"I decided William Thompson was guilty the minute I saw the girl, the way she was desecrated, in his studio. The way the monster used his talent to debase her body, and hell, to contaminate art while he was at it. Thompson always had an air of entitlement. Like he deserved everything he ever got. Gorgeous wife, huge talent, lots of money…"
Montgomery couldn't help but interrupt.
"But they didn't have any money at all."
Charlie smiled thinly.
"Oh, but you could tell they would. He might have been on the bottom rung, but he was climbing up that ladder as fast as he could. He and his wife were willing to sacrifice in order to get there. Unlike the choices I made. I chose safety and stability in exchange for my art."
Lots of people did that, Montgomery thought angrily, but they didn't go around laying judgments on everyone else. He held his tongue, though, because he sensed this time, he was getting the truth, as harsh or self-incriminating as it may be.
As though reading his mind, Charlie continued, "That was my underlying bitterness, my Achilles heal. I hated the police force. I hated most of the people I had to deal with. I thought they were pathetic losers."
He waved his hand around the room, acknowledging both the power and the irony of his art.
"Now I draw them and give most of the proceeds to charity. My whole retirement has been an apology."
Charlie gave a rueful snigger and sipped on the coffee.
"I don't mean to sound as though my life was ruined or I have been unhappy. Far from it. I have been exceptionally fortunate, both in love and careers. I performed police work with the fierce belief I was enforcing what was right. Though I didn't much like it, I did the job well. Plus I had friends, socialized, even had fun sometimes and that got me through."
"When I was assigned to the better parts of Vancouver, especially Granville Island, I was almost happy in the situation. Then along came Linda Courtnell. There was something about the Thompson case that awakened all the dormant bitterness, all the regret, the anger. I can't fully explain it. But I have spent a lot of years thinking about it and, in my own way, trying to make up for it."
"You paid for Shirley Johnson's rehab, didn't you?"
Charlie gazed into Montgomery's fierce brown eyes.
"You are just like me," he said.
When the PI couldn't erase the flash of anger, Charlie laughed heartily.
"I don't mean in the bad ways, Montgomery Cardwell. I mean in the intuitive, deductive way your mind works. If I hadn't allowed regret to poison me, I probably would have excelled as a police officer, instead of just been mediocre."
Charlie paused for a moment. "Yes, I paid for Shirley Johnson's rehab, sort of. I made up the difference between what the government would give and the cost of a good institution. Ironically, she made such great progress she pretty much outed me. When she was finally off the pills, she could think straight and she recanted her testimony. She realized she had been duped into telling a specific story in exchange for booze and drugs."
Montgomery put up his hand to stop the man.
"Charlie…you are aware I will have to pass this information on to the Court?"
The old man nodded his head slowly.
"I'm very well aware, Mr. Cardwell. I am long overdue in the telling. But don't for a minute think I am being heroic. I've considered confessing my sins for a long time, especially since my doctor told me I am dying."
He coughed. "I am eighty, which might seem old to you, but I have developed lymphoma and the prognosis isn't good. So I shall die a lot sooner than I planned. When I heard the Thompsons were back and had decided to go ahead with their appeal to the Minister, I knew what I had to do. I don't want to die with Thompson on my conscience. I realize I may be charged with obstruction of justice, or even worse."
He paused again, gathering his breath. "I am prepared to come forward officially, even if it means a huge disappointment for my wife and daughters, my friends. I can only beg for their forgiveness."
Montgomery's suspicion began to subside a little. No wonder Haynes had rehearsed every word. He was changing the course of his life with this speech.
"I hope we can come to an agreement on something, Montgomery Cardwell. All I will require is your handshake. It's this. After you hear everything, if you don't think my story will prove William Thompson's innocence, you will agree not to use it. I can guarantee I will confirm a lot of hunches and accusations about the incompetent way we handled the case. The Supreme Court has already acknowledged that, however."
Charlie sighed. "I can also guarantee I will be revealing quite a lot of new information. Obviously, I must leave it to you to put the pieces together. I have personally become convinced Bill Thompson is not the murderer. But you might find there isn't enough concrete proof in what I am going to tell you. In that case, I am asking, please don't destroy my family for nothing."
Montgomery looked thoughtfully at the old man over his coffee cup. Then he stood up and shook Charlie's hand.
"I promise you, sir, I will take your information, follow the leads you give me and put the pieces together. If I don't need to bring you into the case in order to prove my client's innocence, I won't."
He looked deeply into the older man's worried blue eyes.
"But I also must warn you, Mr. Haynes, I will prove my client's innocence. I will win a declaration to that effect from the Minister of Justice. And if I need to use your testimony, I will use it. Even if it means destroying your family's good name."
Charlie stared back, his eyes once again sharp and clear.
"I destroyed my family's name some time ago, Mr. Cardwell. They just don't know it. Of course, I am hoping they never will."
As the PI sat down again, Charlie asked, "Are you going to take notes?"
For an answer, Montgomery pulled out a small voice recorder and pressed the button.
Chapter 18
September 1980
Blood oozed from the wound. Plop, plop, plop, on the wooden floor, louder and louder, each drop an explosion in the silent room. The girl was slumped over a ladder on one side, while the man hammered the nail into her wrist on the other.
