Murder On Vancouver Island

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  The baby-faced man who had gasped at the condom chewed nervously on the inside of his mouth. The man looked to be in his forties and had fair, tousled hair and light blue eyes. “I’ll start with you.” Gibson made eye contact and pointed a finger. “What’s your name?”

  “What, why me?” he choked. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat before he answered, “Nick Jones.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jason thundered, taking a stride forward. He puffed out his chest and demanded, “What’s going on? You think one of us did this?”

  “Jason, right?” Gibson recognized him from the night before. He’d been dressed as a devil, grilling hot dogs on the barbecue.

  “Yeah.” The foreman’s mouth twitched.

  “I’ll be questioning everyone. I need somewhere private.” Gibson’s voice had drawn tight with contained irritation. It irked him when someone challenged his authority. He saw Scottie squirm, knowing what she would be thinking—you better watch yourself, pal.

  “What the hell!” Jason exploded.

  Gibson continued, ignoring the outburst, holding in his impatience. “So where could I set up?” He looked into the coal black eyes and waited some more. He noticed the foreman’s uneasy shifting from one foot to the other and kept his stare steady.

  After a moment Jason replied, “Use my office upstairs, on the right.” He crossed his arms as a sign of cockiness.

  Gibson turned to Scottie. “Give me ten minutes. You know what to do.”

  All the evidence had been collected, and his officers had cleared the crime scene. The maintenance crew would do the cleanup later. Gibson avoided the bloodied landing and headed for the back door, springing up the outside stairs to the second floor. He sensed twenty eyes following his movements. They knew he was a pit bull, he thought smugly. He had their rapt attention now.

  Chapter 5

  Years of work boots marching in and out of Jason’s office had scuffed the grey and white floor tiles. Although the room wasn’t large, the place was comfortable. The battered oak desk occupied a considerable chunk of the space. A thin computer monitor with a wireless keyboard dominated the top. Untidy heaps of binders, a wire box filled to overflowing and an enormous jar of pens and coloured pencils obscured the rest. Someone had bumped an ergonomic leather swivel chair against the wall. The two old chairs in front were straight-backed with vinyl seats, stuffing escaping from torn seams. Framed diplomas, a bulletin board and several notices above a narrow bench covered the white walls fading to dismal yellow. A pair of gloves and soiled work boots had been kicked into the corner.

  Gibson pulled the plush chair toward the desk and sat down. He shifted the keyboard to the side and placed his notepad and pen in its place. He adjusted the lumbar setting to a comfy position, wiggling into its softness, and leaned back into the silky-smooth material. An abrupt noise startled him, and he glanced up to discover Nick standing in the open doorway, a bashful grin on his face. With a wave of his hand he indicated for him to sit. Just as Nick perched on the closest seat, a rumble echoed from the hallway, and Katherine came storming into the office. Like the telltale ripples of water revealing where the wind was whistling and where rocks were concealed below the surface, Gibson recognized the signs confronting him now. The perspiration collected above her lip, a glisten on her forehead and the haunted unfocused stare forward were all classic signs and present. She was in a full-blown panic attack. Her eyes were puffy, and tear stains and black mascara had left trails down her flushed cheeks. He could barely hear her flat breathing even in the stillness of the room. She held her shaking hands into a death clutch, unable to control her fear.

  “Sit tight. Be right back,” Gibson said to Nick as he flew out of his chair. He shifted from behind the desk and approached his wife. He planted his hand lightly on her arm and steered her into the corridor, shutting the door behind them.

  “What’s going on? Did you drive here in that state?” he asked softly. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ was really what he wanted to say.

  “State...my state is agitated, not incompetent.” She sobbed. “I need you to be there. It’s urgent.” She leaned into the wall as her limbs wobbled, overwhelmed with dread. She brushed away the dampness from her brow as another wave of doom made her tremble hysterically.

