by Rick Blechta
SEVENTEEN
“LaGrazie said you were looking for me,” a scratchy voice said over the phone.
Ellis, back at his desk, had just pulled out the sandwich Jen had made for him that morning.
“Ray Featherstone?” he asked.
“That’s me. You the guy who was prowling ’round my house two days ago?”
“I came to your house looking for you, if that’s what you mean.”
“Sorry. No offense intended. That’s just the word my neighbor Dan used.”
Featherstone coughed rawly. It didn’t sound good.
“I have a few questions for you,” Ellis said.
“So I gather. LaGrazie said it had something to do with Bob Collins’s kid, Becky.”
Ellis resealed his sandwich inside the plastic box. He’d gladly forgo his meal to speak to Featherstone.
It took twenty minutes to run down what he and Pratt knew and why they believed the nexus of events led back to Featherstone’s old beat.
“Cunningham. Yeah, I remember that one. Nasty business. She was walking along the side of Peninsula Road, north of Port Sandfield. Not that dark a night, and she had on light-colored clothes. Older woman. If memory serves, fifty-five or thereabouts. Some punk in a stolen car, driving too fast, didn’t see her in time. He hit the brakes and even managed to stop quickly—with his frigging left front tire right in the middle of the Cunningham woman’s abdomen. He backed off her, and I happened along maybe five, ten minutes later. Caught him red-handed, crouched right next to her.”
“And that was Daniel Johnson.”
“Correct.”
“He had no priors. What can you tell me about him?”
“His family owned a gas station in Port Carling. They also still did repairs. Imagine that? Danny was a bit of a wild kid, but smart and clever. Never got caught for anything. Natural ringleader, if you know what I mean. His dad finally lowered the hammer, and Danny seemed to calm down toward the end of high school. Even got a scholarship to university.
“Then he stole a car and threw himself and his family into the toilet. They lost the gas station paying for his defense. There was no way even the best lawyer in the country could have gotten him off. Don’t you have the court records?”
“We just got tipped to this. You know how slow these things are.”
Featherstone laughed, then said, “Don’t I ever. That’s why I was happy to be a backwoods cop my whole career. Less paperwork BS.”
Seeing the way Featherstone felt, Ellis phrased his next question carefully.
“Did you ever suspect there might have been something else going on, other people involved?”
“Oh, you mean Danny boy saying there were other kids in the car and he wasn’t the one driving? Didn’t happen. Just plain didn’t happen. Don’t you believe it for an instant.”
“We got a tip yesterday that led us to the Cunningham death, and it came from a woman who also said Johnson didn’t do it. The only connection we’ve got between all four murdered people is Muskoka. Johnson was paroled last year and promptly disappeared. The murders began several months later, starting in British Columbia. Everything points to him being our man. But why would he murder these people? And do it with a car each time? Any thoughts?”
Featherstone was silent for a few beats. “You can believe what you want, but I was there, and I know. Of course the investigation went down that rabbit hole of Johnson’s—and found zilch.”
Featherstone cut off the interview at that point, saying he had places to go.
Ellis hung up, thinking to himself, You better hope the killer doesn’t come after you next, Featherstone.
He looked up to see Pratt returning with a Reuben sandwich and coffee, his favorite lunch. Sitting down at his desk, Pratt opened the coffee and took a sip.
“Sorry I was gone so long. Did I miss anything?”
EIGHTEEN
The two detectives spent the better part of the afternoon following up leads. After the press conference the previous day, quite a few had come in rapidly. They always did when Pratt spoke to the media. Mac’s theory was that he always looked so sad, people wanted to help. Pratt thought it was because he came across as thoughtful and open. Ellis wisely stayed out of it.
The leads had been vetted by other staff, who passed the ones that might be worthwhile over to Pratt and Ellis. Looking at these slowed down the more important work of digging into Daniel Johnson’s background, but Pratt insisted that they do this themselves. After all, he and Ellis had the most complete knowledge of the case.
In between, Pratt got in two calls to contacts in Corrections Canada. Late in the day, one of them bore fruit.
“For you,” Ellis said as he held out the phone. “Someone named Jones.”
Pratt leaned forward and took the receiver. “Pratt. Talk to me, Alex…Yeah?… And he’ll speak to me?…You’re sure?…This is great. I owe you, buddy…Yeah, I know you will…Okay, I’ll take it from here.”
He had a broad smile as he handed back the phone.
“What was that about?” Ellis asked.
“An old friend did a bit of spade work for us.”
“And?”
“Johnson did his time at Collins Bay Institution. Alex is the assistant warden. I asked him if Johnson was particularly close to anyone, and that call was to say the person Johnson knew best would be willing to talk to me.”
“When do you want to go out there?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I was planning on heading up to Muskoka again,” Ellis said. “For one thing, Johnson’s father still lives up there. I also want to ask around the area about Featherstone, see if he’s the sort of cop who might be bought off.”
