“I’m not proud of what I did, Gordon. I take full responsibility for my actions and accept any disciplinary action you think appropriate. But does Shirley have to be brought down as well. Can you leave her out of it?”
“Noble of you, Kate. I’d like to leave you to squirm for a few weeks, you deserve it. But compassion for Shirley has staid my hand. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
She braced herself.
“The photographer’s wrote it off as some nutcase, has no idea he was attacked by a police officer. He may spout off but no one will connect.”
Her shoulders dropped a full notch.
“But dropping the matter comes with a cost. As far as I’m concerned, Shirley is not implicated in the matter and never will be. You, however, are not getting off scot free. You behaved in a manner unbecoming to an officer of the law; acted out of impulse, assaulted a civilian and almost ruined the career of an innocent colleague.”
“I’ve been having a problem with my anger. I’m not sure why but I know it has nothing to do with my job. It’s personal.”
“I’m you’re superior officer, not your priest. I don’t give a damn about what’s causing it. I want it fixed. I’ll give you six months to do what you have to do to get it under control. One more screw up, however, and you’re gone. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll review your status in six months, now get back to work.”
She stood and left the office.
Chapter 16
Still suffering from the side effects of the beating, Roger ran to the bathroom and heaved into the bowl. He jumped into the shower and let the hot water do its magic with his muscles. Brisk towelling brought the blood towards the surface of his skin; vigorous strokes of the toothbrush chased with mouthwash got rid of his vomit sour breath.
He dressed in his chino’s, blue shirt, loafers and brown tweed jacket and called a cab. He dreaded walking into the precinct for the first time since he was hospitalized. All those well wishers, slapping him on the back and all the other crap. People treating you like you’re someone back from the dead. His freezer and fridge were packed to the brim of good will food. He was getting tired of being treated like his mother’s little boy.
His head was messed up; people’s kindness had never set him on edge before. Post traumatic stress, his therapist said, it’s normal, treatable and won’t last forever. He said the litany to himself every day but it didn’t stop the symptoms.
On the cab ride to the station, he thought about seeing the bastards face-to-face. Was he going to be able to identify them? He took a deep breath and walked into the precinct. Withers waved. There was no one else in the foyer. He began to climb the stairs. Big mistake, by the second floor he was gasping for breath. Pride stopped him from getting out and taking the elevator up, he pushed hard.
After what seemed forever, he was standing on the third floor landing. Seven minutes passed before he opened the door into the incident room. He waved to the lifted heads and walked briskly towards the viewing room. He didn’t make it to the hallway before he was surrounded by well wishers.
“You’re disappearing Roger. Have you gotten on the scales lately?”
“It’s all the liquid medicine followed by liquid food. I’m down 15”, he said.
Lots of more inane silly remarks were exchanged on all sides before he could break away.
Roger walked into the room. Gordon was by himself, the Assistant D.A. and defence lawyer hadn’t arrived. He stood, shook his hand, offered coffee and got down to business.
“These five degenerates are definitely in the lower level of the criminal gang food chain. Barely weaned from their tattoos, they chose typical emblems for their new status - the five-pointed cross, red bandanas, studded collars. They started out by calling themselves The Maniacs.”
“The name makes them sound like a comedy group”, Roger said.
“Yeah. Well, word has it they started with the typical street gang activity – small time drug trafficking, muscling and intimidation. Stupid asses tried to break into the protection money racquet. They were humbled pretty quickly by the big boys. Funny thing though, it was shortly after that encounter they changed their names. Dubbed themselves The Assassins . By then, they had met the red-headed, dark clad son of a bitch, no doubt in my mind.”
Roger nodded. “Do you think they’ll give a name?”
“Who knows? I don’t think they would be able to even if they wanted. Can’t see this killer giving them name, phone number and vital statistics. According to one of the local prostitutes who was on the scene when we made the arrest, they’re not too bright, said they cut into her business by driving by and pointing gun fingers at potential clients. Being arrested probably saved them from the pimps.”
The door opened and Abir, ADA, and a young Legal Aid Attorney for the defence entered the room. Introductions made, the assembled group peered through the two way mirror at the long line-up.
“Ready, Roger”, Abir asked.
Roger nodded and looked at the group as the process of stepping forward, facing front, turning left, facing back, turning right; facing front, stepping back, began. He had no problem identifying every last miserable one of them.
He wanted to go through the two way mirror, kick, punch, bite, tear out their eyes. His hand itched for a piece of pipe. Just five minutes alone with them. Rage had swallowed his fear. He stood motionless, no sign of his inner turmoil on his face. He turned to Abir and said: “numbers 4, 6, 7, 9 and 12.”
