Shallow End

by Brenda Chapman

  “Yeah, maybe, but not very likely.”

  “Could you let me know when you’re about to make the arrest?”

  She made the question sound offhand, but Woodhouse heard something in her voice that sounded like desperation. He had to wonder why. Instead of answering her, he said, “As I recall, you weren’t all that happy with the information I gave you last time. In fact, you were less than appreciative. Why should I help you now?”

  “Because you owe me. The information that you gave me, and that my boss published without my permission, made Kala Stonechild lose custody of her niece. I’m sure Rouleau wouldn’t be too pleased to know the hand you played in all of that.”

  “If he even believed you. You wrote the story after all. Plus, aren’t you bound by the reporter oath to never give up a source?”

  “I am. I also regret writing that story every day. I’m not sure which is the stronger pull on my loyalty.” She raised her empty glass until she caught the eye of a passing waitress. She motioned for another and then looked over at him. “Do we have a deal?”

  “So you keep quiet about who gave you the information that Stonechild was a homeless drunk, and I feed you information about this case? Why did you really come crawling back here?”

  She grimaced. “I wouldn’t exactly call it crawling.” She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “All right, Woodhouse, here it is. I quit my job at the Whig and went back to work for my ex on the New York Times only to discover I hated working for the self-serving prick. The Whig wasn’t pleased as you can imagine, but they let me come back to work on probation. I have to bring them something big or they’re going to hire the person they had lined up as my replacement. My ex at the Times is doing his best to spread the word through all the media outlets that I’m washed up, vindictive asshole that he is. I want to prove him wrong.”

  “I thought you were tight with Rouleau.”

  “Not since the Stonechild story broke with my name on it.”

  Woodhouse smiled. He wasn’t sure yet how he’d use her misery to his advantage, but he knew that he would in time. For now, he’d play along. “Well, maybe I owe you. Sure, I can help you out.”

  The waitress set her drink down. “Would you like another, sir?” She picked up his empty beer glass and set it on her tray.

  “No, I’m heading out. Just put my drink on the lady’s tab. She’s in a buying mood tonight.” The waitress left and he stood. “I’ll be seeing you around then, Stokes. Good to have you back in town.” He rapped his knuckles twice on the table top.

  She stared at him with a look on her face like she’d swallowed something distasteful. She reached down and pulled her iPad from her bag. “You have my number. Use it when you have something useful to tell me.”

  He gave a mock salute and headed out of the bar toward the front entrance. Still nobody he recognized in the lobby, which didn’t surprise him. This hotel wasn’t one of the police force haunts. He felt no guilt about stringing Marci Stokes along or giving her information from time to time. His retired partner, Ed Chalmers, had always said that milking sources was part of the job. He’d called it a chess game where you always had to stay a few moves ahead of your opponent to win. “No matter what it takes, Woodhouse, you have to come out on top. Otherwise, the bad guys win.”

  Woodhouse waited for a geriatric couple pulling their luggage to clear the door before he stepped outside and went in search of his car. Time to head home and cook the steak waiting for him in the fridge. It would go nicely with a few pints of beer and the sports channel.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thursday, October 6

  Jane Thompson sat on the vinyl-covered kitchen chair sipping an instant coffee and smoking a cigarette, watching the sky lighten above the trees and buildings across the street. Even though Thursday was her day off, she still rose at five and went for a morning jog while the world was in darkness. The cigarette was her reward. She was working on quitting and had gotten herself down to two a day. She’d have the second after supper. Soon, she’d have to cut them out altogether, but not just yet. She’d started smoking in her early twenties and quit when she found out she was pregnant with Ben. She started up again in prison because her life had felt so hopeless. The idea of getting lung cancer had seemed like a fitting end. In the depths of her despair, she’d forgotten how much her kids needed her.

  She reached inside her pocket and pulled out the letter from Ben that she kept with her as a reminder that she had to hold on. He’d sent it the month before she got out, without Adam’s knowledge, she knew. The words were ingrained into her memory but she still liked to see his handwriting and imagine him forming every word carefully so that she’d be able to read his writing. He was infamous for his poor penmanship.

  Olivia and I can’t wait to see you. We know you worry that we don’t love you anymore, but we do. Dad is still angry but we know that you did what you did for a reason. We want to live with you when you get out. I know it’ll take a while to happen, but that’s what we both want. This is so messed up. Come home Mom.

  Ben and Olivia. Her reasons for everything she’d done and was about to do.

  Adam had cancelled two visits but had agreed she could see them today after school. She’d thought about going behind his back but her parole officer had warned her that this wasn’t a good idea if she wanted to keep regular visits a possibility. Adam was angry and letting her know that he held all the power. If she crossed him, she knew that he’d keep the kids from her. She’d been right to be patient and outwait him. Only a few more hours.

  She took a long drag of the cigarette and held the smoke in her lungs. The burning felt good before she let the smoke out in a long, slow stream through her nose. She stubbed the end out in the ashtray and got up to make a second cup of coffee. The phone rang in the bedroom as she was filling the kettle from the tap. For a split second, she considered not answering, and then thought better of it. Her parole officer said to always be available, and for now, she had to play by the rules. She leaped across the small space into the bedroom and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “I can’t believe they think you killed that kid. How could they … my God. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Sandra. How did you find out?” She shifted the phone from one ear to the other and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.