When the camera operator entered the room, they both looked around at him, but their faces did not register surprise. Instead they smiled, hers a bloodless grin, his a wide-mouthed welcome.
"Glad you showed up, Constable," he said pleasantly. "You can help me get this bitch up on the wall. She's a lot heavier than you might think."
The camera edged toward the two people, following closely as someone else began to lift up her lifeless white arm on the other side.
The dead girl turned her head toward him, her face morphing into an old, brown, toothless crone whose breath spewed the stink of stale beer into his face.
He howled, but his cry was muted. Heat surged into his face. His heart pounded with fury.
The old woman fell to the ground at his feet, laughing, a deep guttural sound, and he began to kick at her face. Blood spurted up from the crevices as her head caved in. A gelatinous mass began to gush toward his feet. He kept kicking, up and down, furiously.
"Charlie, Charlie, wake up."
Joan's voice was frantic and pissed off at the same time.
"You're kicking me for Christ's sake."
Joan never swore, so the epithet startled him awake more than anything else. She was leaning over him in the semidarkness of their bedroom, her face shadowed and frowning.
"You were dreaming and you started kicking your legs up and down. You even hit me a couple of times. What the heck were you dreaming?"
Charlie struggled to a sitting position, sweat at his temples and his upper lip. Suddenly he had to pee.
"I can't really remember," he lied, trying to sound stupefied. "I'm so sorry, Joan. I have to go to the bathroom."
"Maybe you should sleep in the spare room tonight," she groused at him, settling down under the blankets once more.
Charlie straightened his side of the bed
and went to sit on the toilet. A full moon shone through the bevelled glass and lit up his hairy belly. He felt as though he were just recovering from a long illness, shaky and disoriented. A cloud of anger and frustration moved over him.
"Bloody hell," he murmured, standing to flush the toilet and wash his hands.
He returned to the bedroom, grabbed his robe, and listened to Joan's soft snoring for a moment. Then he went downstairs to the sunroom. He poured a healthy shot of Irish whiskey into a mug and settled in his favourite chair.
This case was giving him the nastiest nightmares he'd ever experienced. He wasn't sure why. He'd certainly handled worse killings on the Hastings beat. Charlie didn't bother to psychoanalyze himself. He just wanted to solve the case.
He knew the identity of the murderer, but proving it was not going to be easy. With little forensic evidence and a lot of circumstantial, with witnesses who were not very reliable, the situation was not looking good.
Ronald Stevens had turned out to be an exception.
The man showed up at headquarters the day after the plea went out via the media for any relevant information. Although Tom suggested Stevens was only interested in a reward—of which there was none at the time—Charlie thought his motive was more complicated than that.
"I saw Professor Thompson, the owner of that studio, on the night of the Courtnell girl's murder," he announced to the two police officers, sitting upright on the stiff chair in the interview room. "In the studio."
Charlie applied the gentle mode.
"It's great you have come forward, Mr. Stevens. Not many people like to get involved in these things, so we admire your courage."
"Of course, of course. I want to be a good citizen."
Tall, skeletally thin and balding, his face a light shade of red from either blushing or recent sun contact, Ronald Stevens looked like a pink crane. He nodded his head up and down as he spoke as though pecking at the words. His voice was high-pitched, singsong.
"I hope you don't mind if we tape this conversation," Tom said politely, gesturing toward the recorder on the table. When the man said he didn't mind, Tom pressed the button and continued.
"Please state your name and address for the record."
Stevens did so, his voice taking on a pompous quality.
"Where do you work, Mr. Stevens?" Tom asked.
"At Micon Industries on Granville Island," he answered, obviously fully aware this was an important fact.
"Right near the scene of the crime," he added, just in case the police officers missed the point. "Every Monday to Thursday night I pass that studio where the murder happened. The walkway to the bus stop goes that way. I work the noon to 10 p.m. shift four days a week, then I have three off."
"Can you please tell us what you meant when you stated you specifically saw the studio owner on the night of the murder? Take us through your movements step by step, please."
Stevens blossomed at the use of television cop speak from Detective Fairburn. His words began to flow quickly.
"I was walking past the studio as usual and I saw him—Professor Thompson—standing in the window. He was just staring out. I've met the professor before, so I knew right away who it was. Then when I heard about the murder, I figured I'd better come and tell you."
He cleared his throat. "Have they got a reward posted yet?"
Tom's eyes narrowed, sent a message of 'I told you so.'
"Not yet," he said vaguely. "But you never know."
"Well, if there ever is one, you know, I wouldn't take it all myself, I mean I would give some to the art school maybe or…"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Charlie interrupted, still gentle but adamant.
"Are you certain you saw the owner at the window on that particular night? You said you pass that studio after work every night, right? How do you know you didn't see Professor Thompson on some other night?"
Continuing to nod, Stevens answered, "I do pass that way regularly, but I know I saw him on the night of the murder because I had attended a lecture of his that very morning. Just out of interest, you know? I'm an artist."
If he'd had feathers, Charlie thought, Ronald Stevens would have preened.
