“He was when I interviewed him, but he showed up for his shift this morning. He was sober, looked squared away, positive attitude. I sent him home anyway. He seemed anxious to help. And we could use some help.”
“He’s too close to the case. Anything from the Coroner?”
“Just a preliminary report. Cause of death: blunt force trauma to left section of frontal bone.”
“What else have the boys come up with? Anything?”
“Nothing came out of our interviews of co-workers, at least those that could be reached over the holiday. We canvassed a two-block radius of the crime, door-to-door, and turned up a short list of people in the area that evening. Some local kids…a few itinerants camping under the Hillsborough Bridge. We still have to track them down. We’re also looking at cab companies, pharmacies, and pizza joints—any business that might have made deliveries in Stratford.”
“Any complaints?”
“The boys were happy to get overtime. They’ll work until you send them home. On the other hand, I stopped over at Town Hall earlier. I brought Jill a coffee, and she told me that a few jokers on the Council are grumbling about where the money for all our overtime is going to come from. Delaney and Fitzpatrick are the most vocal…”
“They want to turn the investigation over to the Mounties.”
“Peale, Jameson, and Carmody are backing us so far. The rest are not committing.”
“They don’t have the balls to commit to anything. They couldn’t commit to a free lap dance.”
Schaeffer, nodded, laughed, and headed for the door. He stopped there and turned around.
“Something else while I remember it. Constable MacKay. He’s leaving. He’s a reservist, and he’s been called up for a military police unit deploying to Afghanistan.”
“When’s he leaving?”
“He’s due in Winnipeg in two weeks, but he wants off the end of this week to get his personal affairs in order.”
“Shit!”
“That’s about it, Chief.” Sergeant Schaeffer stepped out the door of Quigley’s office.
“Wait a minute!” Schaeffer stopped short, and Quigley fell into a long, thoughtful pause. Then he said, “Let’s do this. Bring MacFarlane in tomorrow. Put him on the phone, housekeeping stuff, filing, whatever, and see how he performs. If he’s a hundred per cent okay, then he can do some leg work, but under no circumstances does he get access to the case file, evidence, or information on where we’re going with the case. If he wants to contribute, he can do so on the sidelines next to the water boy. Understood?”
“Gotcha.”
Island residents old enough to remember the Korean War would have called it a “glorious day.” The sky was a clear, deep, lively blue. Maple trees, poplar, apple, and willow quivered in a light wind, and their leaves glowed like tongues of flame in a brush fire. Roofs, cornices, chimneys, and power lines etched a startling profile against the sky, and each breath of air energized the body like water from a mountain spring. It was a day to make people feel alive and vigorous, even Jamie MacFarlane.
MacFarlane hadn’t returned home after Schaeffer told him to take a couple more days off. Instead he drove around the all-too-familiar streets of Stratford with no particular purpose in mind and with no twinges of conscience. In fact, it was a perfect day to forget things and to escape, and it was not until his aimless driving took him past the building where he killed Simone that the thought of her flooded back like a shameful act in a squalid dream.
He wished that he hadn’t killed her, but she had brought it on herself, he concluded. She had betrayed him. She had berated him. She had laughed at him. She had stripped him of his pride. Then she had enraged him. She should have known better. She should have known that no man would put up with such abuse. He hit her, yes. Too hard, certainly. An error in judgment, of course. Perhaps even a weakness in character.
In spite of all that, he thought it foolish to dwell on past mistakes. That would change nothing and, although he was confident that things would work themselves out, the incident with Simone did make his life more complicated than he would have liked. There were loose ends, things that needed tending, wrongs that wanted righting.
Toward those goals, MacFarlane drove across the Hillsborough Bridge into Charlottetown. He stopped at a public phone booth in a shopping plaza and dialled a number.
“This is Constable Jamie MacFarlane. I have some information that involves my former girlfriend, the affair you had with her, and evidence that suggests that you may have killed her.”
