STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  Chapter 30

  A new day had started with a perfect dawn. Gibson had been sitting in the kitchen for two hours, watching as the first rays breached the horizon. Grey shadows were cast aside as the strong golden light spread across the mellow-blue sky. The warmth of the sun didn’t dispel the dread that locked him in place. He took another sip of his coffee that had grown cold unnoticed. Today was going to be loaded with tension. Gibson stretched his back and went to the bedroom. Katherine made a soft snuffling noise and rolled over on her side. He dressed quickly, grabbed his badge and gun and blew a kiss into the air.

  Gibson drove to the station and parked on Dallas Road. He scanned the street for Scottie’s vehicle, but didn’t see it. She would be here soon, with objections and acrimonious accusations. The DCs were sitting in their usual spots at his desk when he came into the room. Na looked up and grinned. It was sort of an apologetic smile. Not necessarily good news.

  Gibson plopped into his chair, leaned back and stretched out.

  “Bad night?” Na asked.

  “Could be a worse day.”

  “What? Ryder or Scottie?” Gunner asked. He peered up from the magazine on his lap.

  “Take your pick.”

  The elevator hummed as it started upward.

  “Here she comes.”

  After a few minutes, the doors slid open. A step and a thud sounded as Scottie crossed the hall. She poked her head around the corner. “Are you guys talking about me?”

  Na proceeded to stand up. Scottie waved her hand at him. “I can manage it.” She hobbled into the room and wiggled her way into a chair, laying out the crutches against the desk.

  “Welcome back,” Gibson said.

  “Are you sure? I heard rumours.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Gibson said. Then he turned to Na. “Did you talk to George last night?”

  “We did.”

  “Where’s he been? Hiding from us?”

  “No. Nothing like that. He went up island for a few days to visit his daughter and the grandkid.”

  “So, what did he have to tell you?” Gibson asked.

  “He said technically he was teamed up with Kevin the night of the murder.” Na paused. “But there was an emergency on a ship in dock. A burst water line. He was the only plumber on duty and spent the whole shift in the bilge. Didn’t see anybody. He actually worked overtime and didn’t get out of there until almost eleven the next day.”

  “Did you ask him if Kevin had a girlfriend?”

  “He doesn’t believe so. Gambling is Kevin’s thing.”

  “Damn. I was counting on George giving us something.” Gibson paused. “Let’s move on. I got hung up yesterday at the RCMP station.”

  “Huh,” Scottie snorted. She wasn’t going to let it go without a fight. Ryder was her man. Gibson would have to convince her of his innocence.

  “We also need to catch up with the yacht owner.” He flipped through his notebook. “Hopkins. I was going to speak with him when he got back from his trip up north. Hopefully, he will shed some light on who was at that damn poker game.”

  “We could go there,” Na said.

  “All right. You and Gunner go to Canoe Cove,” Gibson said. He studied his partner. She was rubbing her leg.

  “It’s still itchy.” Scottie frowned. “I know I’m gonna be stuck with all the paperwork.”

  “You’re on the mend. Can’t be running around all over the place. You’ll graduate to a cane before you know it.”

  “I’ll be in my office.” Scottie scowled. She skipped up on one foot, grabbed her crutches and left the room.

  The DCs scooted out behind her. They scampered down the stairs, sounding overly loud for two guys.

  Gibson sat back and stared at the ceiling, trying to empty his mind. The shrill ring of the telephone startled him. He reached over and plucked it up.

  “Gibson.”

  “It’s Jocko. You better come down to the lab.”

  He tore down the stairs two at a time. This was it, then. He walked down the long hallway. As he neared the doorway, he wondered if he should have called Scottie to come down. What was the matter with him, anyway? He pulled out his cell phone and called her.

  “I’m headed for the lab. Come on down.”

  “Wait for me.” Scottie hung up.

  Gibson leaned against the wall until he heard the ding of the elevator. She stepped out and limped over. The grimace on her face told him to keep his smart comments to himself.