  “The Whig-Standard. You made the front page. Photos from your trial and even a wedding picture of you and Adam. The reporter is named …” A pause and rustling of paper that Jane could hear over the phone. “Yeah, here it is. Marci Stokes wrote that you were taken into the station. I’m so relieved to find you at home.”

  Jane closed her eyes. Not again. “The police asked me some questions yesterday but let me go. I assure you that they have nothing on me.”

  Sandra was quiet for a moment. “Of course they don’t. You aren’t a killer.” Jane heard less certainty in her sister’s voice. “Will this affect your visit with Ben and Olivia?”

  “Why should it? I haven’t been charged.”

  “It’s just Adam can be a real jerk.”

  “Well, he knows how much this visit means to me and how long I’ve waited. Besides, he doesn’t read the Whig.” She ignored the buzz of worry starting in her belly. Today was her day to finally hold her kids and nothing would get in the way.

  “I guess you’re right. Not even Adam could be that cruel.”

  “Sandra … I have to go. I have a busy day ahead and need to get in the shower.”

  “Are you still coming for supper on Saturday?”

  “Yes. Are you sure I can’t bring anything?”

  “Just yourself. And Jane?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothing. Just keep your head down. Don’t give them any reason to arrest you again.”

  “I’m trying. Thanks for the call.”

  She
hung up, annoyed at Sandra for the worry behind her words. The big blond detective had spoken in the same disbelieving tone when he asked where she’d been the evening Devon went missing. She stood and shrugged out of her sweatshirt, unhooking her bra as she crossed the bedroom to the bathroom, letting the clothes fall in a scattered trail behind her. Well, soon none of their opinions would be worth a damn. She had plans that didn’t include sitting in the women’s pen for the rest of her life, letting others call the shots. If she’d learned anything in the past four years, it was to stay a step ahead. She wouldn’t let the same mistakes she’d made four years ago trip her up now, because she wasn’t the same woman she’d been when the police first came knocking at her door.

  Rouleau poured a cup of muddy-looking coffee from the pot and checked for cream. When none was to be found, he added a scoop of sugar to cut the bitterness. He picked up the file he’d been reading and crossed to the meeting area and noticed that everyone but Woodhouse was holding a Tim Hortons cup. Rouleau had forgotten that Woodhouse made the coffee on Thursday mornings.

  “You didn’t send me a text reminder,” he said as he passed by Gundersund.

  Gundersund smiled and raised his cup. “We’re trying to encourage him to be more domesticated, remember?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Rouleau noticed Kala Stonechild sitting separate from the others, head down, reading her phone. Bennett had followed him into the space and was dragging a chair closer to her, but she didn’t look up. Woodhouse was on the other side of Gundersund with a few cops sitting between them. Rouleau had asked Heath for some dedicated uniforms and was happy to see Bedouin, first one on the murder scene, and Tanya Morrison, a smart cop with twenty years’ experience. He’d heard from Vera that she’d put in a request to join his team. Heath was considering expanding the unit the next fiscal if some funding came through. Rouleau took a second to welcome them before checking the chart of people involved in Devon Eton’s life that they’d started on the whiteboard. The connections were growing as the detectives added names from their door-to-door and interviews.

  “Right,” he began. “I have the report from Forensics and it shows cause of death was from a couple of violent blows to the back of his head. They aren’t able to determine what was used, but it was a large solid object and not somebody’s fist. Time of death estimated between midnight and 2:00 a.m. October 4, although it could have gone an hour either side. He’d eaten a hamburger and fries sometime around six based on the stage of digestion. He’d also drunk a good quantity of beer, possibly explaining why he was easily overpowered. He was fit with no chronic medical issues. He’d had a broken collarbone that had healed and some faded bruising that was consistent with football injuries.”

  “Could he have gotten into a drunken brawl with somebody?” Woodhouse asked. He looked over at Stonechild as if to imply that she was experienced with drunken brawls.

  Gundersund responded quickly. “There were no other injuries, which would be probable if he’d been involved in a fight, especially on his hands. He was likely ambushed. If he was half inebriated, he’d be easy to overpower.”

  “No drugs in his system?” Bennett asked.

  “Not on preliminary analysis but more tests are pending.” Rouleau turned and wrote the details in a column on the whiteboard. When he finished, he asked, “Anything come from the door-to-door?”

  Woodhouse shook his head. “Neighbour saw Devon leave for school at the normal time. She said he was polite as always and didn’t notice anything off. She worked night shift at the hospital and didn’t see him come home. Nobody else saw anything. We also checked out the apartment building across from the park. Nobody saw anything.”

  Rouleau looked back at the whiteboard. “Gundersund, I see that you and Stonechild interviewed his best friend, Charlie Hanson, is it?”

  Gundersund looked at Stonechild but she was busy typing on her phone. He looked back at Rouleau. “Yeah, they were thick as thieves by all accounts. Charlie said that Devon had something to do after school, that he was keeping a secret, and that he never saw him after class got out. Classmates said Charlie wasn’t popular like Devon, and I have to say, the kid was a bit creepy.”

