The Detective Lane Casebook #1

by Garry Ryan

  “Still, we have to see the patterns developing here. Three separate incidents where careless smoking was linked to fatalities. A new car is destroyed and any potential evidence is conveniently destroyed right along with it. On top of this, there is mounting pressure to close the case and clear Bobbie. It’s when you look at all that we’ve got that this case begins to become clear.”

  “I’m not so sure. It’s like Bobbie’s been your prime suspect from the first time you met her,” Harper said.

  Lane said, “You’re right. But that doesn’t make me wrong. If we hurry, we might catch Bobbie’s brother at the university.”

  In fifteen minutes, they drove past the university’s arts parkade, where Jay’s Lincoln was parked, and pulled up at the meters in front of the education building. “His class is in the there. First floor,” Harper pointed at the brick building. He turned of the engine and palmed the keys.

  Lane stepped out of the Chevy.

  The sun was warm on their backs, but the wind’s cool breath promised that winter was on its way. They pulled open the doors of the education building and stepped inside. On the left was a coffee shop, chairs, and tables. On the right was the room they were looking for. Lane pulled a copy of Jay’s photo ID out of his pocket and studied it. “Need to take a look?” He handed it to Harper.

  They pulled on the door and walked inside the lecture theatre.

  Jay always sat at the front, so the tape recorder could pick up the professor’s voice. He looked over his shoulder at the clock and saw the pair of detectives. When he was a kid, he had learned to spot them. After his parents died in the fire, there were police all over the front yard. He had made up a game of guessing which ones were the police, which ones were the reporters, and who the spectators were. It had been a way to keep his mind off what happened to his parents. Between sobs he’d tried to explain what he knew about Bobbie, but the police had ignored him and listened only to his sister.

  These detectives stood just inside the door. The one with the moustache was younger and looked like a football player. The older one was about the same height, had thinning hair, and it looked like he was missing part of his ear. He didn’t look like a cop. There was something different about him, Jay decided.

  Jay shuddered when he remembered the accident on Crowchild Trail. He thought about the Toyota pickup. He saw it veer off the pavement and up onto its side in a cloud of dust and debris.

  Jay turned around, reached into his backpack and lifted out a toque. He pulled it on.

  Lane scanned the crowd. The class was filling up.

  Harper said, “Excuse me. We’re police officers looking for Jay Krocker.” He showed the driver’s license photo of Jay to a man of about forty-five with an athletic build and a ready smile.

  The professor was caught off balance, “I’ve got eighty-five students in this class. He doesn’t look familiar.”

  Lane thought for a minute, then said, “Would you ask if he’s here?” He looked past Jay and up at the officers as students looked at one another and shrugged. “Sorry,” the professor said, a little too quickly.

  Harper held up his right hand as if to say thank you.

  Lane began to walk down the stairs. Students looked up at him. He studied their faces.

  “Is that all you need? I would like to get this class started,” the professor said.

  Lane spotted a student wearing a toque. The student stood up and made for the door to his left. The door closed behind him.

  Lane followed and opened the door. He looked right and left down the empty hallway.

  Harper came around the corner to Lane’s left. Lane ran to his right and reached the end of the hallway. The door to his left led outside. A clutch of students came through the door. Lane looked right. The hallway was empty.

  “Well?” Harper pulled up next to Lane.

  “All we’ve done is scare him off,” Lane said.

  “Today’s not a total loss. I mean, we’ve got the dog’s blood and hair sample. Maybe we’ll get a match with Kaylie’s clothing,” Harper said.

  “Jay, over here!”

  Jay almost had a heart attack. He turned and saw Rosie. Black leather jacket, blue pants and cowboy boots. He thought, How is it possible for one person to look so good? Jay looked around to see if the police officers were nearby.

  “Come on, we can talk and walk.” Rosie adjusted the nylon book bag hanging from a strap on her shoulder. “I always carry too many books on Tuesday.”

  “Want me to carry them for you?” Jay asked.

  “I was just complaining, not asking for help,” Rosie said.