  “Katherine, I would rather have lunch with you, but I can’t. Not right now. You know that.” He wanted to reach out and comfort her. Instead, he raised his palms upwards in defeat. She pleaded with her eyes, swiping at the mess on her satin skin with the back of her hands. The soulful chestnut eyes tipped the scale for him so he placed his arms around her shoulders and drew her in tight. “It’ll be fine.”

  He rubbed her back with consoling strokes.

  “But the anniversary is today,” Katherine said, tugging away from him.

  “We’ll meet up later. Get Heather and Andrew to come over tonight.” Gibson paused. “We’ll honour your sister tonight. Promise.”

  A tiny flicker of light showed itself in her eyes. He dared a smile, just a small one that wouldn’t set her off again. He knew how to calm Katherine during one of her attacks—attacks that arose because of her abusive and bullying ex-husband. Maiming or killing the bastard would satisfy him but being her rock was more important. He burned with rage just thinking about the guy.

  Her laboured breathing slowed, almost imperceptible. He soothed her further with his chatter. There was nothing else he could do. At least the noise caused her to concentrate on him and not on her overwhelming apprehension, so he talked.

  “A worker was struck early this morning and didn’t survive,” Gibson said, giving his wife the watered-down version of the savage crime.

  Her eyebrows shot up with sympathy.

  “I need to talk to everyone while things are fresh in their minds.”

  She listened keenly, a slight tilt to her head.

  He carried on. “Scottie and I will question the workers to see what they know. Na and Gunner are looking for witnesses. Anything suspicious or strange vehicles.” Gibson quit speaking and settled his hand under her chin, raising her face to his.

  “Long day for you,” Katherine said and smiled meekly. “I shouldn’t—”

  He stopped her by placing his mouth on her swollen lips. She leaned into his sturdy body. A door banged open. They ripped apart. He sensed Nick’s baby blues staring at their embrace.

  “I’ll be right with you,” Gibson said, a blush searing through his cheeks.

  “Love you,” Katherine whispered as she drew away. “See you later then.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. She was learning to cope with what can be a debilitating event. He was glad she trusted him—that he would be there for her always. Although Gibson had demons he grappled with—didn’t we all—he put Katherine’s struggles first. He heard the soft footfalls as she tiptoed down the stairs. He returned to the office and flung himself into the snug chair. Time to launch the interrogation.

  Chapter 6

  Scottie propped open the door leading to the outside staircase. She snagged a bench, dragging the twenty-two kilo weight to the opening—no sweat. With a small pad in her lap, she was ready to record all the gossiping, the scoffing and the looks. But before undertaking anything, she needed the essentials. She had jotted down Nick’s name, address and contact numbers, then told him to head on upstairs. At the exit Nick turned and gave Tim a knowing glance and flipped a salute, suggesting, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.’

  ‘You better not.’ Tim’s glare back was palpable. A chaotic echo drummed down to the garage as Nick stumbled on the stairs—once, twice. The crew laughed at his clumsiness.

  Scottie was pretty sure those two would lie for each other, especially after watching that little scene between them. Nick had been glued to Tim like honey to a bear. The alpha to the zeta—a common thread in a bully relationship. Tim required a gallery, and Nick needed to feel important because of his vulnerabilities—whatever they were.

  Back to the
task at hand, Scottie called each crew member separately to obtain their information. They were averse to comply. She had to yank every syllable out of them. Because she was a woman? Possibly? Maybe they were just assholes. She hummed softly, covering her mouth to hide the smirk. She wasn’t sure why she did that. They couldn’t read her mind.

  “Yeah, your cell phone number too.”

  Tim protested. He stamped his feet and strutted in circles because there was so little space to move. She was undeterred by the men’s antics, determining they were testing. Yes, they were definitely assholes. Finally, she had everything recorded in her trusty notebook. She leaned back in her chair, long legs kicked out in front. With a pencil at the ready, she took an all-encompassing glance over the area. Equipment and tools covered every square inch of the cement floor. They had nailed a long 2x4 timber at shoulder height at the rear. A collection of snow shovels and brooms hung on wooden spikes hammered into the wood. There was a ledge above the board packed with different gear. Some of the stuff was foreign to her. A row of metal pegs was screwed into the plasterboard along the last stretch of wall. Down-filled parkas, padded leggings and coveralls were hung carelessly.