“You’ll need to be discreet about that one.”
“Hey! It’s me. Discretion is my middle name.”
“You and I both know that’s not the case.” Pratt got up. “Let’s go talk to Mac.”
Ellis made a point of getting home on time that day. Returning to Muskoka would not be popular with his wife. To help with that, he disappeared into the bathroom to change the dressings on his hands for smaller ones. The cuts were healing, as were the burns on his face and arms, but it would be weeks before his eyebrows looked normal.
He also made reservations at a small Italian restaurant Jen loved.
She saw through it all immediately.
“So what is it you don’t want to tell me, Davy?”
He flashed a sheepish smile. “I have to go to Muskoka again.”
“When?” Jen asked, her face troubled.
“Tomorrow morning. First thing.”
“Why can’t Pratt do it?”
“He’s going to Collins Bay, the prison out near Kingston.”
“Switch with him.”
“I can’t. I’ve been up there. He hasn’t. And he’s going to interview a potential witness. You know he’s better at that stuff than I am.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this! You could have died up there last time.”
He reached across the table for her hands. “Please, Jen. It’s just something I have to do.”
“At least you didn’t try to say it was part of your job.”
“Scout’s honor, I will be careful. As a matter of fact, Mac suggested I get an OPP constable to ride with me as I travel around up there.” He tried a smile to see if it would soften her expression. “Two is better than one, like you always say.”
“Look, Davy, I knew your job was dangerous when I married you. When you became a detective, I was hoping it would be less dangerous than being a plain constable and—”
“But this was the first time anything bad has happened! And yeah, I got a bit singed and cut, but it really wasn’t that dangerous. Actually, I should have just stayed in the room and waited for the firemen.”
That wasn’t quite true, but a tiny lie won’t hurt, he thought.
His wife still looked unconvinced.
“Jen, darling, I know how tough it is being a cop
’s wife. You know I don’t take unnecessary chances. But sometimes things happen. I promise I’ll have someone with me and will keep both eyes open for danger. I also won’t stay overnight. I will be home tomorrow evening—perfectly safe and sound.”
Finally, Jennifer Ellis smiled, and while it wasn’t her best, her husband relaxed.
For the rest of the evening, police work was out of bounds. They both went to sleep with smiles on their faces. And this time, Ellis didn’t get out of bed—though he was sorely tempted.
NINETEEN
Pratt became depressed the moment he stepped inside Collins Bay. Prisons always affected him that way. Now it was a matter of gritting his teeth and getting through the interview.
After signing in and going through ID checks, Pratt was eventually led to one of the small interview rooms. The table and two chairs opposite each other were old and scarred—and fastened to the floor. Drumming his fingers, Pratt waited for nearly thirty minutes.
He was there to see Anthony Whipple. Whipple was a small-time thug who’d eventually worked his way up to murder—although he’d claimed it was an accident.
Whipple was nearing fifty. Tall and wiry with light brown skin and a long face, he reminded Pratt of a jazz sax player whose name slipped his mind at the moment.
Sprawling in his chair, Whipple smiled and asked, “You’re Pratt?”
“I am.”
“And you want to know about my boy Danny Johnson.”
“I do.”
Anthony laughed. “Don’t talk much, do you?”
“That’s your job.”
The con laughed again and stuck out his hand. Pratt shook it.
“Pleased to meet you, Pratt. I know a few boys in here who’d like to see you too.”
The detective was through with niceties. If he had Anthony Whipple pegged, he would respond to directness.
“Just tell me about Johnson,” he said coldly. “How well did you know him?”
“First, a bit of business. I got a meeting with the parole board in two months. I need someone to put in a good word for me.”
“You know I can’t talk about something like that.”
“I know everyone says that, but it’s done all the time. You willing to help me? Quid pro quo and all that?”
Pratt answered with a shrug.
“Tell me about Johnson,” he repeated.
Whipple thought for a moment, then said, “Let’s say I was his mentor. Danny was just a wet-behind-the-ears high-school kid when he showed up on our doorstep. He would have been eaten alive if it weren’t for me.”
“So you knew him well.”
“I was in the cell next to his for thirteen years.”
“And you talked a lot.”
“You know cons. It’s talk or watch TV. With Danny, talking was good. He’s a real smart guy.” Whipple shook his head. “He never should have been here.”
“Did he tell you that?”
Laughter again echoed in the small room.
“Every friggin’ day.”
Pratt leaned forward. “Look, Whipple, I won’t lie. We believe Daniel Johnson is responsible for four deaths over the past several months. We also believe it has something to do with the car accident that got him sent up. Can you tell me anything about what he’s up to? There may be more potential victims out there.”
“And you remember my request about the parole-board hearing, the one you can’t comment on?” The con nodded when Pratt didn’t answer. “Danny’s killed four people, you say? Well, there should be two more out there, maybe three, depending on what he decided in the end.”
“Do you know who they are—the live ones, I mean? We think a man named Curt Dewalt might be on Danny’s list.”
