“Absolutely. No question at all,” Scottie said. “And not only that, but Ryder’s bike had paint on the back fender from the impact.”
“Red paint?”
“You know it. BMW red paint.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
“My burger.” She giggled.
The food was delivered pronto. As they ate, Gibson couldn’t stop thinking about Dianne, and how they had failed her.
“What was Jackson doing on that street anyway?”
“I don’t know. That did strike me as kind of weird.” Scottie took a bite of her burger. “And why would he leave his own party?”
“I left the party early, so I don’t know how long it went on for.”
“Still, why that street?” Scottie asked. She stared at her partner.
They sat in silence for a long moment.
“Something isn’t right here.” Gibson said. He thought for a moment. “What if he ran Ryder over on purpose?”
“What the hell?”
“Ryder was trying to tell me something on the night of the fundraiser. I couldn’t make it out at the time, and Katherine had fallen ill, but I think he may have identified the killer at the party. I guess I’ve been looking at this upside down. Both Chelsea and Hudson said Dianne was having an affair. I thought Kevin had found out and killed her. But Kevin is in the clear. So, was it the other way around? Was it Jackson who killed her?”
“Wait a minute… did Ryder recognize Jackson as the man from the pier? Is that what you’re saying?” Scottie asked.
“It’s the only thing that makes any sense now with everything else that has happened,” Gibson said. “I can’t see any other reason why Jackson would want to run over Ryder. It couldn’t possibly be just a coincidence. That’s not feasible.”
“Oh, crap. Dianne was pregnant. Was it Jackson’s? Could she have confronted him with that?”
Suddenly Gibson felt ill. Was he to blame for Ryder’s death? If he had only listened to the boy, would he still be alive?
“You’re not to blame, Gibson.” Scottie knew his thought process and reached out. “Jackson is the bad guy here.”
“I just can’t stop thinking about it now.” Gibson shook his head.
“Let’s go get him,” Scottie said, although they didn’t have any proof. Not quite yet anyway.
They abandoned their meal and hurried back to the station as quick as one can with a cane. Jackson’s wife sat quietly on the bench where the lawyer had waited earlier. No tears had spoiled her makeup. She had on a short-sleeved blouse over a navy pencil skirt. Her diamond jewellery didn’t sparkle in the fluorescent lights of the lobby. She stared at the stains on the linoleum floor. Her nose was pushed up to shut out the stench, and her mouth was clamped shut. She looked up at the sound of the door opening, then gazed back down.
Lester Moore paced in front of the counter, spouting out at the desk sergeant at every chance. “Where the hell are they now? I won’t tolerate this.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gibson said. “Shall we go to an interview room?”
“Fine.” Lester picked up the briefcase that had fallen off the bench. He turned back to Lori. “You should wait here until Jackson gets released.”
“All right.”
They headed down the hallway to the nice room. The detectives sat on the far side. Lester sat rod straight in the first chair. He put his briefcase on the seat adjacent to him and sorted out some papers. After flipping through several pages, he put one sheet on the table along with a pen. Shouting from the back cells made him look up. Jackson appeared in the doorway. His wrinkled suit hung loose over his bent-over figure.
“What the hell took you so long,” Jackson yelled at his lawyer. “Get me out of this frigging place.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Parker,” Scottie said. She pointed to the chair next to the recorder. With a stab, she pressed it on and announced who was present.
“All right. The glass collected at the scene of the accident matched the broken lens on your vehicle. The red BMW.” Gibson tapped at a report in front of him and rambled off the license plate. “That’s you. Correct?”
Jackson stared at his lawyer.
“You can answer the question.”
“Yes. That’s my car, but...”
Lester laid a hand on his client’s arm to stop him from saying any more.
“Why didn’t you stop?” Gibson asked.
“How many times do I have to tell you, it wasn’t me. I wasn’t there and I didn’t run over anybody,” Jackson spewed out in a blur of words.