  The men had spread themselves on the floor or leaned on machinery. Scottie sketched the layout, marking each guy’s position on her drawing. She thought this info might come in handy later, perhaps show alliances. She listened to their chatter. No eye contact, no comment. The animosity stunk like a pair of dirty socks. It bounced around the room touching each of them. She tried to make herself invisible to them, but her persona screamed cop. No getting away from it. The men were restless. She watched, wondering if one of them was the killer.

  Tim entertained his gallery. He taunted and snorted vociferously, rubbed himself and made obscene gestures. Watching him reminded Scottie of a rooster crowing on top of a chicken coop. A bright red comb crowned the rooster’s head announcing his virility. Tim didn’t hide behind whispers like the rest of the crew, fearful of the bullying. He was the bully. He spoke loud and salaciously, always nabbing the spotlight.

  “Yeah, but those tits. What a lovely sight.” Tim cupped both hands, spit spewing from his lips. He glanced around to make sure everybody was watching.

  Scottie peered at her notebook.

  “Hey, AJ.” He prodded at his buddy. “I didn’t see your wife last night.” Another snigger escaped his abusive lips. Tim’s insults had no bounds.

  “No. She wasn’t there.”

  “Why’s that?” He glared at AJ.

  “We’re splitting up. I went to the party alone.”

  “Find some young thing to occupy your time? You, old goat.”

  AJ laughed. It was better to let Tim mouth off. The alternative could be worse.

  Scottie kept her head lowered, but she didn’t miss a thing. David had isolated himself from the others. He had been leaning on the Zamboni earlier but had slithered down onto the hard floor. He hunched over his cell, fingers working the keyboard. His blonde hair swept forward, shielding him from the banter. Once in a while, he glanced up at the expletives that spewed from Tim’s mouth. In the far corner, Jason whispered to the supervisor from the maintenance building. She glimpsed at her notebook. The pudgy man was Tony. Both of them had angry eyebrows and mouths that twitched. Were they scheming? Getting their stories straight? Scottie thrust the door open wider to let the reek disperse.

  * * *

  Nick perched on the edge of his chair, a leg crossed over at the knee. One hand rested on his thigh supporting the elbow of his other arm. He stared at a torn seam on his chair.

  “Well, Nick Jones. Let’s start with last night.”

  “What? Last night?” A wariness stirred behind his baby blues.

  “You let me worry about that. Were you at the party?”

  “How do you know about the party?” Nick worked the tear with his finger.

  “Well. Yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know any of the faculty members that were there?”

  “No.”

  Gibson grew quiet, his eyes down on the desk in front of him. He was sure Andrew had been talking to Nick. Maybe not. He would ask his brother-in-law later.

  Nick uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, sliding even closer to the edge of his chair. Soon he would slip right off.

  “Does the crew hang out after work?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “What kind of stuff are you into?”

  “Biking.”

  “Did Robbie go as well?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Nick bounced in his seat, wanting to break free. He squirmed at the next question.

  “Tell me, Nick, why were you surprised when you saw the condom?” He pressed on quickly. “Do you know something?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “So the condom didn’t mean anything to you?”

  “That’s crazy.” Two bright spots appeared on his cheeks.

  Gibson didn’t buy it. He thought Nick was holding back. So he leaned forward, pushing his face into Nick’s personal space.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “I don’t know anything.” Nick pressed his lips together.

  To keep the secrets from spilling out, Gibson thought. He shuffled the pencil box on the desk, straightened his notebook and pulled back.

  “What about baseball? Do you play?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody at work play?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “What time do you leave for work?”

  “Sixty-thirty.”

  “Do you stop anywhere before you get here?”

  “What do you mean?” Nick asked.

