by A. M. Potter
“Correct.”
“Good, you’re close. We’ll see you at one o’clock.”
“This afternoon?”
“Yes,” Moore said.
“Well.”
The line went quiet. More delaying tactics, Naslund thought, the same as with MacLean.
“As you may know,” Larmer finally said, “many of Thom’s friends are staying with me. How about tomorrow?”
“Today, Mr. Larmer. We’ll be at your place in an hour.”
“I have guests. That’s not convenient.”
“All right. Be at the station at one o’clock. Sharp.”
“Pardon?”
“Sharp, Mr. Larmer.”
“Oh, yes. Fine.”
“Do you know where the station is?”
Larmer didn’t reply.
“I’ll arrange for a police cruiser to transport you. There’s one near the end of your lane.” It was bull, but a car could be there in less than fifteen minutes.
Naslund heard a screen door slide open. She sensed Larmer stepping outside to verify Moore’s words and finding no proof one way or the other. “I know where the station is,” Larmer eventually replied.
“Excellent. You are entitled to a lawyer. Bring one if you like.”
“What for?”
“Please yourself.”
As the inspector hung up, he shook his head. “Another ditherer. Can you interview him? I want to observe him from the shadow room.”
“Of course.”
Naslund returned to the murder room, booted up her laptop, and read the transcript of the inspector’s Hope Bay interview. It was an understatement to say that Mrs. Carson didn’t like Larmer. She detested him.
Chapter 9
Wiarton, OPP Station. July 11th:
At 1310, Naslund ushered Ward Larmer into the interview room. The POI had no lawyer in tow. He smelled of stale armpits.
“Have a seat,” she said and pointed to the Slider.
“No ‘have a seat, old friend,’” Larmer said. “No sandwiches?”
She ignored him and pointed to the Slider. He appeared to have aged a few months in a matter of hours. There were dark blotches under his eyes. He wore a tailored pinstripe suit and an open-necked shirt. Despite the change of clothes, he reeked. The confines of the room intensified his smell. It seemed he was nervous. Then again, it was a hot, humid day. “Mr. Larmer, I’m sure you know that Thom Tyler died in suspicious circumstances.”
“Is that right?”
“Very suspicious.” Naslund didn’t like his voice. It gave the impression that anything he didn’t know didn’t count. “Where were you between seven p.m. on Sunday July seventh and seven a.m. on Monday July eighth?”
“At my Hope Bay cottage.”
Larmer was using his legs to keep his back tight to the chair. He appeared to have prior experience with the Slider. They’d have to check his rap sheet again. She decided to needle him. “Address?” she barked.
He recited it.
She made no move to jot it down. She had his background details. “Occupation?”
“Artist.”
“You claimed you were at Two-Twelve Hope Bay Road during the time period indicated. Do you have proof?”
“I phoned La Toya, my girlfriend, from there around eleven p.m.”
“What’s her full name and phone number?”
Larmer told her.
She wrote on a legal pad. “Did you use a cellphone or a land line?”
“Cellphone.”
“As you may know, we can subpoena your exact geographical location.” It was bull. They could get a close hit, but not the exact coordinates. All phone carriers were obliged to respond to a warranted location request. Using cell-tower triangulation, they could usually pinpoint latitude and longitude to within thirty meters.
“I have nothing to hide,” Larmer asserted.
“Good. What other calls did you make during that period?”
“Which period?”
“The one just mentioned, Mr. Larmer. Between seven p.m. on July seventh and seven a.m. on July eighth.”
The POI raised a finger to his lips. “Let me think. Okay, I know. I phoned La Toya again around midnight, then at seven a.m.”
“Three times in eight hours?”
He nodded aggressively. “I love her, Sergeant.”
Huh, a lover-boy. “Who else did you phone?”
“No one,” he curtly stated and glared at her.
Naslund made another note. If lover-boy had been nervous, he no longer was. In fact, he was combative. “What about yesterday? Who did you phone yesterday?”
