He picked up the file of reports from Saturday’s stabbing homicide. It wasn’t his case, but his interest was piqued by Sturgeon’s comments. Besides, he didn’t have a case that required his attention, and it was unlikely Archer would assign one to him. Detective Don Griffin, Brad’s current partner in Homicide, would be in court for the week. Maybe when Griffin was back and could take the lead on a homicide, Archer would let Brad work murders. Brad was on his own unless the shit hit the fan which, given his history, was likely.
The report from the first cops on the scene was brief and lacking detail. They arrived, they saw a body, they called EMS and their sergeant. No weapon was found, but there were no details of any search. The case was referred to detectives. Typical of a street cop’s report, and even more typical of an event that happened in Vic Park.
The Patient Care Report from the paramedics had been detailed, but most of it concerned their treatment. The victim was found pulseless and breathless, leaning against a streetlight. Blood covered his chest and pooled on the sidewalk.
Paramedics transported the patient to the Holy Cross Hospital minutes away. A trauma team had been waiting in the emergency department, but it was quickly determined the patient was dead with no hope of resuscitation.
The detectives who responded were from the General Investigative Services. They handled a variety of cases, but not homicides. Brad figured that night no Homicide detectives were available, and since Archer had put Brad on the sidelines, GIS got the call. Their report was thorough, but with no leads. As Brad expected, no one from the area reported anything. Certainly, nothing they were going to tell the police. The victim had one hundred and seventy dollars on his person, mostly in fives. He had a pass for the shelter and a package of gum. The case was listed as open.
The autopsy was brief and to the point. The victim had one stab wound, and, as Sturgeon said, the blade entered beneath the xiphoid process in an upward stroke to the left shoulder. The knife pierced the left ventricle through to the right atrium. The inside of the heart was a mess of lacerations. The medical examiner speculated that once the knife was inserted, the attacker twisted the blade, ensuring the destruction of the heart and a quick death. The toxicology report noted marijuana and heroin.
Brad flipped to the dispatch report. The call came in to 911 at 11:10 p.m. The first cruiser was there at 11:12, and EMS thirty seconds later. The response time was excellent. The question was how long the victim had leaned against the pole before anyone checked him. It was strange he still had drugs and cash in his pockets. If he’d been found by crackheads, both money and drugs would be gone, and it’s unlikely they’d call 911.
Brad flipped a few pages further in the dispatch report. The 911 call was made from a payphone on Sixth Avenue SW. Nothing to follow up there beyond the question of why someone would walk over eight blocks to call 911. There were plenty of payphones between the murder scene and where the call came from.
The dealer had a long record—over twenty charges for drug possession, dealing, and a couple of related assaults. Nothing deemed serious enough to warrant actual prison time, according to the records. All before he was twenty-one years of age. No doubt his juvenile records would be as impressive. Still, no one deserved to die like this.
Brad opened the envelope containing the crime scene photos. After a glance, he realized they were useless—dark photos of a pole, blood on the sidewalk, and nothing else. Several footprints in the snow of different-sized footwear were identified, most with a Vibram sole, like the boots police and paramedics wore. Maybe Sturgeon and his classes were onto something. This crime scene had been contaminated.
He checked the evidence list. Most notable was the lack of a murder weapon at the scene. The killer either kept the knife or tossed it. There was nothing in the notes about finding the knife, but blood smears were noted on the dealer’s parka. The investigating officer suspected the knife was wiped clean on the dealer’s coat.
The evidence list contained dozens of needles and syringes, small plastic baggies, and food and drink containers that went on for pages.
It wasn’t a robbery or a drug theft. The murder was up close and personal. Who? Why?
Brad swung his legs off his desk, stood, grabbed his winter parka, and headed out of the office. Lobo slipped out from under the desk, stretched, then jogged to catch up.
“I’m going to a crime scene.”
The secretary didn’t glance up from her typing.