There was a long period of dead air on the other end of the phone line.
“Are you still there?” asked MacFarlane.
“I… I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s unfortunate. Since I hadn’t had the chance to process the evidence yet, I thought we could discuss it privately…unofficially…seeing as how it might affect your marriage and other areas of your life…but if you’re not interested, then I’m sorry to have bothered you…”
“Wait! Don’t hang up. I’ll meet with you…but…someplace public.”
“Olde Dublin Pub. Charlottetown. Tonight at seven. The bar is quiet then. I won’t be in uniform. I’m not looking to embarrass…or hurt anyone. I hope we can work something out.”
5.
Friday, 12 October 2001
Davidia Christian emerged from the photocopy room where her interview had taken place. Her face was flushed, and she chirped excitedly.
“He’s so cute,” she said, grabbing Carolyn Jollimore’s wrist. Then Davidia leaned in close to her ear, squeezed her wrist tightly, and whispered loudly, “and he’s not married either.”
Davidia giggled and gave Carolyn a playful shove toward the door. “You’re next…and last,” she added.
It was four o’clock. Carolyn had just arrived for her shift as fellow workers were gearing up to end their workday. She had not been back to the office since Thanksgiving. Over the holiday, her mother had taken a turn for the worse, and the home-care worker could no longer cope and had quit. Carolyn had filled in until she and Edna had found a replacement. The new caregiver was older and more experienced, and, to their immense relief, she possessed a storehouse of patience.
Carolyn stepped into the little room and took the only vacant chair. It was across from the investigating officer, Constable Sam Best. A tiny plastic table, provided by the office manager, separated them.
Davidia was right, thought Carolyn. He is handsome. Best glanced up from his notebook, looked directly into her eyes, and smiled. Carolyn felt an involuntary blush redden her cheeks. She smiled back at him, certain that her attempt at smiling produced only a foolish, self-conscious, ineffectual smirk.
“I’m Constable Best,” he said, “and I just have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
He smiled again.
Carolyn felt another hot flush. She felt suddenly girlish. Her face reddened even more, and a surge of mortification swept it along.
The knock on the door to the makeshift interview room was a welcome distraction. The door opened. Constable Jamie MacFarlane poked his head through.
“Sergeant wants you back at the station when you’re through here, Sam.”
“But it’s the end of my shift. Got plans.”
“A meeting. He wants everyone there.”
Best nodded.
Carolyn felt hairs bristle on the back of her neck and blood drain the blush from her cheeks.
Carolyn’s terror grew as her head slowly turned toward the door behind her. It was the same voice Carolyn had heard one floor below her on the night of the murder. There was no doubt in her mind. It was a deep voice. It was rich and clear. Robust. It had strength and control. It was a voice she could never mistake. It was a voice she wished she had never heard.
MacFarlane acknowledged Best’
s response, smiled apologetically toward Carolyn, and closed the door behind him.
“Miss Jollimore…” said Constable Best. The now-closed door had gripped Carolyn’s attention. Her eyes were transfixed.
“Miss Jollimore…” he said again. Carolyn slowly turned toward him. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“I…uh…yes… I mean no.”
He smiled again. This time it was more forced. He had tired of feigning interest. The same questions, the same answers from each of the twenty-two women who worked in that office. It had been tedious and a waste of time. Now a staff meeting to look forward to. Best drew a deep breath, refocused, and began again.
“No need to be nervous. Your full name?”
Terror welled up, and once again she forced it down.
“Carolyn Jollimore.” For a moment it sounded like the name of some person she scarcely knew.
“Did you know Simone Villier?”
“No.”
“Were you working on Friday, October 5?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you leave the building?”
Carolyn stumbled over a handful of inaudible words. Best looked up quizzically.
“Six o’clock,” she said.
“What time did you begin work?”
“Four.”
“Four?”
“Yes, I work different hours from the rest.”