Alone again, Roger asked Gordon if he could observe the interviews.
“You ready for that?”
“Yup.”
“Okay. It should happen tomorrow sometime. I’ll give you an hour’s notice.”
Roger grabbed a cab home. He went into the kitchen and made a peanut butter sandwich. Grabbing a coke from the fridge, he went into the den, selected Pulp Fiction from his DVD collection.
He figured an afternoon movie, a long nap, a curry take out, an evening movie, a huge night cap and a good night’s sleep were just what a good doctor would order to fix up his fidgets.
***
Shirley signalled to make a right hand turn at the next exit. She hated these big industrial parks. She looked at her watch, damn, a half hour wasted going around blocks. There were no unmarked cars available this morning and her old clunker was sputtering its protest at the workout. She pulled over, consulted the map, and swore. King Street was tucked between two side streets; she was only five minutes away.
She pulled up to one of the meters in front of the tall steel and glass structure. Donald Sutton has the penthouse suite; no doubt, it certainly fits the image of a multi-million dollar business man in charge of one of the largest manufacturing conglomerates in the Atlantic Provinces.
Checking the rear view mirror for any left-over crumbs on her lips from the sandwich she picked up at the drive through a few miles back, she grabbed her briefcase and passed through the front doors. She checked in with the lobby receptionist who directed her to take the elevators to the penthouse suite.
She stepped off the elevator into the waiting room that looked like something out of a movie set. It was a large rectangular shaped room filled with the Palm and Yucca plants that were growing up towards the skylight.
Seated behind a massive, black and white glass desk that was equipped with a computer, fax machine, printer, headphones and a switchboard the size of a small desk, sat a designer clad, beautiful young woman whose brilliant smile matched the cascading light beams. Assuring her that Mr. Sutton would soon be with her, she invited Shirley to be seated, offered coffee. Offer declined, she busied herself at the computer.
Donald Sutton emerged from his inner sanctum, introduced himself, and invited her into his office. A tall distinguished looking man dressed in a zillion dollar suit and handcrafted brogues; she followed him i
nto another statement room, a statement of wealth and prestige, knocked up a notch of course. Once seated, the CEO wasted no time on small talk.
“I confess Cst. Proctor, I’ve been curious ever since your call. Why would you want to interview me? Surely you’re not on a fund raising drive for the police? Our PR department handles that sort of thing.”
“No, I’m not. We’re investigating the murders of a couple of people you know through your ex-wife. Jeffrey and Catherine Stone.”
“Yes, very sad news, I was in Western Europe when the news broke. Eleanor called to let me know. I don’t understand how I could help you with your investigations.”
She opened her notebook.
“I understand your company manufactures hydrogen cyanide.”
“Yes, that’s right. What does that have to do with the murder investigations?”
“We suspect there is a direct connection. Jeffrey Stone was poisoned by hydrogen cyanide.”
“How horrid. The poor man, he must have suffered terribly. Make no mistake, the hydrogen couldn’t have come from this facility. We have strict security in place.”
“Yes, Mr. Parsons filled me in on the details. Strange he didn’t mention it to you.”
“Not really, I delegate and don’t expect to be informed of everything unless it is something that can’t be handled. Obviously, you weren’t satisfied with the information you got but I can assure you our plant security is tight. Potentially dangerous substances are kept in a locked room that is only accessed by the scientists involved in production and research.”
“How many scientists do you employ?”
“Two. I trust them implicitly. They wouldn’t have had anything to do with Jeffrey’s death. They hadn’t even met him.”
“Is there anyone else who has access to this room?”
“I do, of course.”
“Have you ever taken anyone in the room on tour, Mr. Sutton, your wife perhaps?”
“Maybe. I think so, it was awhile ago now.”
“What about Mr. Parsons, does he bring tours through the building?”
“No, he doesn’t. I find it hard to believe he would invite anyone into such a secure room but you would have to ask him of course.”
“I’ve already have. I asked for a copy of the Visitors Log but he refused. I have a warrant for the log and will serve it to him when I leave your office.”
“Visitors Log? I didn’t realize one was being kept, but Jim’s a careful man, I shouldn’t be surprised. So, those tours, perhaps I have given more than I remember.”
“Rather something of a coincidence that both your ex-wife and Mr. Parson’s wife both worked closely with Jeffrey Stone and that you and Mr. Parsons both had access to hydrogen cyanide, the poison that killed him, don’t you think?”
Mr. Sutton sighed and rubbed his hands against his face.
“How well did you know Jeffrey & Catherine Stone?”