  Jocko was sitting on a stool when they entered the room.

  “What took you so long?” He looked at Scottie and said, “Sorry. You okay?”

  She shot him a funny look.

  The forensic lab technician strolled over to a counter and picked up the bomber jacket.

  “I used Rapid DNA testing to get you results quickly. I do have a question though. Is this the jacket the suspect was wearing?”

  “Yes, it is.” Scottie smirked. She pointed at the x’s on the collar. “Apparently, Ryder marks all his belongings that way.”

  Gibson saw what appeared to be blood on the right sleeve and sighed.

  “Well, whoever wore this probably isn’t the killer.”

  “What? That’s bullshit,” Scottie said. “There’s blood right there.” She pointed.

  Gibson remained perfectly still.

  “I would normally expect to see arterial spray from a carotid artery stabbing.” Jocko paused. “Nothing is one hundred percent. But the odds are against the killer not getting splattered when a major artery is severed.”

  “But it could happen?” Scottie persisted.

  “Like I said, it’s not likely.” Jocko turned the evidence bag to the dirty spot on the right sleeve. “The stain here is Dianne’s blood.” He held up a hand when Scottie tried to interrupt. “It’s consistent with the kid’s story. You told me he picked up the knife and threw it. The blood pattern here shows us that is likely what happened.”

  “What about the knife?” Gibson asked.

  “Yes. The knife. It’s not Ryder’s blood in the hilt.”

  “Okay,” Gibson said. “Thanks, Jocko.”

  The detectives left the lab. They rode the elevator together in silence.

  “Come to my office.”

  They sat at Gibson’s desk. He pulled a folder out of the bottom drawer and opened the transcript from the interview.

  “Ryder was asked some specific questions about the knife to establish when blood transfer had happened.” He scrolled down to the paragraph he wanted to read. “And I quote, ‘I bought the knife at a hardware store. I was living on the street. I was scared. So it was brand new. Yes. Did you ever have to use it? No. I don’t think I could have. It was just for show. Did you ever cut yourself with it? No.’” He shut the file and stared at Scottie. “The unidentified blood can only be the killer’s blood. Now we know it’s not Ryder.”

  “Do we have a sample of Kevin’s blood?”

  “No.”

  “Can we get it?”

  “Only if you ask nicely.”

  “He can refuse?”

  “At this point, yes. He technically still has an alibi,” Gibson said. “Although, we should put a lineup together and see if Ryder can identify him.”

  “Good idea. To tell you the truth, I’m glad to hear that it wasn’t Ryder who killed Dianne.”

  Gibson looked up at her in surprise.

  “The community would be in a panic if they thought kids could simply go round killing people for whatever.” Scottie rubbed at her itchy leg. “This is driving me crazy.”

  “It means it’s healing.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Let me call Crown counsel and give them an update. I think we’ll be able to release Ryder to the Youth Justice Transition Services. It’s something we talked about earlier. He didn’t kill Dianne, but he did mess with the evidence.”

  “Will he do time for that?”

  “Not likely. The whole point is to give youn
g offenders the opportunity to contribute to the community. Not punish them.”

  “Paula will be relieved,” Scottie said.

  “Anatoe was hoping he could get Ryder enrolled in his program if he was eligible.”

  “That’s sort of cool.”

  “I thought so, too.” Gibson beamed and dialled a number. After being on the phone for ten minutes, he hung up. “It’s a go.”

  “Okay. I’ll drive.” Scottie climbed out of her chair and shuffled out the doorway.

  “Hey, not so fast.”

  “Ha. Ha. Just kidding.”

  They hopped into Gibson’s truck.

  “Call Paula.”

  There was no answer. After Scottie hung up, she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Call Grant. Paula’s probably at the RCMP station,” Gibson said. “They don’t allow cell phones in the visiting area.”

  Scottie promptly called the police station. The desk sergeant picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Is Grant around?”

  “It’s his day off?”

  “Is Paula there?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Scottie.”