“You actually want us to believe you could hit a person and not know it?” Gibson persisted.
“It wasn’t me.” Jackson sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“What were you doing on that particular street?” Scottie asked. She could barely keep her anger in check.
“What is your problem?” Jackson turned to his lawyer. “Do something!”
“Detective, Mr. Parker was not involved in the hit and run.”
“We have proof it was your vehicle,” Gibson said, ignoring both men.
“That’s not possible. I was at my party. As anyone there can tell you…” Jackson stopped.
“I think we better get to the court for the bail hearing,” Lester said. “We have nothing more to say on the matter.” He stuffed the paper and pen in his briefcase and pushed his chair back.
Gibson turned to Scottie. She shook her head again.
“Well?” Lester tapped his knuckles on the table.
Gibson’s cell pinged. “Give me a moment.” He jumped up and hurried out of the room.
Scottie turned off the recorder and sat back in her chair. She gazed at the ceiling to ward off the hateful glare from Jackson.
It was quite a while before Gibson returned. He closed the door quietly behind him.
“This is an outrage. A travesty of justice,” Lester said. He jumped up quickly.
“Enough with the fancy talk. Sit down, Mr. Moore,” Gibson said. He didn’t hold back his disgust. “Your client is in serious trouble.”
“The courts will decide that, detective,” Lester shot back and sat.
Gibson gestured to Scottie. She turned the tape recorder on again.
“Mr. Jackson Parker, you are under arrest for the murder of Dianne Meadows—”
“This is bullshit,” Jackson screamed. He slammed his fist down on the table.
“You have no evidence of that,” Lester said.
Gibson finished reading Jackson his rights before he responded. “The forensics team found blood on the stick shift of the BMW that matches the victim.”
“That only proves Dianne was in his car,” Lester said. “She cut herself.”
“Why was she in the car?”
“We went to meetings together. Sometimes I drove,” Jackson butted in. He gazed at his attorney. “Sort this out now, Lester.”
“If that is all you have, these charges are not warranted.”
“I will decide that. We believe the blood dripped off his sleeve after killing Dianne. You didn’t wipe your car interior clean enough,” Gibson said. “Furthermore, we believe you followed Ryder with the explicit intent to kill him because he saw you at the crime scene and then identified you at the party.”
“You have no proof of any of this,” Lester said. “It’s all circumstantial.”
“We have a search warrant for your house,” Gibson said. He peered over to Scottie. She slapped handcuffs on Jackson and led him out.
“Lester. Do something,” he called as the detective steered him back to his tiny cubicle.
“I will. Don’t say anything to anybody,” Lester yelled. He gathered his belongings and headed for the lobby. After a few words with Lori, he left the building.
Mrs. Parker stood up and followed the lawyer out.
Gibson leaned back in his chair, wondering where to go from here. He had jumped the gun like he always did. Jocko had run the blood that was found on
the stick shift. At the time, the detectives hadn’t connected the accident with Dianne’s murder, so Jackson’s DNA hadn’t been checked with that found on the murder weapon. It was only a few hours ago that they had any inkling Jackson was involved with her death. They would have to be hopeful while they waited for the results. Perhaps the house search would uncover some evidence. A bloody suit would do fine.
Gibson closed his eyes briefly.
Chapter 38
Dawn arrived with the chirping of birds and a patter of rainfall on the windowpane. Gibson peeped over to Katherine and slipped out of bed. He headed to the kitchen and switched on the coffee maker. After a quick shower and shave, he checked his cell phone. Nothing yet from Jocko. And Scottie wasn’t answering her cell. Why hadn’t she phoned him about the house search?
Katherine walked into the room and sat at the table. She wore a plain black dress and red pumps. Her hair was pinned up in the back.
“What a depressing day it’s going to be,” Gibson said.
“Poor Paula.” Katherine looked outside to the dark clouds that gave a greyish sheen to the light. A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and brought a taste of the sea with it. “Is it going to rain all day?”