"That's why I looked up at the studio. I'd just seen him that morning. So I know the exact date and I know the guy."
Charlie felt a pulse of excitement. "So you would easily have recognized Mr. Thompson?"
"Yes, absolutely. I know Professor Thompson quite well. I went to the lecture because I wanted to see what he had to offer art students."
"And were you impressed, Mr. Stevens?" Tom asked.
After a slight hesitation, the man said smoothly, "Oh yes, really impressed. He's a very talented man."
"Describe exactly what you saw in the window of the studio," Charlie prompted.
"Professor Thompson was standing staring out at the night. Or the creek or whatever. Just standing there. I watched as I walked along, past the market building, and he never moved. I waved, but I guess he couldn't see me. I was in the dark."
"Was there a light on inside the studio?"
"Yes, but not much. It looked like a lamp was on or one of the banks of lights or something. Not the whole set."
Charlie wondered, "How do you know so much about the lighting in the studio?"
"Oh I don't, really. But some nights the place is lit up like a movie shoot and sometimes there's just a desk lamp or something. And sometimes it looks like half the room is lit, as though there are rows of lights. You know what I mean—the kind of switch where you can light up half—"
"Yes, of course, I know what you mean," Charlie said, afraid he'd get sidetracked on a discourse about electricity. "You did tell us you walk that pathway every night, so I guess you'd be quite familiar with what the studio looks like under various kinds of lighting."
"Exactly." As proud as if he'd found the murder weapon. "I've also been in there."
"Inside the studio?"
"Yes. I'm something of an art aficionado in addition to being an artist myself. I've entered contests and such, plus I bought one of the Professor's paintings for my wife. I'm sure that—"
Charlie cut him off, irritated. Everyone thinks they're an artist.
"Well, that isn't really relevant to this case, Mr. Stevens. Let's move on to something that is crucial. I want you to think about this very carefully. What exact time did you see the Professor in the window?"
He waited a beat, then added, "You see, Ms. Courtnell was murdered around nine at night. So if it was earlier…"
Charlie let the sentence dangle, ignoring Tom's quizzical look.
"It was precisely 10:15 p.m.," Ronald Stevens answered primly.
"And how do you know that?"
"Because I finished work and I have to catch my bus at 10:30. And I do tend to dawdle. I like the sights and sounds of the island. It's the subject of a lot of my paintings."
"But you said it was exactly 10:15 when you looked up at the window," Charlie prodded. "How can you be so precise?"
Ronald raised a thin, steady arm, pushing his sleeve back to reveal an enormous watch almost hidden in the mass of black hair on his wrist.
"I look at my watch every five minutes, until I get on the bus. It keeps me moving."
Charlie smiled. "You like to be precise."
"Oh, my wife doesn't like to be kept waiting," Ronald Stevens said gravely.
"So you look at your watch every five minutes. And you are sure you looked at your watch that night at exactly 10:15."
"Absolutely sure."
"Is there anything that caught your attention at that exact moment? Maybe you looked up at the windows, a little startled to see Professor Thompson, then you looked down at your watch right away? Sort of by habit, but prompted by seeing him in the window?"
"Exactly. That's exactly what happened. I was very surprised to see him standing right there at the window. Then he suddenly closed the drapes. And I was surprised again and that made me look down at my watch. Which is
what I do often. Look down at my watch, I mean. So I don't miss the bus."
"Well, Mr. Stevens, I'm giving you this paper to write up your statement and our secretary will type it up for you to sign. Is that okay?" Tom asked somewhat rhetorically.
Stevens nodded enthusiastically.
"It'll only take a few minutes. Would you be willing to testify in court if it comes to that?"
"Oh, absolutely. My wife told me I would probably have to and I'm fine with that. I saw what I saw. And if a reward comes up, I'm sure you'll let me know."
"We certainly will, Mr. Stevens. Now, can I get you a coffee or a tea while you're waiting?"
"That would be great. Tea, please, with milk only. And if you happen to have some cookies, I'm a bit peckish."
"We're not saying Professor Thompson is guilty of anything, though, Mr. Stevens. You realize that, right? You won't spread any of this around but keep it confidential unless you are asked to testify in a court of law. Right?" Tom asked.
"Oh of course, of course."
Ronald Stevens crossed his legs, picked up the pen Charlie handed to him, and primly began to write.
The Constable went into the squad room and began to fill a mug with thick black tea. Tom followed.
"Lead much, Charlie?" the Detective hissed in his ear.
Charlie almost dropped the milk container. He gave as nonchalant a shrug as he could manage.
"He saw what he saw, Tom," he said, giving his friend a wide grin.
Tom's eyes narrowed as he stared for a moment into Charlie's.
"I'm not sure I like the way this case is going. First you talk Ted into the time of death, now you shamelessly lead this idiot. I dunno, Charlie. Are you that sure?"
Charlie turned to face his friend. "Tom, I am so sure of this case I would do anything to convict that son of a bitch."
His eyes were blazing, his face set and confident.
"Anything, you get it? You know my track record better than anyone. I've never been as certain as this. And I've never convicted anyone who didn't deserve it."
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 81