“You only worked two hours?”
“Yes. I received a call from my sister. An urgent one. Our mother was ill. She has Alzheimer’s. I had to go home. I’ve been out a week. I just returned to work today,” she said. She had stressed “urgent one” and “had to go home.” Now she regretted it. It made her sound like a child making desperate excuses, and she feared that he would see through her pretence and know that she was lying.
“Did you observe anyone in the building when you left?”
“No.”
“To your knowledge would anyone else be working in the building then?”
“No.”
“Did you notice anyone outside when you left the building? Anyone?”
“No. No one.”
“Very good. That’s all we need. Your help is appreciated. One more thing before I go. You said you left the building at what time? Seven?”
“No, six. Six o’clock.” Her voice sounded stronger, more confident.
“Thanks for your cooperation, Miss Jollimore.”
Carolyn got up, went out to her desk, and sat down. Davidia bounced over. She was excited.
“Isn’t he gorgeous? I’d squeeze him to pieces if I had the chance…and Bert wasn’t around to catch me.”
“I’m feeling faint.”
“That’s just how I felt when I left…faint…and a touch giddy, too.”
“I’m going home. I came back too soon.”
“Oh dear.”
The meeting at Stratford police station lasted half an hour, but even that was a mind-numbing duration for Sam Best, a young constable cultivating plans to bed the waitress at a local diner. It was the end of his shift. It was the beginning of the weekend. He was growing impatient. He was anxious to get out of there, but he tried not to show it. So he only half-listened to Sergeant Schaeffer drone on and on about progress in the Villier murder, evidence, day-end oral reports, new lines of questioning, and confidentiality. He thought Schaeffer’s spiel would never end. He looked around the room. Everyone was there except MacFarlane, whom they’d tucked into a patrol car for evening shifts—Sam Best’s former shift. At least that had worked to Best’s advantage. It injected new vigour into his social life.
Constable Best’s thoughts drifted to the blonde ringlets of the waitress. His fingers caressed the file folder of interviews he had conducted that afternoon. His imagination slid from the ringlets of hair toward the warm cleavage of her breasts.
“That’s about it,” said Sergeant Schaeffer. His voice was raised, declarative, and final. His voice interrupted Best’s sensual reverie. Best shoved the folder toward a corner of his desk, grabbed his jacket, and hurried out the door.
It was long after midnight when Constable MacFarlane finished his shift and returned to the near-empty headquarters building. The stack of interviews had remained on the corner of Best’s desk. MacFarlane thumbed through the folder until he reached Carolyn Jollimore’s statement.
6.
Saturday, 13 October 2001
It was serendipitous.
John J. Dawson, also known as “J.J. Jumble” or “Johnny Jughead” or “Cracker Jack,” was on a rampage again, this time at the local supermarket. He had filled his cart with flats of pea soup and cases of Pepsi, proceeded through the checkout line, and flustered a young cashier by scribbling an indecipherable message on a scrap of paper and offering it as some sort of IOU or cheque. Then he left.
A security guard caught up with him just outside the automatic glass doors of the store. Dawson had lost control of his top-heavy cart. It tipped over and spilled dozens of cans and glass bottles across both lanes of parking lot traffic. Car horns blared in frustration at the impasse, and Dawson answered by throwing soup cans at the impatient drivers and hitting their cars instead. The guard tried to restrain him, but Dawson struggled away and pelted the guard with other cans and a barrage of unintelligible but seemingly profane words. Police arrived. MacFarlane was the responding officer. Dawson struck MacFarlane with two cans, the first on the chest and a second on his lip, before he subdued Dawson and took him into custody.
MacFarlane frisked Dawson for weapons and, as he did so, he slipped Simone Villier’s wallet into one of Dawson’s coat pockets. He slipped the sapphire ring into another. Both had been cleaned of prints and had lain in MacFarlane’s uniform jacket pocket, waiting for the right person and the right time.