  He had to pick up his pace to keep up with her. They moved north toward the library. “How’d you find me?”

  “Tony,” she said as if the answer was obvious. “He says he always knows where to find you because you’re so predictable. And he says you want help on Friday night.”

  “Yes. We need help or it won’t work.”

  “This is for my cousin, right?” She stopped to study his face.

  “The one with the baby?” Jay asked.

  “You guys pulled off the last one at the hockey game?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Jay made a mental note to tell Tony to keep his big mouth shut.

  “There’s a picture in the The Gauntlet today. Rex has that thing around his neck, and the newspaper caption says, “Rex is a dickhead.” My cousin will like that. Rosie smiled.

  Jay unzipped his jacket. He felt warm in spite of the north wind. “Good.”

  “I’ve got ten friends who want to help. We’ll be there Friday night right after the first game. You be ready.”

  “But—” Jay said.

  “Don’t worry. We know what to do. You two just have to do your part. See you then.” Rosie turned left into the library.

  BOBBIE: Good afternoon. It’s Bobbie on the ride home. Thank you for the overwhelming support. I need more advice about a related topic. When you’ve got a terminal illness, what do you tell your child?

  I, and many women like me, could sure use some advice. I’m Bobbie, speak to me.

  Jay and Tony sat together in the mall, sipping coffee, and watching the people. They had twenty-three minutes before their shift started at 8:30 PM.

  “How come you told Rosie about the plan?” Jay asked.

  “You said we needed help. I asked her, she said no.” Tony leaned back. People had to take a detour, or trip over his outstretched feet.

  “Well, she said yes this afternoon. She asked if we were the ones who got Rex at the hockey game. Did you see the picture in the paper?” Jay asked.

  “A classic. That and the caption. Man, who says revenge isn’t sweet?” Tony closed his eyes as if trying to hold onto the image in his mind.

  “The cops are looking for me,” Jay said.

  Tony sat up, “What?”

  “They came to my psych class. They told the prof to ask for me. I left class early.”

  Tony studied his coffee cup. “Why would they want you?”

  “I cut this guy off on Crowchild Trail. He rolled his truck up on its side,” Jay said.

  “Did your car hit his truck?”

  “No,” Jay said.

  “Did he die?”

  “Don’t think so,” Jay said.

  “Did you check the news or read the papers?” Tony asked.

  “No!”

  “Do you realize how crazy that sounds?” Tony asked.

  “Not as crazy as you might think,” Jay said.

  Wednesday, October 21 Chapter 14

  ARTHUR SMILED AND passed Lane the newspaper’s city section. “Read this.” He pointed at an article on page three.

  Lane set his toast down and took the paper.

  “You’re going to love it,” Arthur said when Lane began to read.

  CITY WOMAN WINS RECOGNITION

  The winner of the Daughters of Alberta (DOA) award for Outstanding Citizen of the Year is Mrs. Charity Smallway. Smallway is a twenty-year member of DOA.

>   “Charity has been recognized for her service to the community,” Mrs. Constance Dupuis, the chair of DOA explained at the Palliser Hotel awards ceremony.

  Mrs. Smallway has been a champion of family values and fundraiser for many local charity organizations. Mrs. Smallway said, “I’m thrilled to be honoured in this way by women with moral integrity.”

  Lane asked, “It’s really called DOA? like ‘Dead on arrival?’”

  Arthur said, “Apparently. And just in case you forgot, Matt’s game starts at eight tonight.”

  “Still haven’t got those new skates,” Lane said.

  “Better hurry and get ready. Dr. Keeler said 7:30 AM.”

  Lane smiled as he stood up from the kitchen table. “This is a switch. Keeler’s calling me for an appointment.” “No indication what it’s about?” Arthur asked.

  “None. He just said he wanted to talk with me, alone. I haven’t had any tests lately, have I?”

  “Not that I can think of. Are you going to tell him the nightmares are coming back?” Arthur asked.

