Collins nodded at Thorpe and closed his notebook. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. You’ve been a great help.”
The detectives shook hands with Sullivan and started out of the office.
“Good luck, lads,” Sullivan said. “Clelland and his wife were good people. Oh, if it helps, Ken senior once told me over a beer that his boys were crazy about windsurfing or diving, or some shit like that. How the hell two Canadian boys take to windsurfing and not hockey is beyond me.”
Thorpe turned and waved at his friend. “Thanks again Sully. I’ll be in touch.”
Sullivan was concentrating on stuffing the empty coffee cup in the middle of the garbage can as the detectives closed the door to his office.
* * *
In order to keep one step ahead of the police the Clelland brothers researched all of their targets before initiating the attacks, thus reducing the risk of being spotted when they carried out their plan. Their book listed the targets in a progressive manner, with Gervais himself the final target. The police targets were both for revenge and distraction. The brothers believed the police would concentrate on the hits aimed at police targets and spend less time working on the Gervais case. Deputy Chief Murray caught their eye when, while scouting targets in the police computer system, they noticed he played squash every Friday at mid-day at a downtown squash club. Eric and Ken made a couple visits to the club and watched Murray. They were pleased to see Murray was a fan of Megapower.
“Ken, I know we’re prepared, but isn’t this pushing things a bit?”
“We promised we would teach those cops a lesson. Part of it is taking chances. But remember we’ve prepared ourselves for everything. We’ve covered our trails completely.”
“Minimum risk?”
“Minimum risk. Relax. So…tonight we double-check our plan. The show is tomorrow.”
That evening Eric walked up to The Pickett Squash club, in a former warehouse building on the edge of downtown Edmonton. It shared the old brick complex with trendy loft condominiums, expensive clothing stores, and street front cafes. The only sign for the squash club was a small brass plate on the heavy wooden door. The club didn’t need advertising. There was a ten-year waiting list for membership.
Eric swiped the security card he duplicated after stealing one several weeks ago from a squash club member who never noticed it was temporarily taken from his SUV glove box. The light on the small box turned green, just as it had when he tested the card the previous week. Eric studied lock picking for a month the previous year in preparation for what his brother called “the game.” Eric concentrated on the studies despite his wish to abandon Ken’s plan and go and chill on a beach. The inside of the club maintained the charm of the turn-of-the-century building with thick wooden beams and dark paneling. Soft music drew him into the reception area, now vacant thanks to the security system. A small sporting goods store and a private restaurant shared the area with the reception desk. The courts and change rooms were a little busy at the moment so Eric walked into the restaurant and ordered a crab salad. He picked at the food while he sipped at a double espresso. On the seat across from him he displayed an expensive squash bag with two high quality rackets in the padded holders. Despite Eric’s tall, lanky build and his ability to play at a high level, he detested squash. He preferred games with high risk. He glanced around the dark room and imagined none of the other patrons had skydived or rock climbed without safety ropes. He smiled. The club members had no idea that an ultimate game would take place right there tomorrow night.
Many club members departed so Eric stood up and pulled out his wallet. He paid for his lunch in cash and glanced at the man with blond hair and a narrow beard in the mirror near the exit to the restaurant, barely able to recognize his own reflection. With the sports bag slung over his shoulder, looking every bit the serious squash player, Eric walked out of the restaurant and down a narrow hallway. Turning right, through a door marked Men’s Change Room, he was greeted by several rows of lockers. He noticed two men changing in the second row, busy formulating an investment plan that would triple their wealth. They glanced at Eric as he passed before turning back to their conversation. Eric confidently turned down the third row and stopped at number locker number 133. After checking that the aisle was clear Eric picked the lock on Robert Murray’s locker within seconds. After opening the metal door he replaced the two sports drinks on the top shelf with the duplicate bottles from his sports bag. As he set down the bottles, someone touched his shoulder.
“Slipping by,” said the powerfully built man with the towel wrapped around his waist.
Eric nodded while closing and locking the door.
The man stopped halfway down the row and opened his locker. “How do you like the V40?”
“I beg your pardon,” Eric responded in a perfect English accent.
“Your V40.” The man pointed at Eric’s racquets.
“Ah, yes, splendid, just the right balance.” Eric recalled the salesman’s description when he purchased the racquets in Vancouver. Eric picked up the bag and started for the exit.