Brad parked his black Firebird on Eleventh Avenue just east of Macleod Trail and headed to the light pole. As he hiked, he slipped on a black beanie and matching gloves. The police tape was gone, but it wasn’t hard to identify the large brown stain on the sidewalk under the streetlight. He studied the dilapidated houses. Once the pride of Calgary, they were an eyesore and the hub of the drug culture.
He snorted at the thought of finding a witness. Uniformed officers had gone door to door. He’d been assigned that task hundreds of times. First, you seldom got any information worth using. And second, you got a ton of abuse. Worse in this neighborhood.
“I was minding my own business.”
“No, Officer, I didn’t see or hear anything.”
Insult the cop. “Get the hell off my porch, pig.”
And his personal favorite, because it was used the most: “You got a warrant?” Idiots. He didn’t need a warrant to ask questions. They watched too many 70’s TV cop shows like Columbo and Streets of San Francisco. Although, Starsky and Hutch didn’t worry about needing a warrant.
Brad studied the scene. If he’d stabbed the dealer, which direction would he escape? West was back to busy Macleod Trail. A chance to fit in, but there had to be a lot of blood on the assailant’s clothes. Even in this area, a bloody shirt would stand out. North was out for the same reason. South would take you to the Stampede Grounds. Also, if there were no events on the grounds, the probability of security spotting you was high. They wouldn’t be asleep yet.
That left east. A few blocks east, you’d come to the Elbow River with many wooded pathways. Further east led into Inglewood, which wasn’t a much better neighborhood than Vic Park. Decision time. Did the killer go east, because that was the smart direction to go? Or did the killer go north and was the one who made the 911 call? If so, why would the killer call 911? Despite the 911 call, Brad’s gut said the killer went east.
He headed back to his car and let Lobo out. They checked the drainage gates and sewers where a knife could be tossed. After ninety minutes of Lobo sniffing ditches, drains and sewers, they’d struck out as far as a murder weapon was concerned. At the river, he followed the paths, not sure what he was searching for, but hoping he would know when he found it. No luck.
Brad shivered and flexed his gloved hands. Despite evidence having been collected from around the scene the night before, Lobo found at least twenty baggies that no longer contained drugs, dozens of syringes and needles, and various pieces of clothing including a disproportionate number of bras and panties. The farther they searched from the site of the murder, the more crap they found.
Well, they’d given it a shot. Brad dumped the garbage into a box in the trunk and poured a bottle of water into a bowl for Lobo. Next would be a bath for the dog to get the grunge off.
While Lobo drank, Brad leaned against the car and again envisioned the murder. Someone got close and personal. No defensive struggle by the dealer. Someone he knew. A user? That narrowed it down to the entire neighborhood. He gritted his teeth and opened the back door.
“Lobo, hup-hup.”
Lobo took one last slurp of the water and jumped into the car.
Chapter Four
The courtrooms were all the same—pale wood paneling on the walls, uncomfortable cherry-wood spectator benches, then the bar, past which were tables for the prosecution and defense, a witness stand, jury box, and the judge’s bench. In the left corner were the Canadian flag and Alberta’s provincial flag. A portrait of the Queen was hung behind the judge’s bench
. It was the third day of the trial. Crown Prosecutor Jenni Blighe had completed the prosecution’s case yesterday. As she waited for the judge to reach a verdict, she picked lint off her navy-blue skirt and brushed wrinkles on her jacket. With this case, she’d been too busy to get her clothes to the dry cleaners. At least she’d had time to wash and iron her white blouse. She crossed her toned legs, dangled a black shoe off her toes and glared at the judge.
The victim, Laura Turner, a petite, blond, sixteen-year-old, sat behind Blighe. She was sobbing and being comforted by her mother.
The judge was taking his sweet-ass time deciding the verdict. Blighe stared at her notes in the folder on the prosecution table, tapping one French-tip nail against the pages. The seventeen-year-old, accused of raping his high school classmate at a party, was going free. Blighe’s blue eyes blazed in his direction.
The accused was Burke Bailey Baldwin, a handsome young man with a firm jaw, dimpled chin and wavy jet-black hair. All of that concealed the sick person he was inside. Smarmy little bastard.