MacFarlane drove to the station for booking, but Sergeant Schaeffer ordered Dawson taken to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital psych ward for examination. While there, hospital nursing staff found the wallet. Police were called. His clothing and personal items were bagged for a forensic team. The ring was discovered later, having slipped through a hole and fallen into a recess in the lining.
MacFarlane was pleased with his own judgment. In fact, it was intoxicating.
7.
Monday, 15 October–Friday, 19 October 2001
If Timothy Townshend hadn’t jumped from his grandfather’s barn loft and missed the hay bales he aimed for, he wouldn’t have broken his leg and landed in the paediatric ward of the QEH. And, if Timothy hadn’t been there in the hospital, then his father, Tommy Townshend, wouldn’t have overheard the nurse’s gossip about the “murderer” in Unit 9. But Timmy did jump. He did break a leg and go to hospital and, as a result, his father was there to catch the biggest scoop of his career as reporter for The Guardian newspaper.
Townshend broke the story the morning after Dawson’s arrest, even before his arraignment on charges of first-degree murder. Townshend followed up the next day with a feature story documenting Dawson’s history of bizarre behaviour, assaults, drug and alcohol addiction, and panhandling. He portrayed Dawson as an unpredictable and dangerous criminal whose capture was a relief for every young woman on PEI. But Townshend hit the journalistic trifecta when, in a weekend story, he portrayed Constable Jamie MacFarlane as a tireless hero leading the investigation into his “fiancée’s” murder. He shaped it as a story of two devoted lovers whose dreams were shattered by tragedy. In his rather fanciful version, “Cracker Jack” Dawson murdered the beautiful young Simone Villier in a manic rage. Her boyfriend, Jamie MacFarlane, heartbroken and with a dogged determination, tracked down and captured the madman. Townshend’s feature story brought not only a kind of closure for a jittery public but added a note of poetic justice as well.
MacFarlane, on the other hand, wanted no part of the publicity and desired no reco
gnition for any role in the capture or arrest. Chief Quigley thought otherwise, however. He encouraged Townshend’s inclination to play up the role of his Stratford police force in seeking justice for an innocent victim, and he strong-armed MacFarlane into accepting—however willingly or however silently—whatever commendations or praise the press, or anyone else, wished to heap upon him. In spite of the Chief’s efforts, though, MacFarlane did his best to duck the limelight and play down his role in the investigation, but Tommy Townshend interpreted MacFarlane’s reluctance to accept accolades as natural proof of an admirable humility.
The vision of a police officer’s diligence and modesty in the face of great praise registered deeply with many readers, and it vaulted MacFarlane even higher in the public’s estimation. The human interest value of the story caught the attention of the wire services. The story was reprinted in The Globe and Mail and even earned a spot on CTV and CNN headline news.
MacFarlane slowly warmed to his new celebrity, but he didn’t pursue it. He realized it was short-term, but it couldn’t hurt his career, he thought, and it was a welcome distraction from any reconsideration of him as the killer. His life could go on now, just as he had envisioned it would, and maybe even a little better.
One thing still bothered him, though. Sam Best’s last interviewee at White Cross. Something about her didn’t feel right. The woman had been nervous. That was understandable. Even Best, none too sharp at the best of times, had noted that she seemed too nervous. It made him wonder if she were holding something back. If she knew anything, she would have to have been in the building or nearby, but she claimed she had an emergency and had gone home early.
All of that could be a lie, he thought. To find out, he could request her work schedule for that week. That would tell him. However, if he went in that direction, it could backfire and turn suspicion toward him. After all, a suspect had already been charged, and public opinion had already convicted Dawson. People might think it peculiar if he began to poke around.
Then MacFarlane smiled to himself. There is another way to find out, he thought. Constable MacFarlane grabbed his cap and called out to Sergeant Schaeffer as he passed his office.
The Dead Letter Page 2