  Half an hour later Lane stood in the empty hallway outside Dr. Keeler’s office door. Lane knocked. He heard the deadbolt turn, then he was facing Dr. Keeler. He still reminded Lane of a horror writer, with his black hair, lined face and dark eyes accented by thumb-sized eyebrows. Keeler stood a good head shorter than the detective.

  “Thanks for coming.” Keeler shook Lane’s hand.

  The doctor looked as if he hadn’t slept last night.

  “We can talk in my office.” Keeler lead the way down the hall until they reached his office set in one corner of the building. He ushered Lane in and closed the door behind them. He sat down beside Lane.

  “You’ve got me worried.” Lane turned to look at the doctor.

  “This is a very difficult situation.” Keeler was looking sideways at Lane. “I’ve been worrying about this for almost a week, then things came to a head yesterday.” He leaned forward.

  Lane said, “I’m really in the dark here. What exactly are we talking about?”

  “Bobbie Reddie’s radio show. She told her audience that she has cancer.”

  Lane leaned back and put his hand to his mouth. Forcing himself to wait so the doctor could get his story out.

  “What I’m about to tell you is breaking doctor– patient confidentiality. Another doctor has confided her concerns to me. You see, Bobbie was tested for cancer, and the biopsy was negative.”

  Lane nodded and waited.

  “You’re promising me this will stay confidential?” Keeler asked.

  “Yes.”

  “A child’s safety is at stake. I’m getting ahead of myself. I should have had a cup of coffee this morning.” Keeler shook his head to clear his mind. “Bobbie doesn’t have cancer, yet she’s acting as if she does. And she has been exhibiting signs of Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy.”

  Lane held out his hands to signal his ignorance.

  “She brought her children in to her family doctor with a wide variety of symptoms. My colleague tried to diagnose the symptoms but was always mystified until she considered Munchausen’s. It appears that Bobbie Reddie was causing her children to become ill, then taking them to the doctor. This went on for more than a year. My friend confronted Bobbie, and Ms. Reddie promptly threatened the doctor with a malpractice suit. Then Reddie moved on to another doctor. I checked with the next doctor. She is also becoming suspicious.

  You see, I’m breaking an oath in telling you this, but I feel I have no choice because of the child. The surviving child is at tremendous risk.”

  “How did you know I was investigating the Reddie murders?” Lane asked.

  “It was reasonable to assume you are the investigator. You always come to me asking about cases which start out with missing persons,” Keeler said.

  Lane smiled. “A good bit of deduction.”

  “My colleague and I believe that the boy is in danger. The children’s symptoms were becoming more severe. It’s one of the reasons why Ms. Reddie was confronted.”

  “Did you contact social services?” Lane asked.

  “Munchausen’s is very hard to prove. We really only arrived at the conclusion, because all other possibilities had been eliminated. We’d hoped Ms. Reddie would be willing to seek treatment,” Keeler said.

  “So, you were consulted by the other doctor on the Reddie case?” Lane asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did the father ever come on the visits?”

  “Not once,” Keeler said.

  BOBBIE: Good afternoon. It’s Bobbie on the ride home. Today we have a special guest, Charity Smallway.

  She’s this year’s winner of the Daughters of Alberta Outstanding Citizen of the Year Award. Charity is here to talk about the exploitation of children. How do we protect our children from those who would harm them?

  Jay picked up a piece of beef with his chopsticks. The chili peppers in the satay beef-noodle soup cleared his sinuses. It was his first meal of the day. He sat across the table from Tony who tackled a bowl of noodles and chicken. The Lucky Elephant Restaurant was about half full.

  “Where’s Uncle Tran?” Jay asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s a hockey game tonight. He’s addicted to it,” Tony said.

  “What’s Rosie got planned for tomorrow night?”

  Jay asked.

  “She says we’ll know what to do. Whatever she has planned will happen after the first match.” Tony wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “Match?” Jay inhaled a mouthful of rice noodles.

  “It’s volleyball. You know, the Hemi.”

  “Hemi?” Jay asked.