“It’s letting up already,” Gibson said. He viewed the clock over the sink. “Nearly time to go.”
Katherine gave him the faintest of smiles.
Gibson took the back roads to the funeral home. The parking lot was completely full. Vehicles were parked down the narrow lane as far as he could see.
“I’ll drop you off and park.”
“I’ll wait in front.”
Gibson left his cell in the truck and trudged back to the stone building. Although the rain had stopped, there were large puddles on the road. He skipped over them to avoid getting soaked. Katherine stood by the doors clutching her handbag. Her hickory brown eyes were heavy with unwept tears. Gibson took her by the hand. They stepped inside to a big room with delicate lighting and wood-paneled walls. The air was perfumed by the sweet scent of roses. Soft piano music played in the background. The rows of chairs, most of which were filled, were crowded together, leaving little room to manoeuvre. A large group of teenagers stood at the back, speaking in hushed tones. Anatoe sat in the front row with Paula. She hung onto his arm as if she would never let him go.
Gibson and his wife moved up the aisle and sat in the empty seats saved for them. The coffin next to the pulpit was dark mahogany, perfectly polished. It was the only thing Gibson saw. Once again, his heart twisted in his chest. The sense of failure washed over him. It was very hard not to cry. But was it for his failings or for Ryder? He sighed deeply and squeezed Katherine’s hand. She rubbed his shoulder, knowing guilt was eating him up.
The ceremony was short and simple. A family friend said a few words. Quiet weeping swept over the assembly. Paula sat in still sorrow. Anatoe lowered his head, lost in thought.
Afterward, most people left quietly. A few close friends and family headed down the stone walkway to the gravesite. Gibson watched as Paula leaned into the tall, strong frame of her new-found friend. Anatoe opened the wrought iron gate and directed them to the far corner. The well-tended grounds belied the mood of the visitors. Gibson spun away. He clung on to Katherine, afraid if he let go, he would go down into a dark abyss. How the tables had turned. At one time he had been the rock. For the first time, he recognised that love was a two-way street. He felt a deep gratitude for the bond that held them together.
“Let’s go for lunch,” Katherine said lightly. Her intuition was insightful.
“There’s a real nice bistro in Sidney.”
* * *
On the way into town, Gibson’s cell rang. Hesitant to lose the moment, he disregarded the call. Katherine turned the volume on the radio up and slunk back into her seat. He pulled onto Beacon Avenue and cruised down toward the waterfront. It was an extremely busy Saturday morning. Street parking was virtually impossible on the main drag, so he drove up and down the side streets until an empty spot appeared. The walk back to the bistro was pleasant with a fresh smell in the air that came after an August shower. The restaurant was thinning out as the lunch hour was already past its peak time. From the window seats, they took in the hordes of people strolling past, relishing the sun and the last of the summer days. They barely spoke through their meal, happy to be in each other’s company. The events of the morning had been heartbreaking, and needed to be left behind so that they could move forward. But Gibson knew he had to get back to work soon. He started to explain, but Katherine cut him off.
“That was lovely. I should get home,” she said. “You have things to do.”
They walked along the path by the shoreline, the long way back to where the truck was parked. The sky reflecting on the water made the landscape blend together, only broken by the brightly-coloured spinnakers dotting the azure blue sea. The sailboats glided through the waves, pushed by the light breeze blowing down the strait. In the distance, a line of boats were anchored along the length of the sand spit. Other, more adventurous, boaters zipped by in their cabin cruisers with destinations of nearby islands to explore.
Gibson cruised home by the back streets to avoid the heavy traffic on the highway. He pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. Katherine leaned in, their foreheads touching. Her lips brushed his as she pushed off. At the front door, she waved before she stepped inside. Gibson backed out onto the lane. He caught a glimpse of sparkling water between two buildings. It beckoned him over. Instead, he picked up his cell and called Scottie, unaware of the troubles ahead.