  “Oh, hi there. Didn’t recognize your voice. Paula is in the back with Ryder.”

  “Thanks. Gibson and I are on our way.” She hung up.

  “You get all that?” She turned to her partner.

  “Yup.”

  “What about Anatoe? He would probably like to know what’s going on.”

  “Right. Give him a shout.”

  The call went to voicemail, so she left a message. Gibson pulled into Sidney. Five minutes after, he parked the truck in the RCMP lot. The desk sergeant looked up when they entered the lobby.

  “They’re in the interview room,” he said and pointed down the hallway.

  “Did you receive the discharge papers from Bill Ward at Crown counsel?”

  “For Ryder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not yet.”

  The fax machine lit up and spewed out a half-dozen pages.

  “That’ll be it.”

  The detectives marched down the corridor. Voices slipped out from under the closed door. Gibson swung it open and stepped into the room with Scottie bumping up behind him.

  At the sound of the door, Paula looked up. Tears hung on her eyelashes. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. She had her arm wrapped around her son’s shoulder. His body looked so small. He sniffed dejectedly and held his breath, fearful visiting time was up. He reached upward and took hold of his mother’s hand.

  Gibson held her gaze and grinned. “Ryder is free of the murder charge, but...”

  A single tear rolled down Paula’s cheek as she gasped for air.

  “We’ll have to work out the obstruction of justice,” Gibson said. “He’ll be fine.”

  Paula pulled Ryder in close, never to let go of him again. The soft weeping of the child in her arms crushed Gibson as no other experience in his life had done.

  * * *

  The moonlight cast a soft white glow through the small window. The blinds rattled with the fresh breeze that blew in, so unlike the stale air of the cell. As midnight approached Ryder lay on his narrow bed at home, unable to sleep. An owl hooted in the tall cedar on the boulevard. He buried his head into the fluffy pillows. The familiar smell of his mother’s perfume lingered on the quilt. He gave the once over around his room. Everything was just as he had left it. The desk was stacked high with books, his music player, and a refurbished laptop. A scuffed backpack leaned against the wall where he had tossed it earlier. The posters on the walls had hung there for his entire life. He turned the clock on his nightstand so he could see and pushed the light. It was later than he realized. He pressed into the mattress and shut his eyes.

  The door hinges squeaked as his mother entered from her vigil on the porch. He listened as she walked through the house. The sound of water running in the pipes made him think she was in the kitchen. As the silence settled again, he heard crying in the next room. He got up and searched the closet for his treasured mementos. The scrape of the wood was loud as he pulled a box off the top shelf. He froze, tuning his ears to the hallway. There was nothing amiss, so he sat back on his bed. He flicked through the contents, fingering each picture, each ticket stub, each keepsake. The stuff his mother and he had shared. All shattered by the unintentional disclosure of who his actual father was.

  His first reaction had been to run away. Who could he trust? Who could he talk to about that? It was a betrayal of huge proportions to him. And who was Guy to him? Her lover. A fake dad.

  He believed he was alone in his pain, but he was wrong. Despite how it had looked, he knew his mom had always been there for him. As he held his baby photo, a new worry seized his fragile mind. Was he himself capable of bad things because he had the same genes as a rapist? He closed the box and set it aside. His eyes became heavy. He refused to let the unnamed man’s crime keep him from succeeding in life.

  Chapter 31

  Quick moving clouds, tinged a greenish purple, pushed up and over the distant hills. The flag atop the building across the street billowed in the cool breeze. Leaves shifted along the lane in tiny tornado formations. The salty smell of the ocean was strong. A change was coming. Not only in the weather, but in everything around Gibson. He could feel it in his bones, the weighty sensation of water pressing down on him. Yesterday’s positive outcome should have made him feel exalted. But the relief didn’t come, only an ill mood, made worse by an unexplained anxiety that thwarted him.

  As Gibson drove down the highway to Sidney, his mind leaped from one matter to another. Someone up ahead tossed a cigarette out of their car window. Its lit end sent sparks along the tarmac, then died before it tumbled into the dry grass on the shoulder.