“I prefer the laser series, a little more give. Maybe we can book a court for tomorrow afternoon,” the stranger offered.
“Love to, but I already have a game here tomorrow. Perhaps another time.” Eric left the room without waiting for a response.
Having the man see him did not faze Eric. He’d not only worn a disguise, but also made plans to soon be far away from the club in short order, far enough that nobody would find him. Eric exited the club and walked north until he was deep inside a residential neighbourhood, away from video surveillance of businesses. Cutting through an empty school ground and across a small parking lot behind the closed school, Eric picked up his car a few blocks away and drove to a park on the outskirts of the city. After stopping in an isolated area that was open enough that he could see people or vehicles approaching, he opened the trunk and pulled out three large bottles of water and a towel. The false nose and moustache peeled off easily. Eric stashed them in a rumpled plastic bag. After tossing the bag in a nearby garbage can he took one more look around to ensure he was still alone. The bottled water splashed over his head, washing the blonde dye out of his hair and eyebrows. He toweled dry his naturally brown hair and drove to a different garbage container a kilometre away and disposed of his blue contact lenses and fake fingerprints.
Chapter Six
The next day was Friday, always a busy day at police headquarters. Everyone tried to get caught up before the weekend. Deputy Police Chief Murray stood up behind his desk and stretched. He had come to work early to work on the massive backlog. Murray, a creature of habit, disliked the fact the police killings disrupted his schedule like nothing before had. This, on top of the loss of fellow officers, increased his stress level. Exercise was his outlet. He used it to cope when Murray was promoted to Deputy Chief. The administrative work took a mental toll, much different from the stresses of patrol. He grabbed his jacket from the tree behind his desk and slipped it on. His secretary was busy sending off the reports Murray worked on earlier.
“Jenny, I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
Jenny placed her hand on the pile of reports on the left side of her desk. “I’ll have these ready for you to review when you get back.”
“Just send them out. I know they’ll be correct.”
“Very well. Have a good game.”
“Thanks, Jenny.”
The confidence Murray showed in others was one of the things which made him almost universally popular in the department. Everyone waved or said hello to him as he walked down the hallway to the elevator. He rode alone to the parking garage below.
Murray climbed into his car and took a deep breath to help relax. Murray winced as the car left the dark parkade and entered the bright midday sunshine. The Deputy Chief waited for several cars to pass then turned right on 101st Street. Within five minutes he arrived at the Pickett Squash Club. He pulled in behind the building and parked in his us
ual spot. Reaching into the back seat he grabbed his squash bag. His large, lanky frame unfolded as he got out of the car and walked towards the red brick building. There was a jump in his step as he anticipated an invigorating game against Ian McDonough. If he could beat Ian he would move up to the top tier for his age bracket in the squash club rankings. He swiped his security card and a buzzing sound invited him to open the heavy door. Murray checked his watch as he walked down the corridor to the change room. He had just enough time to warm up before the match. Murray entered the change room and opened his locker, methodically changing into his squash gear. His military background trained him to neatly fold and stack his clothes, finishing the transition to athlete by setting his highly polished shoes in the bottom of his locker. When he checked in the mirror he saw everything was in order, grabbed a bottle of Megapower, slipped it into his squash bag and headed for the court. Murray was content and confident, usually a sign of a good game to come.
Murray pushed open the glass door leading to the courts. He noticed McDonough’s bag and spare racquet beside the door into their court. Through the Plexiglas rear walls of the court he saw Ian working on his backhand. It was McDonough’s weakness, and looked like it still needed some work on the follow-through.
The court across the aisle from theirs was occupied, two sport bags rested near the door. Murray rapped on the door to let Ian know that he was entering. After a few minutes to loosen up they began to play in earnest. The first game was close. Through power shots to McDonough’s backhand Murray won by two points. Both players toweled off the sweat from their faces and swigged their sports drinks.
McDonough had the first service in the next game and won easily. Murray was only able to score five points. He felt weak and nauseated. He knew Ian was taller, thinner, and had a better chance of winning a long game. They both wiped down again and drank again.
Murray came out aggressively on the first point of the next game. After a short rally of hard shots McDonough drove the ball off the centre of the wall and straight at Murray’s racquet. Murray’s eyes watered and his swing missed the ball by a foot.