“I’m at the lab with Jocko,” Scottie said.
“Be right there.”
It was quiet in the lobby. When Gibson entered the forensics lab, Scottie and the forensic scientist were seated on tall stools in front of a monitor. They both glanced up at the sound of the door opening.
“Hi,” Scottie said.
“Did you uncover anything at the house?” Gibson asked.
“Nothing.”
Gibson remained silent. He looked at Jocko. “Did the partial print give us anything?”
“Like I said before. It wasn’t a good specimen,” the technician said.
“What about DNA on the knife?”
“It should be any minute now,” Scottie said.
The sound of a printer resounded loudly in the quiet room. Jocko headed to the corner. He bent over a counter with his back to them. Soon, he turned around and held up a slip of paper.
“I think this is what you were waiting for.” He strolled across the room and handed the results of the DNA test to the inspector. His face held no clue to the outcome.
“We have a problem,” Gibson said as he stared at the paper.
Chapter 39
Although it was late, the detectives hauled their asses upstairs to Gibson’s office to sort out the conflicting evidence. Gibson sat at his desk with his feet propped up on the bottom drawer and put in a call to Paula. After speaking briefly with her, he hung up and sat back to think some more. As he mulled over the facts, he remembered the memory stick of the wine store CCTV footage and decided to take a look for himself. After rummaging through the top compartment where he had tossed it earlier, he found it among the paper clips and pens. He plugged it into his laptop and hit the rewind button.
Gibson stared at the screen, his eyes blurring as suit after suit went into the store and out again. Then, something caught his eye, something everyone had missed the first time around. Probably because it was unexpected. Not a suit and not a kid. He paused the video, rewound a few minutes back and watched again.
Meanwhile, Scottie phoned Lester Moore to set up a meeting in the interview room at the RCMP station in two hours. Earlier in the day, she had asked the lawyer if his client was ready to talk to them. Lester had passed on a message from Jackson to tell her to go to hell. She hung up the phone and frowned.
“He wasn’t very nice.”
“No doubt,” Gibson replied. “Take a look at
this.” He pointed to the screen.
Scottie stood behind him and watched the video. “Well, well. Is that who I think it is?”
“I believe so.”
“Should I get Gunner on it?”
“Absolutely.”
The detectives made their way to the lobby and out of the building. They hopped into the F150 truck and worked their way out of the city. Once on the highway, Gibson put a lead foot on the gas pedal. As he closed in on Sidney, he switched to the slow lane and turned right at the light. A short while later, he pulled into the RCMP station.
Grant was at the desk once more. He shrugged helplessly. “We’re short of staff. Holidays.” He pointed to the back. “Same room. Everything is arranged as per your instructions.”
Gibson nodded.
Scottie smirked.
The detectives glanced at Mrs. Parker sitting on the bench as they walked past her and headed down the hallway. They could hear arguing coming from the room. Gibson strolled in without knocking and sat in the same chair as the other day. Jackson scowled at him. Scottie sat and turned on the recorder.
Lester Moore had his briefcase on the chair next to him. He sat with his hands laced together on the table. His dark suit had thin red stripes that were barely noticeable. He wore his tie knotted up tight to his neck. His face seemed relaxed, nearly smiling.
Jackson sagged in his chair. He wore an official uniform of orange. The colour clashed with his yellowish skin. The bags under his eyes were dark from lack of sleep. Something flashed beneath the surface of his hardened stare. Revenge? Hatred? Gibson wasn’t really sure. Now that he was here in this room, all he could think about was leaving. Another glimpse toward the prisoner made him believe Jackson was likely thinking the same.
Somebody was talking. Gibson flinched when Scottie touched his hand.
“My client wants to make a statement about Dianne,” Lester said.
Gibson sat back in his chair and tried to concentrate on what was being said. He hadn’t been expecting Jackson to say anything. They were here to tell him things.
He turned to Jackson. “Go ahead.”
STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series Page 50