  He took the back way into town, so he could cruise along the waterfront. There were tons of people walking dogs or pushing baby buggies. A slew of kids on bikes and skateboards were hanging around the park. He steered into the RCMP car lot and headed to the courthouse around the corner.

  Scottie was milling around the courtroom area when he entered the foyer. The stench of sweat, stale breath, and coffee emanated from the people seated on hard wooden seats.

  The detectives passed by and headed down a wide corridor leading to the judge’s chamber. Anatoe leaned against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. A large manila envelope was gripped in his hand. They greeted each other in low murmurs. A door opened across the hall. A young woman ushered them into an enormous room and scampered off. The well-appointed space was filled with antique furniture and innovative electronics. A massive desk stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Three wing chairs and an overstuffed leather couch circled an ornate coffee table. A sideboard held a collection of glassware and a large jug of water. The fireplace in the corner had a stone mantle covered with framed photographs. The gleaming polished wood of the walls had the sweet scent of freshly squeezed lemons.

  “Should we sit while we wait for the rest of them?” Scottie asked.

  Anatoe plopped down on the sofa and placed his folder on the table. He pressed his lips tight to keep from smiling and formed a steeple with his fingers. The detectives each picked a winged chair. A few minutes passed by before they heard footsteps, then voices. Suddenly the door swung open. Ryder stood with his hands at his sides, his gaze ping-ponging around the room. Paula gave him a gentle prod. He moved toward Anatoe and sat down. Peter Tull, Ryder’s lawyer, strode in and gave a wave to Gibson. He sat on the arm of the couch with his legs crossed at the ankle.

  Bill Ward from the Crown counsel popped his head into the room.

  “Is everyone here?” A playful grin made his eyes sparkle. He turned to someone in the hallway. A clacking of shoes along the tile floor faded away. He went toward the window and stared out onto the green lawn.

  A whoosh from the back of the room made everyone turn. A tall, black-haired man strode through a door concealed by the bookcase. After a cur
sory nod, he sat in the chair beside Scottie. His shoulders were drawn backwards, and his head held high. The judge hiked his robe up, exposing his slip-on Hush Puppies. He leaned forward and placed his hands on his thighs.

  “Welcome. Thanks for expediting this process for us, Bill.” Judge Fred Saunders turned to Ryder. “How are you doing, young lad?”

  Ryder gave him a hangdog look.

  “Don’t be afraid of me.” He laughed and tugged at his robes. “It’s for show.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Good. Good.” He sat back in his chair. “Everything is set. We’re all on the same page?”

  “Yes, your Honour,” Anatoe said.

  “You have the paperwork?”

  “Yes.” He stood up and passed the folder to the judge.

  “We need everybody to sign, and then it’s official,” Saunders said. “The offense here was quite minor compared to some things I have to deal with, so we moved quickly to clear this up.”

  “Thank you, your Honour,” Peter said.

  “Let me give you a summary in terms you can understand, Ryder,” Saunders said. He met the boy’s gaze. “Given the evidence we have, we are all in agreement that you were not involved in the murder of Mrs. Meadows. Although you did interfere with the evidence by throwing the knife away. Now the Crown has discretionary power to pursue charges or not. We felt it wasn’t in the public interest to go down that route.” He paused. “Do you follow this so far?”

  “Yes, sir.” His meek voice was hardly audible in the cavernous room.

  Paula held onto her son’s hand.

  “All right. But we need to do something. It’s not punishment, but something to help you move forward in your life. Apparently, you have a good friend in Anatoe. He was instrumental in providing us with a good solution. He’s working with the youth justice system to set up shop, teaching mechanic skills. Is that something that interests you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ryder’s eyes lit up.

  “Great. That’s all we really need to know. Let’s get these papers signed. I have a courtroom to go to.” Saunders laughed again. “I like happy endings.” He wrote his usual scribble on the forms and stood up. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ryder said. He pressed his lips together, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by crying.