During the trial, he had leaned back in his chair at the defense table, lips twisted into a smirk as his lawyer brought the girl to tears. His parents, seated behind him, showed no emotion. On the visitor benches in the courtroom were a dozen of his high school friends, who spent most of their time whispering and laughing as they stared at the victim. One teen rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then blew a kiss to the girl. Another repeatedly stuck the index finger of his right hand into a circle created with the thumb and index finger of the second hand. This had the other boys snickering, but it had garnered only a stern glare from the judge.
The defense had made Laura the subject of the trial. Nothing Blighe tried could turn the focus back to the accused.
Her objections were overruled by the judge, whose obvious bias oozed from his pores. His ‘boys will be boys’ attitude twisted her stomach.
In her summation she’d stood and given it one last shot. “Your Honor. While my learned colleague”—a term that meant anything but learned—“has portrayed this as the victim’s fault, this is a sixteen-year-old, naïve girl, who repeatedly tried to get away from the accused who screamed ‘no’ until the accused put his hand over her mouth, pinched her nose, and rendered her unconscious. A young girl who trusted a classmate and then was viciously raped. She did everything she could to tell this … this predator she was not a willing participant. Yet the accused refused to listen to her pleas. Your Honor, the facts speak for themselves. The accused is guilty of not only assault, but rape. The evidence presented is clear.”
The judge waved his hand at Blighe, frowning. “Ms. Blighe, please take your seat and save your arguments for your appeal. The facts, as you say, are not clear. This girl went willingly with the accused to a bedroom. She was at a party and had been drinking. Despite her protests and tears, there is reasonable doubt in this case, and I find the accused not guilty.”
The judge rose and left the courtroom. Blighe put her head in her hands, strands of short blond hair slipping free and hanging in her face. She breathed deeply, but her muscles were tense and her head throbbed. This was not justice, far from it. Predators like the accused should not be allowed back on the street. She had missed something. Could she have presented the case differently? Not with this judge. His decision was made before court started. If the court system didn’t protect young girls, then who would? This was her worst defeat in five years as a crown prosecutor.
As a victim of a stalker, she knew firsthand the terror a male could bring into the life of a female. She still had nightmares about Jeter Wolfe. Eventually, he’d left her alone and found other victims. But those events changed her life. Already divorced, her ex-husband had petitioned the court for sole custody of their two children, citing that Blighe’s job as a crown prosecutor had put the children’s lives at risk. Blighe hadn’t had the heart to fight in court. She’d installed a security system in her house, purchased a gun, and practiced multiple times a week. Months of self-defense courses had her prepared for an assault. But it was no way to live, always on edge, not trusting anyone.
Two months ago, outside a courtroom, a man put his hand on her shoulder. With her new instincts from self-defense training, she’d grabbed his wrist, bent it back, and had him on his knees screaming. The man was searching for courtroom 202. She profusely apologized. She had mixed emotions. First, she’d responded to a threat with decisiveness and had protected herself. But the man’s screams brought attention in the hallway. Court security had raced toward her until she waved them off.
If the courts couldn’t protect young girls, who would? Being a skilled prosecutor wasn’t enough.
She slid her tailored jacket off her chair, draped it over her arm, grabbed her files, and headed back to her office. Tonight’s workout would be intense—there was a lot of stress to release.
Chapter Five
After Brad’s fiancée was killed in his house by Jeter Wolfe in July, Brad demolished the house and sold the lot. Now he lived with Lobo on a farm west of the city. The house was seventy or eighty years old and under a thousand square feet.
Brad changed into an insulated gray Calgary Police Service sweatsuit, a fleece jacket, a watch cap, and his favorite white North Star sneakers with three red lines up the sides and a good grip for running in snow and on ice. He slid on his black leather gloves, then he and Lobo followed their familiar path down the lane from the farmhouse and into the forested hill toward Bearspaw Dam. Several times he hit a patch of ice and fought for balance. Fortunately, he didn’t crash onto the ice or into a tree. Lobo raced ahead, sniffing for squirrels, checking out piles of crap, probably from coyotes, and tracking other scents only he could smell.