“We lost contact over the last two years, of course, but before that, Eleanor and I were very close with them. Surprising how divorce not only separates spouses but friends as well. Clearly they considered Eleanor to be their friend as I never heard a word from them over the years, not even a card at Christmas. Jeffrey worked hard and deserved his kudos but I wouldn’t give him any as a husband. He was forever chasing women, an obsession with him. Catherine was an excellent person, remained loyal to him despite his philandering. I respected her.”
“Were Eleanor and she close friends?”
“I wouldn’t say close, but they did see a lot of each other socially. Eleanor’s focus was on her career, certainly not on her marriage or daughter.”
So, the man’s bitter.
“As for Jeffrey and I, we were close back then, good friends. The back-slapping, heavy drinking, lots of fishing in the summer and ice hockey in the winter, kind of friends. You know, when Eleanor told me about his murder, I can’t say I was surprised. I figured his womanizing would do him in some day. But the news of Catherine’s murder, now that was a shock. I can’t imagine anyone hating her enough to kill her.”
He stopped talking and stared off into space. Shirley knew it was best not to fill the silence. She lowered her head and wrote in the notebook.
“I didn’t know the third victim; do you think you have a serial killer on your hands?”
“We’re not sure at this stage, Mr. Sutton. Your wife, Eleanor, was she close with Jeffrey?”
“A kind way of asking if I thought she had an affair with him. No, she didn’t. That would require a degree of passion and caring on her part.”
“You divorced two years ago. Was it an amicable?”
“I wouldn’t say it was amicable but it was necessary. The two of us had different interests. She focused on her career and I focused on my business. We failed in our marriage and as parents.”
“Your daughter, Sybil, she died around the time of your divorce, didn’t she?”
“Yes, in a stupid, senseless car accident. She was driving too fast, failed to make the corner, and went over an embankment - killed instantly. Something terrible happened to Eleanor after our daughter died. She was a bit indifferent as a parent, but she took her death hard. I miss Sybil and I regret not being a good parent. I know I don’t deserve it but I have been given another chance. I’ve remarried and my wife is expecting her first child.”
Shirley looked at the two silver framed pictures on his credenza; one was of a stunning brunette woman and two small children; the other was a picture of an attractive teenage girl.
“Is that a picture of Sybil?”
“Yes.”
“A beautiful girl. What a tragic loss.”
Sutton sighed and glanced at his watch.
“I won’t take up anymore of your time Mr. Sutton. I will leave my card with your P.A. If you think of anything, no matter how insignificant or trivial it may seem, please give me a call.”
They stood and shook hands. He took the card and put it in the top drawer of his desk.
Chapter 17
“I’ll take my car, Kate”, Withers said. “The back seat will accommodate our person of interest better than your sports job.”
Withers sped across town to the theatre. Kate tried to make sense of the news. A match on the gun the killer used to shoot at Hanya. It belonged to Henry Ward.
“I find it hard to visualize Henry stalking a woman and taking a pot shot at her, let alone killing three people”, Kate said.
“We have evidence and it’s solid; you can look at the registrations papers if you need to”, Withers said.
“No, I don’t need to”, Kate snapped. “It doesn’t make him the shooter. Someone must have stolen it.”
“And who do you think set Henry up?”
“I know it’s a woman behind the killings. The poison, the revenge theory, trolling the homeless looking for a killer, all the ear marks of a woman. She set Henry up.”
“What woman?”
“I don’t know yet. But I will find her. I know I’m right.”
Withers looked worried.
“I know how valuable cops’ instincts are but I believe you are mistaken. It might be best if you weren’t part of the interview team, Kate. Your scepticism may interfere.”
“No, I want to take part. My record should indicate my professionalism.”
Withers said nothing; he was fond of Kate, but leery of her volatility.
Pulling the car up in front of the theatre, Withers placed the police card in the window and the two entered the building. Withers nodded to the cleaner who was vacuuming the front foyer of the theatre. They entered the main body of the theatre and walked down the centre aisle. A group of four people stood centre stage and three more sat third row back, centre aisle.
“I don’t believe this”, Charlotte said. “Bad enough there’s a manic trying to kill off
everyone connected with the theatre without the police interfering with the rehearsals. We go live in two evenings. Enough is enough.”
Andrew, Eleanor, and Henry turned in their seats and looked at the two officers.
“Good afternoon folks”, Withers said nodding at stage and the three seated in the third row. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Good afternoon, yourselves officers. This is a surprise. I wish I could say it was a pleasant one”, Henry said.
“Well said, sir. I’m sure you won’t find it a pleasant one indeed. We’re here to escort you to the station.”
Deadly silence, every ear straining to follow the conversation.
“Really? Is this something I need to call my lawyer about?”
Final Act Page 17