  “Man, I always know more about what’s goin’ on in this town than you do. Teams from all over the western hemisphere come here every year to play volleyball. It’s on network TV. Big sponsors, big names, big bucks. The place’ll be packed.”

  “Oh,” Jay said.

  “You gotta start reading a paper or listening to the radio.” Tony shook his head.

  “Not gonna happen,” Jay said.

  Lane circled the ice after setting the nets and making sure all of the gates were closed. The ice was perfect. Cheryl’s an artist, he thought. In her hands, the Zamboni creates a perfectly smooth surface.

  “Hey Ref! They’re really scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel when they take some fruit in figure skates!”

  Lane glanced up into the stands.

  A man in a full-length black leather coat, black leather driving gloves, and tie pointed at Lane. “That’s right, you!” He laughed at Lane.

  Lane looked away. This is going to be lots of fun, he thought. Matt lead his team out onto the ice. They wore new jerseys tonight; red, white, and black. Matt nearly fell. He turned, righted himself, circled, and stopped. The player behind him stopped by falling. The rest of the team managed ragged and juddering braking maneuvers. Lane looked at Matt’s coach who smiled back. He’s right, Lane thought, these guys really do need some skating lessons.

  Lane was the only referee to show for the game and, as a result, heard only a fraction of what the heckler in black leather had to scream. It was another shutout for Matt who managed to stop the puck with toes, blocker, pads, elbows, and helmet. Somehow, he even stopped a puck with his backside turned to the play and one eye on the puck. It was never pretty, Lane thought, but the kid got it done.

  It was about halfway through the game, just after Lane blew the whistle on an icing, when Matt skated to the centre line across from his team’s bench. He looked up into the stands and struck the glass with his stick.

  “Shut up!”

  Lane looked up into the stands. The man in black leather said, “It’s a free country kid!”

  Lane skated over to Matt. “What’s the matter?”

  Matt’s face was red behind the mask. His eyes were animal. “Didn’t you hear what he said?”

  “No.” Lane looked up at the man in black leather.

  Cheryl the rink attendant was coming down the aisle
with a wet mop. She was followed by three other women who were mothers of players on Matt’s team. None of the women were smiling.

  “Gotta clean up the mess,” Cheryl said.

  “What mess?” black leather asked.

  “You, Mac,” one of the mothers said.

  “Whatdoyamean?” Mac asked.

  Another woman said, “We mean it’s time for you to go, Mac. Our boys put up with you last year. It’s not gonna happen again this year.”

  “I got a right to watch my kid play!” Mac said.

  Cheryl slapped the mop onto the cement at Mac’s feet.

  “Hey, those shoes cost me three-hundred bucks!” Mac stood up and backed away. “I’m gonna have your job, dyke!” He raised a fist.

  The third woman pulled out a cellphone, “I think that’s called attempted assault. I’ll check it out with the police.”

  “Go ahead. Guy can’t have a little fun at a game these days without havin’ to put up with a politically correct gang of dykes!” Mac retreated.

  The women waited till the arena door closed behind Mac.

  Cheryl leaned on her mop and smiled at Matt. “Finish the game fellas, another team’s up after you.”

  After the game, when Lane, Arthur, and Matt drove home, the Jeep filled with a now familiar pungent mixture of sweat and drying equipment.

  Matt said, “Why do you take that? I mean the Ref calls me a cripple, and you’ve got him by the throat. The guy in the stands calls you a fudge-packer, and you do nothin.’”

  Lane had his window cracked open to let in some fresh air.

  “Didn’t you hear what he said?” Matt asked.

  “Some of it,” Lane said.

  Matt shook his head.

  “After you accept who you are, people can’t say much to hurt you,” Arthur said.

  Lane thought, It’s time to change the subject. “Why don’t we get Martha to come to the next game?”

  Friday, October 23

  Chapter 15

  LANE WAS AT least fifteen minutes ahead of the morning rush hour traffic when his cellphone rang. He reached into his pocket, flipped the phone open, and pressed the talk button.