“Yesterday? Too many people to remember. I was helping organize the visitation and the funeral. As you know, many of Thom’s friends are staying with me.”
“Did you make any arrangements with Carolyn MacLean?”
“Arrangements?”
Naslund controlled herself. “Did you phone her, Mr. Larmer?”
The POI appeared to be scouring his memory. “Yes, I did. Three times, in fact.”
She pretended to write that down.
He grinned. “You seem to like taking notes. I don’t know why. I know you’re recording me.”
She eyed him disdainfully. “Let’s go over things again, Mr. Larmer.” She paused. “Just in case you ‘forgot’ something.”
He shot her a look that said Do-what-you-want, you fuckers always do.
Naslund nodded sharply. In your case, we certainly will. “Do you have any proof of your whereabouts on July seventh, from seven p.m. onwards?” She smiled contemptuously. “Anyone who can verify your location? Other than you.”
He shook his head. “I was inside.”
“How about when you drove in from Toronto on Sunday? Perhaps someone saw your car?” She knew that Mrs. Carson saw him drive in on Saturday, not Sunday.
“I didn’t arrive in Hope Bay Sunday. I’d been there since Saturday afternoon.”
“What time Saturday?”
“Just after three. Three-oh-five, to be precise. I looked at the kitchen clock.”
“Very good,” she said. Bull, she thought, that’s too precise. She changed topics to keep him off-kilter. “How long have you known Thom Tyler?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Thirteen years.”
“So, you’re old friends?”
“Yes. Best friends.”
“How long have you known Carolyn MacLean?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Are you best friends?”
“No.”
“Good friends?”
“No. We’re ex-lovers.”
“And that bars you from being good friends?”
“In this case, it does.”
That seemed right, Naslund thought. She’d sensed as much with MacLean. “Did you visit Mr. Tyler and Ms. MacLean on Saturday or Sunday?”
“No. Thom and I were supposed to go painting on Tuesday.”
“Just you and Thom? No Carolyn.”
“Correct. Carrie, or Carolyn, if you prefer.” Larmer paused and gave her an ever-so-polite smile. “Carrie never joined us on our painting trips. She isn’t what you’d call a camping type.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because,” he slowly enunciated, “she said it.”
“It seems strange that you didn’t visit them. Mallory Beach is so close to Hope Bay. How far would you say it is on foot?”
“On foot?”
“Yes. Walking or hiking.”
“I don’t hike.”
“How many minutes by car?”
The POI took a sip of water then another. He examined the ceiling. Naslund eyed him. Did he want to waste time? She’d gladly toss him in a cell and come back next week.
The POI kept studying the ceiling, adopting a thousand-meter stare for a five-meter room.
She waited, carefully scrutinizing his face. Some POIs could crease or un-crease their foreheads at will. Their eyes shifted depending on the light. However, people couldn
’t manipulate their mouths for a prolonged period. Mouths didn’t lie. From the set of Larmer’s lips, he was at ease.
Enough, she decided. “I said, ‘How many minutes by car?’”
“Ten minutes. As you know. Allow me to clarify something, Constable Naslund--pardon me, Sergeant. The last time I saw Thom was on Wednesday, July third at sunset, that is, just after nine p.m. We’d sailed his Mackinaw all evening, and the evening before, and the evening before that as well. I’ll be happy to make a formal statement.”
Naslund sat back. Larmer was slippery. Everything he said seemed right, but small bits seemed too right. He was too confident.
As she examined his mouth, her scrutiny was interrupted by a knock on the door. Striding to the door, she looked through its small window. Inspector Moore.
The man motioned for Naslund to let him in.
Huh, she thought, what’s this? She opened the door.
Within seconds, Moore invited her to take a seat and turned to the POI. “Detective Inspector Moore,” he said and thrust out his badge. “Homicide. But I’m sure you guessed that.”
Larmer shot him a look that said piss off.
Moore grinned then stood directly across from Larmer, head tilted back, as if to say now the real interview begins. “I’m curious, Mr. Larmer. I wonder if you can enlighten me. How do you think Mr. Tyler ended up in the lake?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there, was I?”
