The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  That you know of, Tom felt like saying, but he simply gazed back at Charlie for a few long moments. Finally, he made a decision.

  "Okay, buddy, I trust your instincts. Let's go for it."

  And with those words, Tom began to aid and abet his constable, his friend, his hero, with every ounce of exploitation and righteousness he could muster.

  Chapter 19

  March 2009

  "Tom was doing it for me," Charlie told Montgomery Caldwell. "I talked him into it. For a very long time, I was absolutely certain we had our man. I'd watched Thompson for a long time, saw how he dealt with people, especially other artists. I thought he was a cruel, manipulative individual."

  "I deliberately convinced Dr. Sato to narrow the time frame for the murder so it fit William Thompson perfectly. I never mentioned the tattoo needle and neither did Tom or Ted, especially since we'd discovered absolutely no connection between tattoos and the professor. In those days, the rules about sharing evidence with the defence were very loose. If they didn't ask, you didn't tell. Can't be done nowadays."

  "Nowadays we have to catch the culprits with proof," Monty said.

  Charlie laughed in response and immediately began to cough loudly. Montgomery leapt to his feet but stood there helplessly as Charlie's face reddened and the coughing became a silent wheeze.

  Joan reentered the room, ministering to her husband with quick, practiced strokes. As soon as he could speak, Charlie gently waved her away.

  "My heart isn't pumping very well," he told Monty. "So I lose my breath a lot. Joan knows how to massage me back to life, eh, honey? Okay, okay, woman, I'm fine now."

  Joan, her thin face etched with worry, gave Montgomery an accusatory glance.

  "It's all right. He promises not to make me laugh again," Charlie said.

  "Don't keep him long," Joan said, peering up at Monty with such ferocity from her tiny frame that he almost stepped back.

  "Stop worrying, Joan," her husband interjected. "We'll take as long as we need."

  Charlie accepted another coffee from Montgomery, who had wordlessly filled their cups and plates.

  "I never involved my family in the police work," Charlie explained. "Just let me know in plenty of time if you have to make all of this public."

  He shrugged philosophically and continued his tale. "There was only one other person who could back up what Ronald Stevens claimed about seeing Thompson on the premises. Shirley Johnson was practically a resident of the old factory. But she wouldn't make a good witness, so I decided to clean her up. It wasn't that different from what a lot of prosecutors did in those days. They still do, actually—clean up your client, your defendant, your witness—make them look less sleazy, dress them up in the clothes of the innocent."

  "But why did you feel so guilty that you paid for her rehab?" Montgomery inquired.

  Charlie looked up at him, his eyes filming over. Illness? Tears of regret? Monty refused to give him a break by averting his gaze.

  "I found her huddled under a blanket behind the stairwell in the market building," Charlie began, ignoring the question. "She was next to her rusted-out grocery cart as usual. I pretended I was just doing a routine search of the whole building. Nothing out of the ordinary. I had seen Shirley there many times before. Any of us who regularly visited the island knew Shirley."

  The old man went swirling back in time, picturing the young single-minded man he used to be, before time made him question his motives and actions.

  Her brown face was a mass of folds, like a withered old teddy bear whose fur had been stroked by too many hands. Her hair was still jet black and fell in twisted, filthy ringlets. She smelled so bad the odour propelled people away from her involuntarily, even the do-gooders. She wandered all over the island, sometimes pushing her cart, other times with an old backpack or a ripped shopping bag, always talking to herself. She picked up rocks, garbage, fallen flowers or nuts, even dead birds. Her hands skipped through the air with palsy as though she played an invisible keyboard.

  When he found her under the filthy blankets, he tried to bring her to consciousness, but she was limp and unresponsive. He kicked her viciously, rolled her over and shoved her upright against the wall. She looked up at him, her eyes a deep sun-speckled brown, clouded by grief and distress. He immediately felt ashamed.

  A discreet ahem from Montgomery brought Charlie back from the reverie.