“He did mention that name.”
“But that leaves one or two more. Their names, Whipple, I need their names.”
“I’ll have to think about that for a bit, if you catch my drift. Last time I spoke to Danny Johnson was almost two years ago. The memory fades.”
Pratt’s fist crashed down on the table.
“Don’t mess around with me, Whipple! Lives are at stake. If I can’t get to someone in time because you were playing games, it’s going to end badly for you, I swear to God.”
“All right, all right. No need to get your panties in a twist. I can see you’re a police officer of high principles.”
Anthony Whipple began to talk. Pratt took out his notebook and started the small tape recorder he’d brought.
Pratt’s memory was excellent, but it made no sense taking chances. No telling what Whipple might do in the future. Pratt knew way better than to trust a convict.
TWENTY
The evening was nearly as hot as the day had been, not usual for late August in Muskoka. In the stuffy gas-station office, it was hard for Danny Johnson to stay awake.
Why did he always get stuck at his family’s gas station on Saturday nights? He knew how hard his dad and mom worked, but sometimes it just seemed too unfair. Another boring end to another boring week of another boring summer.
The nineteen-year-old snorted. What difference did it make anyway? It wasn’t as if he had friends to hang with—not since Mike had left to spend the summer planting trees up north. Some way to pass the last free months of your youth. The single friend you have goes off, leaving you on your own.
A car pulled into the station, windows down, radio blaring.
“Hey, Johnson!” the kid on the passenger side yelled. “We need gas. Move it!”
The pretty girl beside him added, “And please hurry. We’re running really late.”
Danny’s heart ached. He’d had a crush on Maggie McDonald, a summer visitor, since eighth grade. What he wouldn’t give to be the one going out with her tonight.
But he wasn’t part of the in-crowd. These were kids whose parents had money and were a big deal in town. Danny’s parents owned the local garage.
The car’s driver stuck his head out the window. “Didn’t you hear the lady, dipstick? We’ve got to make tracks!”
At the back of the car, Danny unscrewed the gas cap. “Keep your shirt on. I heard you.”
Someone in the backseat paid. Walking to the office, Danny heard the car’s engine crank uselessly.
“You’re going to flood it if you keep doing that,” he called out.
A few minutes later Maggie came into the office. “It won’t start.”
“I sort of noticed.”
“Can’t you do something? You’ve lived in this garage all your life. Don’t you know anything?”
Maggie’s words stung, but he didn’t show it.
“I’ll look under the hood.”
It was clear the car wasn’t going anywhere. When Danny told them, they made out like it was his fault. One of the other girls complained about missing “the biggest friggin’ party of the summer.”
Bruce Moore, whose old man owned property all over Muskoka, loudly complained to the driver about the state of his wheels.
“Hey, man, it’s my uncle’s car. What can I do? Why don’t we use your wheels instead? Oh…that’s right. You don’t have any.”
“Eat shit and die, Curt,” Bruce shot back.
Danny didn’t really know Curt Dewalt. Midway through July he’d shown up in town and gotten a job at the big restaurant at the far end of town (owned by his uncle). The few times Curt had stopped for gas, he’d come across as a prick.
Sullenly the three boys helped Danny push the car away from the pumps. They continued arguing among themselves as they stomped off.
Since it was late, Danny began to close things down. Back in the office, he was counting the cash in the till when Maggie walked in the door again.
She looked so beautiful. To Danny she was perfection—slender, tall, blond hair in a ponytail. As she removed a stick from a pack of gum and popped it into her mouth, he could barely breathe. He’d never been this close to Maggie before—and they were alone.
“Danny…” she began, her beautiful bl
ue eyes fixed on him. “I have a big favor to ask.”
Inside his head, he was screaming, I’ll do anything you want, darling Maggie! But all that came out of his mouth was a strangled, “What?”
“You know how to hot-wire a car, don’t you?”
“Well…”
“C’mon, I heard you talking about it with your friend Mike one day in the supermarket last summer.”
Maggie McDonald had heard him talking to his friend? Really?
“Yeah. Sure I can.”
She flashed an encouraging smile. Where was this going?
“Would you hot-wire a car for me?”
“What?”
Impatience flashed across her face, and then the smile emerged again. “Walk with me and I’ll tell you.”
Following her out of the office, his attention was focused on her jean-clad rear end. This was like something out of a dream.
“Won’t you need some tools?” Maggie asked.
Hardly thinking, Danny went back in, got a few things and locked the door to the office. Side by side, they started down the road toward town.
“Where are your friends?”
Maggie turned her head toward him. “They went on ahead.”
“Where?”
“Don’t ask so many questions, silly. They’re scoping things out.” She bumped him with her hip. “Don’t worry. It will be okay.”
Not wanting her to think he was a wuss, Danny shut his mouth. Maggie chattered on about the party near Rousseau and how awesome it would be. He was surprised. She seemed nervous.