“No? Well then, let me recreate the scene for you. It’s unlikely that Mr. Tyler was taking a leak, as the saying goes. The recovery team found his pants zipper up. As to getting caught in fishing lines, he had none set. Now, the boom could have knocked him overboard but that too is unlikely. The boom on Mr. Tyler’s skiff was attached to the mast at a height of...” Moore donned his specs and pulled some notes from a pocket. “One-point-six-seven meters.” He looked up and studied Larmer through the half-moons. “That’s five-and-a-half feet. Plenty of clearance, even for a six-footer like Mr. Tyler. Nevertheless, he ended up in the lake.” Moore approached the table. “How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is that right?” Moore shook his head and then sat and slowly shuffled his notes then shuffled them again and again--a tactic often used to set a POI on edge. Eventually, he removed his specs and carefully pocketed them, holding his words, trying to ratchet up Larmer’s anxiety.
Larmer studied the ceiling.
Moore kept eying him, hoping to unnerve him with silence.
Larmer’s gaze didn’t waiver.
Naslund wasn’t surprised by the standoff. Larmer and Moore might be physical opposites, but they were two of a kind: pit bulls. She wasn’t surprised by Moore’s sudden entry either. He was obviously the “takeover-when-I-want” type. Old boys often were. She got along well with most male colleagues. She wondered how things would evolve with Moore.
The inspector broke the silence. “I like interviewees who answer promptly. Don’t you, Sergeant?”
“I certainly do,” she said.
“Not to mention, cooperate.” Moore eyed Larmer. “So far, I’d say you’re failing on both counts.”
The POI shrugged.
Moore pursed his lips. “Mr. Larmer, I understand you’re a sailor.”
“Yes?”
“Well then, you must know what makes a good sailor.” Moore had a smile on his face yet none in his voice.
The suspect shrugged.
“Let me suggest an answer. A person comfortable with complexity. All those pulleys and ropes. An organized person. Beyond that, a practical person. Someone who can splice ropes or, let’s say, adjust an anchor clasp.” Moore let a few heartbeats pass. “When did you last change a car tire?”
“A what?”
“A car tire, Mr. Larmer.”
“I don’t change my tires.”
“Oh? I assume a person who drives like you has quite a few flats. What happens when you get a flat?”
“I call CAA.”
“Good for you.” Moore abruptly stood, planted his hands on the table, and leaned closer. “However, I’m sure you’re capable of changing a tire. You look strong. Do you lift weights?”
“Sometimes.”
“Box?”
“No.”
“Enjoy inflicting pain?”
Larmer’s eyes narrowed, his face hardened.
Moore harrumphed. I know you do, his expression said. “Why do you think we’re interested in your strength?”
Larmer didn’t reply.
“Let me tell you.” Moore assumed his tallest height. “Someone pushed Mr. Tyler overboard. He was a big man, which suggests his assailant was a strong person.”
Larmer said nothing.
Moore didn’t mention the hammer blows. As Naslund knew, he wouldn’t reveal everything they had, not yet.
“I’d say you’re very strong.” Moore smiled menacingly. “Very capable.”
The suspect glared at him. “Of what?”
Naslund stood and took a step toward Larmer.
Moore slowly circled the table, his methodical footsteps echoing off the cement floor. When he reached Larmer, he stopped.
A few moments later, he brought his bony chin to within an inch of Larmer’s ear, as if he were going to speak. But he said nothing. He continued pacing until he stood behind Larmer again. “You are free to go.” He paused. “For the time being.”
The suspect seemed unmoved.
Smug snot. Naslund wanted to cuff him in the ear. Better yet, kick him in the crotch.
Moore walked away and stood across from the suspect. “We’d like to request your cooperation.”
“What for?”
“We’d like to fingerprint and DNA you.”
“I know my rights.”
“We can arrest you.”
Larmer shrugged.