  "The shop owners gave her stuff—coffee, sandwiches—and the rest of us gave her gift certificates to get the coffee or sandwiches. Some people gave her money, but she just spent it on booze, so we encouraged the certificates instead."

  "She went around the island begging?"

  "Actually, no. She never begged. That was the funny thing. Shirley didn't seem to care if she ate or drank, even. She was always searching."

  "Searching?"

  "Yah. She would ask people if they'd seen her husband and her kids."

  "Right. Bill Thompson mentioned something about Shirley's loss of her husband and kids in an accident."

  Charlie nodded. "The professor was one of the most generous toward Shirley, I have to admit. I saw them interact on numerous occasions. The old factory was one of her favourite hiding spots, even as they started to renovate it into the Market Place. Shirley hid behind various pillars and later, when the renovations began, she'd tuck in beside the machines or the concrete they'd unearthed. She watched for Thompson. On my night patrols, she'd be there at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him. He'd listen to her, and even more, she listened to him."

  Charlie hesitated, as though embarrassed to continue.

  "I decided almost immediately she would have seen the professor that night. She just wasn't aware of times and dates. In my mind, her not knowing didn't mean it wasn't true. I got Chief Webster's permission to pursue her testimony by whatever means. When I first put her in the rehab, my intent was only to clean her up. Get her in shape for the court. Then I would let her back out onto the street if that's what she wanted."

  Charlie held his hand up, as though to shield himself from Monty's disgust.

  "I know, I know. It was despicable. I want you to understand just how far we were prepared to go to convict Bill Thompson. As far as the entire department was concerned, including Chief Webster, Thompson was a monster."

  "Anyway, the strategy worked. Shirley got cleaned up and she testified. She did a damn good job of it too. She was off the booze fairly quickly, though it took a long time before she could function without being zoned out on various meds. When she testified, she was completely dependent upon me and still only half aware. All I needed to do was make a few suggestions."

  "The prosecutor used her well too. He told me to release her, but she wanted to stay in the rehab centre. She loved it there and by then they loved her too. So I made sure she was able to stay by topping up what her welfare payments covered. I'd spent many hours with her at that point. I never stopped going to see her. Even after she recanted. Even after she left the rehab. I think I was a little in love with Shirley Johnson."

  This time, the memory was one that Charlie relished, clung to in fact, as though he'd visited a confessional and was forgiven.

  He lumbered along the polished tile in the hallway, feeling awkward and big, an overweight puppy far too eager for her attention. A hulk of masculinity in a sea of females. Sunlight glittered through the stained glass, throwing a patchwork of colour over the floor. He thought of it as art.

  Shirley smiled at him from the chair by the window, her teeth still grey and jagged, but her face alight with health. Her hair was no longer visible, hidden by the old-fashioned garb she insisted upon wearing, but he pictured the thick, black strands as they used to be, long and wavy over her shoulders. Her eyes, as always, were captivating, but even more so now there were no clouds. She reached out her hand and grasped his firmly, her papery soft skin a gift of silk.

  "Probably no one else knew Shirley was a well-respected nurse before she became mentally ill," he cont
inued, aware that the other man was cognizant of his traipses back in time. "She and her family had lived in Kamloops. Shirley won a few awards as nurse of the year and that sort of thing. She was brilliant and caring and kind. When her husband and two boys were killed in a car accident, she could not forgive herself for surviving."

  "Was she in the car with them?"

  They were straying a little off course, but Montgomery was curious.

  "Worse than that. She was driving. It was raining hard and it was dark. Her husband and the boys had fallen asleep. The road was one of those winding mountain trails and there'd been a rockslide. She swerved around the rocks and went over the side. Shirley was thrown free, landed on a clump of bushes that cushioned her fall, but her kids and Larry were trapped in the car. She tried to pull them out, but she couldn't. By the time she scrambled up the hill and flagged down a passerby, by the time the emergency crews finally got there, all three of them were dead."