They took a break at the bottom of the hill. Lobo sprinted to the river and tentatively placed a paw in the water. He withdrew it quickly, then bent over and drank. He tested the water again, then lay down under a tree.
Brad stretched beside Lobo and worked out the problems with the murder of the dealer. On the one hand, a dealer getting killed was not a newsworthy event, and it was a low priority for Homicide. But since there were no active cases to occupy his time, he’d keep busy with this one. The method of killing was unusual. Stabbings weren’t uncommon, but few were fatal. This was different. A single stab through the heart. Precise, no hesitation, and life threatening. Not a fluke or a lucky cut, but planned and deliberate. Not a frenzy or spur of the moment. Planned, targeted, and executed. But nothing in the dealer’s history suggested he’d be targeted like this.
He thought of the stabbing two months ago that had occurred in Vic Park as well. A dealer named Billy Tuck. Interestingly, he’d also had cash on him when he was recovered on the sidewalk. At twenty years old, Tuck also had a lengthy rap sheet with minimal time served. The unique method of the stabbing connected the two cases firmly in Brad’s mind, though Tuck’s death hadn’t been as clean.
One thing stood out. Despite numerous charges and convictions, both dealers, Billy Tuck and Vito Sotelo, had spent less than two months in jail—total. Lucky? Excellent lawyer? Screwed-up court system?
Brad remembered a conversation he’d had with Maggie’s father, Judge Ethan Gray, the night they’d met at Maggie’s paramedic grad. Even then, Brad had concerns about the court system. It wasn’t a justice system, it was a legal system that ensured two things: the law was followed, and the rights of the accused were protected, more than the victims.
Still, all those minor charges related to drugs didn’t add up to a targeted murder. There must be something else.
He whistled. Lobo raced past and was back on the hunt. They jogged up the hill back to the farm, then headed to the barn he had converted to a gym. Despite its age, it was structurally sound. He’d power-washed the cow and horse stalls, replaced the insulation, and added a furnace.
He’d even been able to get a timeworn truck running. It was perfect for hauling stuff around the farm. He wasn’t sure how it would hold up on the highway,
though. No sense getting new license plates.
Lobo headed to his bed in one horse stable while Brad started his workout. Soon Lobo was snoring, and Brad was grunting and sweating.
Chapter Six
Jimmy Duggan had been a regular customer at the Cecil Hotel Tavern for over fifteen years. When his wife died at fifty-five and left him a decent inheritance, the tavern became his home away from home. Most of the legacy now belonged to the bar.
The Cecil Hotel was in the east end of downtown. Never a five-star hotel, it had been built in 1912 to accommodate travelers and blue-collar workers. After prohibition ended in Alberta in 1923, the entire main floor was converted to a tavern. Now, fifty-seven years later, it barely rated one star. Downtown had over a dozen low-end hotels, but the Cecil was at the bottom. The fake paneling on the walls had faded and peeled, the ceiling had water spots, and the threadbare carpet was a dull gray with darker circles—not a design, but decades of spilled drinks. The tables were scarred with names and graffiti carved into the wood. The lighting was minimal, which was beneficial—you wouldn’t know how disgusting the tavern was. Police regularly responded to the bar. It was the number one location the police were called to.
The Cecil Hotel’s recent claim to fame was a robbery in ’79 last year where two employees were killed for one hundred dollars from the cash register.
Jimmy Duggan stood, slightly hunch-backed, and fumbled in his blue polyester pants pockets for his car keys. He stumbled and grabbed a chair for balance. No one noticed. Everyone here kept to themselves. Funny that they came here to get away in a tavern filled with guys trying to get away. With half the lights burned out, that didn’t help in the search for the keys.
After several frustrating moments, he noticed them on the table, next to the half-dozen empty beer bottles. Keys in hand, he searched for his wallet. Not in his polyester pants, front or back pockets. He glanced hopefully at the table. Nope. He squinted as he searched around. Maybe he could sneak out tonight. But if he did, he’d be banned here, and as rundown as it was, he liked this bar.
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