“I’ll have a warrant by three,” Moore said. “Tomorrow. Meanwhile, you can enjoy our hospitality.”
Naslund knew it was a bluff. Moore couldn’t detain Larmer without arresting him and they had nothing on him. Moore spoke into an intercom. “Constable Chandler?”
“Yes, Inspector,” a deep voice growled--Chandler putting on his hard-ass act. He was a big man, the size of a linebacker. His voice was even bigger.
“We need a cell for Mr. Larmer.” Moore eventually glanced at the suspect.
“All right,” Larmer said as if he didn’t care. “Process me.”
Moore nodded. “Fingerprint and DNA the detainee,” he said into the intercom. He smiled malevolently. “The interviewee, I mean.”
“You want him released?” Chandler grunted.
“For now.”
Moore eyed the man. “You are not permitted to leave the province.”
Larmer didn’t acknowledge him.
“Did you hear me?”
The suspect waited then nodded insolently.
***
Sitting in Moore’s office after the interview, Naslund gulped down a mouthful of cold coffee. On the one hand, she resented Moore’s interruption--a seven, she figured, on the CP Scale. On the other hand, she accepted it. Top guns weren’t known for their diffidence. They didn’t care about stepping on toes. As it happened, her father had warned her about cops like Moore. He’d advised her to ignore them. Naslund agreed with him. Besides, it made sense to railroad Larmer.
Across the room, the inspector was pursing his lips. He leaned forward in his chair. “Larmer’s a snake. No doubt about it.”
“Agreed.”
“If he’s our perp, I’d say there’s a good chance he left his cottage very early on Monday morning, before Tyler left his boathouse dock.”
“Possible.”
“Mitchell and Wolfe came with me when I visited Mrs. Carson this morning. They’re ninjas, those two. They melted into the bush and searched for DNA carriers and prints behind Larmer’s cottage, back to the Bruce Trail, which could take him to Tyler’s place on foot. But they didn’t find anything.” Moore shrugged. “However, he coul
d have walked down his driveway, crossed the road, and got in a boat. Mitchell and Wolfe found a jumble of prints across the road. Good cover.”
She nodded.
“The man doesn’t own a boat, but he may have ‘borrowed’ one. I spoke with Chandler. A small boat with an outboard would get Larmer up Hope Bay, around Cape Croker, and into Colpoys Bay in a few hours. Let’s say he left around oh-three-hundred on the eighth, he’d arrive in Colpoys Bay in plenty of time to intercept Tyler’s skiff and attack him.”
She shrugged. “An outboard? I read your report on Mrs. Carson. She didn’t mention hearing any outboard that night and she said she never sleeps.”
“Right, but she might have dozed off.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll re-visit her. I think Larmer used a water route. If he didn’t use a motorboat, he could have sailed.”
“True.” It was a long shot, but worth pursuing. Naslund told herself to step back, to give Moore the benefit of the doubt. The inspector was a top gun. He had years of experience.
“I read the marine reports,” he continued. “There was an eight-knot wind that night, steady all night, until it picked up near dawn. I checked with Chandler again. It would have taken about four hours to sail to Colpoys Bay in a small boat. I’ve asked Chandler to look into reports of stolen boats, plus all recent boat rentals on the Bruce, in any name. Larmer may have rented.”
“Right,” she said.
“Now we need some hard evidence. At this point, we’re running on speculation. However, I’m sure of one thing. He lied to us.”
She nodded. Lying was expected. Most people lied to them. Perps always lied.
“But I’m not sure what he lied about. His movements? His phone calls? His sailing routine with Tyler? By the way, Larmer could have other motives besides envy and revenge. There’s always the old standby. Money. Other cultures murder for honor but North Americans usually do it for money. Let’s examine the ownership of Tyler’s paintings. Determine who inherits what. Ditto for his other assets.” Moore raced on. “Let me take that up. I’ll get a solid financial picture of who might have benefited from his death. I suspect Larmer did. If so, it’ll give us ammo to probe his connection to Tyler.”
“Right.”