  Charlie shook his head. "Here she was, a nurse who'd saved many strangers' lives, and she had been unable to save her own babies and the man she loved. Shirley could not come to terms with that. She'd injured her back, was given pain pills, and over time, graduated from those to booze and illegal drugs. Somehow she drifted onto Granville Island and was lost in her own mind for years."

  "You saved her," Montgomery observed.

  "Yes, but almost at the cost of her dignity. When her mind cleared, Shirley realized her testimony was a lie."

  Charlie was silent for a moment.

  "It was Simon Callas who prodded her memory and got her to see she couldn't possibly have known the day or the time or even whether or not the man she saw coming down the stairs was Bill Thompson. But she never blamed me. She blamed the pills and the booze and the mental illness. And, God help me, I never corrected her."

  "What happened to Shirley?"

  Charlie smiled. "That's the one good thing that came out of all this. She became a nun, believe it or not. I visited her often in the convent too. Then suddenly she went off to India to work with the Missionaries of Charity. Shirley gave a lot to people and she wouldn't have accomplished that if she'd stayed on Granville Island. I have to say, her transformation did make me feel better about my actions for a time."

  He fell silent, then added, "She died in Calcutta in 2000."

  Montgomery sat for a few moments in thought, basking in the sunlight streaming through the large windows. It was a comfortable room, an artistic place, almost as though the old man's creativity permeated the chairs and carpet.

  In spite of the fact Charles Haynes had committed some very grave errors, Montgomery felt somehow that the sin against Shirley Johnson, at least, had been atoned for.

  Many law enforcement officials had made the same kinds of mistakes. Rushing to judgment, conducting an investigation that made the facts fit the theory. Just because others had done it, didn't mean Charlie got a pass.

  But Monty thought of Shirley Johnson, of the paintings in this room, of the charities that had benefited, and somehow his animosity toward Haynes abated. Not complete forgiveness, perhaps, but a definite softening of Montgomery's assessment of this man.

  The PI spoke into the silence.

  "Ronald Stevens will not recant his testimony. Even when Simon Callas pointed out the near impossibility of his claim by demonstrating how a person would look as they stood inside the lit studio. There were—and still are—a lot of streetlamps along the pathway, which cast quite a bit of light. Not only that, the studio was on the second floor. The figure in the window would have had to be pressing his face against the pane in order to be seen clearly. Why on earth would someone who'd just murdered, raped and mutilated a young girl have his face pressed against the window? I'm sure you know all of this, Charlie."

  "I do. Stevens claimed he was standing far enough back from the pathway to see straight up to the second storey and that the streetlamps were not always lit. If Simon Callas couldn't shake him, no one will."

  At that moment, a dark cloud passed over the sun and Montgomery shivered. He felt an unexpected premonition of disaster and turned off the voice recorder. Despite Charlie's regurgitation of his sins, the case was still not completely solid.

  The Supreme Court had already reviewed Shirley Johnson's revised testimony.

  The original jury had heard about the tiny spot of semen that could not possibly have been left by William Thompson, because the owner of that fluid was a non-secretor. In fact, most males are secretors. Bill was one of that majority, while whoever had left his semen was not. Compelling evidence that ought to have exonerated the accused.

  Somehow, the jury was persuaded that the young victim could have had sex with someone else before she came to the studio. Linda Courtnell was supposed to be having an affair with Thompson, plus she had a nice, clean-cut boyfriend who admitted they were intimate. He, too, was among the majority secretors.

  Ludicrously, the jury bought the premise that Linda first had sex with an unknown man, then went out to whoop it up with her boyfriend, and finally, decided to drop in to see if the Professor was in the mood.

  Linda Courtnell, a motivated, gifted artist whose focus appeared to be solely on her burgeoning career, was portrayed as a wild party girl. How had Bill's defence attorney not been able to demolish that scenario?