  “For a coffee or anything?”

  “No. I come straight to work.”

  “Check in with Scottie before you leave.” He leaned back further into his chair and crossed his arms.

  Nick shot up and left the stuffy room behind.

  Gibson heard heavy footfalls as Nick ran down the stairs. His stomach rumbled. He picked up his cell and sent a text. Then he got up to stretch, opened a window and waited to see who Scottie would send up next. The rain had started with a light shower, but the clouds to the south were gathering steam. The university buildings and sports arena across the sodden lawns shimmered through the blanket of drizzle, but he knew that soon a heavy downpour would obscure the view.

  * * *

  “We need coffee,” AJ said. Long hours sitting on cold concrete had frozen his butt. He rubbed vigorously at the muscles to bring them back to life. Fatigue was setting in. He looked haggard, his lips skinny as he gnawed on his cheeks. Almost all the crew were lounging on the floor, restless, tired and hungry.

  “And our lunches,” Tim shouted.

  A thundering sounded as someone came bounding down the stairs. Nick swung around the corner, gasping to catch his breath. It was more from fear than exertion.

  “I’m supposed to check in with you.”

  “You’re free to go,” Scottie said.

  “Talk to you later,” Tim yelled.

  Nick dashed out the door as quickly as his steel-toes boots would let him, tripping on the metal sill. The garage resonated with a laughter comparable to the heavy braying of a donkey.

  “What’s the hurry, asshole?” Tim hurled the slur and a finger at the fleeing figure.

  “You’re up next, David,” Scottie said.

  He was immersed in his phone and didn’t hear the detective.

  “David.”

  “What?” He looked up and brushed a strand of hair behind his ear.

  “You can go upstairs now.”

  “Oh, okay.” He stuck the phone in his backpack and skipped out.

  Scottie waited for a derogatory remark from Tim.

  “Well. What about the food?” Tim asked instead of his usual slander.

  “Okay. One at a time.”

  She looked at her cell when it chirped. ‘Need refreshments.’

  ‘Will order sandwi
ches and coffee.’ She texted back.

  “My lunch is in the other building,” AJ said.

  “Go ahead. Just come right back.” She didn’t want anyone sneaking off.

  “What about coffee?” One of the men asked.

  “Could you do that, Jason?”

  He gave a sneer and stormed out. The stairs rumbled from the force of his boots as he hopped up them two at a time. Scottie stuck her head outside the garage doors, hoping to spot an officer nearby. Luck was with her.

  “Could you do me a favour?”

  “You bet,” Eddy Evans said, a pleasant smile crossing his square face.

  Chapter 7

  Katherine sat in her vehicle for a few minutes, feeling intoxicated by Gibson’s strength. She plopped her head on the back of the seat and bundled her arms around her body, inhaling the smell of his soap, spicy and exotic. The heady scent lingered on her clothing. She closed her eyes and touched her lips, bruised from the passion. A flush warmed her cheeks. Sensing someone was watching, she sat up straight, started the SUV and backed out onto the street. The traffic had thinned from the initial morning rush so she drove the highway at a brisk clip. She took the last off-ramp that bypassed Brentwood Bay proper, missing the bottleneck of the village centre, and shortly pulled into her driveway.

  The tune playing on the radio was a favourite so she waited for the song to finish before switching off the engine. She remained subdued, staring off at nothing. Her hands were half-curled into fists. Taking in a quick breath and blowing out slowly was a yoga technique she used more frequently these days. She reached over to the passenger side, snatched her handbag and exited the vehicle. She lumbered down the walkway and unlocked the front door to an empty house. Not totally empty. The trilling of the zebra finches sounded like breakers crashing on a rocky shoreline. She crossed to the living room and the metallic trumpeting song ballooned to a crescendo. She squatted next to the silver-barred cage and whistled an engaging chorus, puckering her mouth and letting the air pass over her tongue. In response, the birds tweeted one more round of their hymn. She placed her coat and handbag on the couch and drifted through to the kitchen.