he said. “But give me a call here at the center if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, Darius. You’ve been very helpful.”

With a nod, he walked quickly to the waiting bus, jogging up the short set of steps as Lennon turned to Ambrose. “Anthony Cruz and Cherish,” she said to him.

“It’s a good start,” he said. “Are you up for a walk along Geary?”

She glanced at her watch. “It’s only three p.m. Do you think the working girls are out?” And on Thanksgiving? Wouldn’t most of the johns be at home with their families, eating turkey and pumpkin pie?

He shrugged. “Maybe one or two. Let’s go find out.”

They crossed the street and turned toward the car, parked halfway down the block. “The club he mentioned, the Cellar. That sounds like a real nightmare.” To Lennon, it sounded like an entire horror movie could take place in a joint like that. Meanwhile, others thought of it as their workplace. She resisted a shudder and tried her best not to see the face of the dead— pregnant —woman she’d just learned was named Cherish. Lennon wondered if she had even been of legal drinking age.

She wasn’t surprised the cops had stopped making busts there, however—just like the prostitutes that walked the streets, you could arrest people engaging in consensual sex work, but they’d just be out in an hour or two and right back at it. It’d likely be decriminalized soon anyway, and cops knew it. No one was willing to put their neck on the line in any sense for something that wasn’t treated as a crime by the courts anymore. What was the point?

They got in the car, and both reached for their seat belts. Lennon glanced at Ambrose. “He said you can get whatever you want in the back rooms. Do I even want to consider what that means?” she asked.

“You know you don’t.”

She conceded what he’d said with a nod before clicking her belt into place and then turning toward him. “Answer me this. If there are places like the Cellar, why would people need to break in to an abandoned motel without electricity? Why not just go in some back room set up for anything-goes trysts?”

He gave a small shrug. “Looking for even more privacy, an assurance that no one would interrupt?”

Or hear screams and respond. Only ... in a place such as the Cellar, wouldn’t screams be expected?

She let out a small grunt of agreement as she pictured the three dead bodies from the last crime scene, blood puddled around them. “What’s weird is that both Myrna Watts and Darius Finchem remarked on what a sweet guy Anthony Cruz was, despite his obvious problems. Doesn’t seem like the way a guy who was looking to fulfill a pedo fantasy would be described.” A gentle soul. Wasn’t that what Myrna had called him?

“You don’t always know people,” Ambrose said. “Drugs warp people, and predators hide in plain sight.”

“I guess. But those two don’t seem like people who would be easily fooled. How could you be, working in a neighborhood like this?”

“You’re also assuming it was the male in the scenario fulfilling the pedo fantasy. Maybe it was one of the women.”

Lennon chewed on the inside of her cheek. Sadly true. She’d been thinking statistically, but making assumptions like that was a mistake in a murder investigation. “Any thoughts on the so-called miracle treatment Anthony Cruz mentioned to Myrna Watts?”

Ambrose shrugged. “Like she said, those looking for lifelines will grab for anything. The government funds a drug trial involving human subjects, people like Anthony Cruz are the first ones they go to.”

“Those who need money and have a sketchy sense of body sovereignty?”

He nodded, his expression morose. “Yeah. Or it could have been hope based on nothing. Who knows what he was referring to.” Ambrose gave her one last troubled look before he turned toward the window so she could no longer see his face.