  By the time Simon Callas presented the case before the Supreme Court in 1999, the semen sample was gone. Once a verdict was entered, and an appeal denied, keeping the evidence was not a requirement in 1980. Simon had been nearly apoplectic when he considered what DNA testing could have done for his client.

  The judges did, however, agree the odds were against William Thompson being the rapist, and therefore, the murderer.

  Wendy Collins and Frank Jeffries eventually admitted their testimony was based on rumours. Linda had never told anyone that she was having an affair. By all accounts, Emily and Bill were in love and happily married.

  Elaine Martin's testimony was dismissed as hearsay, as were the accounts of Linda's friends.

  The use of the tattoo needles was revealed. No evidence was ever uncovered that William Thompson knew how to use one—or for that matter, did not know how to use one.

  There was absolutely no forensic evidence that tied William Thompson to the murder.

  But that also meant there was nothing to confirm his innocence, either, within the strict word of the law.

  Monty began to tick off the possibilities in his mind. There was the chance that Ronald Stevens could be persuaded to rethink his stance, with a well-placed word or two about his own personal motive. He had been, after all, a failed artist at the time, a loser in a contest operated by Professor Thompson. Maybe it was Linda Courtnell in the window that night.

  Could Montgomery suggest to Ronald that the police had come to suspect he had committed the murder? Or would that kind of manipulation be just like the methods used in the past by Constable Haynes?

  Perhaps Harrison Courtnell would have something more to say than he did all those years ago. Monty was suspicious of the young man's visage in all the photos of the family from 1980. Did Harrison look guilty? Did he have information his parents would not allow him to speak about?

  And then there was the man sitting in front of him. Did Charlie Haynes have another motive for being so forthright other than a wish to die without a guilty conscience? Montgomery didn't really think the man in front of him was a murderer, but he had learned in a very personal way that appearances can be deceiving.

  William Thompson had been wrongly convicted by a series of very bad judgments and flimsy evidence. The public reaction, the high, positive profile of the victim and her family, along with the emotional reaction of the police officers involved, had all combined to create a case out of nothing.

  Eyewitness testimony was the least reliable element in an investigation, but in this situation, it had been the key to conviction.

  How could they satisfy the court's demand for absolute proof of innocence when there a
ppeared to be no evidence at all, one way or the other?

  As Montgomery ruminated, a drizzle of rain began to tap against the window. Charlie was fumbling around in a large art portfolio that was propped against the side of his chair. He pulled a stack of thick, square canvasses from among the papers.

  "These are small oil paintings, but you will see they are very unique," he explained.

  Montgomery focused his attention once more on the old man.

  "I must apologize for the time you have spent here, for you will see I used you. I needed to confess my sins, and you happened to call before my priest did."

  Charlie's shoulders shook in an embarrassed laugh at his own joke, but Montgomery was not smiling. Had the old man tricked him? Lost his mind? What the hell was this?

  "I have the evidence you need. Getting Stevens to recant is a good idea, but you don't have to. In fact, you don't have to use any of the old evidence, except perhaps the point about the tattoo marks. Remember, you agreed you wouldn't ruin my reputation if you didn't need to. We shook on that."

  He paused for a moment while Monty tried to decide whether the old man had lost his mind or not.

  "I can prove, without a whisper of a doubt, that William Thompson is innocent."

  With that, he laid the first photograph on the table between them.

  "These began arriving three months ago."

  Montgomery Cardwell, hardened PI, almost vomited.

  Chapter 20

  March 2009

  When the call came through, Will and I were relaxing under the silky sheets of the king-sized bed in our hotel room. The suite was huge, exquisitely furnished, and incredibly comfortable. Not to mention the view of the mountains and the ocean.

  I had to admit money could provide the creature comforts, but having just made love to my husband, I knew there were certain things that were not for sale.

  Last night, there had been a celebration of sorts in a downtown restaurant close to our hotel. During the party, we experienced several reunions, some awkward, some welcome. Today, we spent the entire morning and much of the afternoon with the lawyers, while Montgomery visited some witnesses.