  Woodhouse said, “Creepy is the norm for most teenage boys.”

  Gundersund stared across at him. “Since when did you become an expert on teenage boys?”

  “If Woodhouse is an expert on teenage boys, we’re all in trouble … and maybe in for a lawsuit.” Bedouin waited for the laughs to die down before asking, “What do you want Tanya and me to do today?”

  Rouleau shook his head at Gundersund and said, “Woodhouse and Bennett will work through Devon’s computer, iPad, and phone. Heath is holding a media briefing today and the parents will be speaking. We’ll be announcing a call-in number for anyone who might have seen anything or who might have information. The family is offering a reward for information that leads to a conviction. Bedouin and Morrison, I’ll need you both to answer the phones and sift through the calls. We’ve got others on standby to check out the bars on the off chance Devon was in one drinking after school.”

  “Kala and I will continue interviewing people.” Gundersund stood and stretched. “Devon’s football coach was home sick yesterday but he’s at the school today. We have a teacher from Jane’s last school to track down and we also plan to speak with Adam Thompson about his ex-wife.”

  Rouleau nodded. “Keep Jane Thompson in your sights. We’ll need to bring her in again for questioning before long, but not before we have a better idea of her involvement with Devon and his family.”

  Kala caught up with Gundersund at his desk after making a visit to the washroom. He was reading something on his computer screen that he minimized when he realized she was behind him. He hadn’t been quick enough though. She’d seen the website for a law office on King Street that specialized in family law. She sat down in the guest chair and he swivelled his seat to face her.

  “Devon’s football coach at Frontenac has a spare at ten and will meet us in his office in the gym.” Gundersund glanced at his notebook. “Name is Laurence Lee. I’m still waiting to hear from Jane’s previous colleague …” He trailed a finger down the page. “Nicholas Wagner. He had the classroom next to Jane at Winston Churchill and was one of the few to take the stand in her defence during her trial. He’s changed schools but is still in the district.”

  “Good. Gundersund, I hate to do this but I have an appointment that I can’t get out of at four o’clock. Are you okay if I bow out for a bit?” For some reason, she didn’t want to tell him that it was with Dawn’s new social worker. She hadn’t decided if she was going to get involved again.

  “No problem. I can take the Adam Thompson interview alone.”

  “I might be able to join you partway through.”

  “And if not, I’ll fill you in.”

  The office to the right of the gym doors was cramped and smelled of stale body odour and warm tuna sandwiches. Kala stepped around a basketball and squeezed into one of the two visitor chairs wedged up against the filing cabinet that was capped with trophies and packages of new tennis balls. Laurence Lee was standing and talking into his cellphone. He was attempting to calm down what appeared to be an irate parent and rolled his eyes at Kala as he listened to their end of the conversation. Gundersund remained standing near the door, a hulking presence in Lee’s cramped, messy kingdom.

  Kala waited impatiently for Lee to end the call. He was short, maybe five eight, but muscular under a white T-shirt. The buzz cut gave his black hair a military look and his stare was penetrating — not a man you’d want to meet in a dark alley. His head bobbed up and down a few times before he cut off the caller with a curt, “Take it up with the principal.” He shoved the phone onto his desk and dropped into the chair, keeping his eyes on Kala. “Sorry about that. One of my football players has an overprotective mother who’s making his lif
e a misery. But you’re here to talk about Devon Eton, not my ongoing parent problems. What would you like to know?” He grabbed a volleyball from the floor and leaned back in the chair, juggling the ball from one hand to the other while he waited for her question. The muscles in his arms bulged with every toss. Green Chinese lettering was tattooed on the underside of both forearms.

  Kala held his unblinking gaze. She felt like she was twelve again in a staring contest with a boy in her class. “We’re gathering as much information about Devon as we can at this stage. Did you see him on Monday?”

  “He was at practice in the morning. Seemed okay and nothing stands out. I saw him by his locker talking to Charlie Hanson after last class. They appeared to be arguing about something.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “No, but Devon was telling him off from what I could see. I could never figure out their relationship. Charlie was quiet and not brilliant by any stretch, although not stupid either. Who really knew what was going on in his head?”

  “Did you see them leave together or separately?”

  “Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. It’s a busy time of day and I was on hall patrol.”

  “We’re asking everyone their impression of Devon and if he was upset about anything.”

  Laurence Lee hesitated. “I imagine you’ve been told that he was polite, good student, popular and intelligent.”

  Kala read a subtle change in his body language. “I hear a ‘but.’ ”

  Lee let the volleyball drop, then watched as it bounced across the floor and landed on his gym bag. “Devon appeared to have all these stellar qualities and I can’t put my finger on any one thing that made me doubt the authenticity of the kid, but I don’t know, there was something about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. I wouldn’t call it malicious exactly, but it was definitely cold.” Lee met her eyes again. “Not much to go on, is it? A gut feeling about the expression in someone’s eyes won’t hold up in court I’m guessing, but then again, Devon won’t be on trial for his own murder.”