Murray staggered around the centre of the court.
“Are you okay, Bob?”
“Just need a sec, Ian.”
McDonough was just able to grab one of Murray’s arms as the heavier man fell to the floor. Murray choked and curled up into the fetal position, his whole body quivering, his eyes fixed on the Megapower bottle behind the Plexiglas.
McDonough ran out to the lobby and called 911. Two doctors eating in the restaurant heard what happened and ran to help the Deputy Chief. McDonough and the doctors returned to the court where the physicians could not find a pulse and immediately started performing CPR. A crowd gathered around.
Across the aisle Ken and Eric picked up their sports bags and walked out of the building. As they walked down the 104th Avenue an ambulance raced past them. They didn’t have to see where it was going, or wonder if the patient would survive. They had tripled the amount of poison to make sure the powerfully built man didn’t survive.
* * *
Collins picked up the plastic bag containing the copy of the video the killer took of Kirkpatrick as she died. “Let’s see how careful these guys are. Albert, can we take these to the lab and see if they can find anything that might help?”
“Consider it done.” Thorpe scooped up the photos and a DVD with digital copies of the videos. “The Chief indicated this case is a priority. Besides, I have a close friend who works in the lab.”
Thorpe and Collins went to the building across the street from police headquarters and entered the police lab. Thorpe’s friend, Brenda White, was in fact in charge of the lab. She greeted the detectives and took the DVD to a workstation and slipped it into a DVD player.
White shook her head.
“Anything there that might help us identify this guy?” asked Collins.
“Not yet, but I’d like to take a closer look.” Dr. White transferred the video onto a large screen on the wall. She froze the video and used a digital arrow on a remote control to guide the detectives. “If you notice, on this picture there is a car parked behind the victim. I think I can blow up and enhance the reflection in the side window of the car.”
White typed on a keyboard and enlarged the still image of the car’s side window photo onto the big screen. The picture was grainy and distorted. “Now I can filter and enhance the image.”
White pressed more keys and the picture became a bit clearer and the image of the bike rider became clearer.
Collins moved in closer to the monitor and put on his glasses. The image showed a tall man straddling a bike and apparently talking on a phone. “Still can’t make out the face.”
“Nor will you. With the helmet and sunglasses it isn’t possible to see his face. But if my guess is right, at least one of your killers lived in Edmonton. I’ll be right back. I just have to check something.” White went into an adjoining office and picked up a telephone and started talking to someone. At the same time she keyed the computer in the office. Minutes later she returned with a smile on her face.
“Well, we can be sure of one thing, one of the killers likely lived in Edmonton. Have a look at the bike he’s riding. I just called my nephew who works at a bike shop. I sent him a copy of the picture and he immediately recognized the bike as a Hakimoto racing bike. The distinctive frame design gives it away. That bike is worth nearly five grand, but the model is about four years old. Even if the killer had tons of money it’s unlikely he would spend thousands of dollars on a bike to use once or twice. One, or both, of your killers likely lived in Edmonton a few years ago and already owned that expensive bike. My nephew said that model hasn’t been available for at least two years.”
Thorpe nodded and turned to Collins. “This helps confirm we’ve the right suspects in mind, lots of money and local ties. And the time frame works. They’ve been away for a few years.
Collins and Thorpe thanked Dr. White and crossed the street on their way back to police headquarters. The streets were jammed with cars and the sidewalks full of shoppers and business people.
The news of the death of Robert Murray reached Police Headquarters as Collins and Thorpe were in the lab. While the Chief of Police was informed first, unofficial sources from the hospital and the squash club contacted other people in the police department. The preliminary cause of death was a heart attack.
The detective’s department was abuzz with conversation and rumours about the death as Thorpe and Collins entered. Thorpe’s phone rang incessantly. As he fielded calls he sorted through a flood of emails with titles like, “heard about Robert?” or “is it true?” Thorpe was discussing Murray’s death with a detective from Vancouver when a new email message popped up on his screen. A sinking feeling came over Thorpe as he read the title.
“Kevin, I have to let you go. Something has come up.” Thorpe hung up the phone and waved over Collins who was in a scrum with several other detectives.
As Collins moved closer he saw Thorpe could not take his eyes off of the computer screen. With Thorpe leaning over his shoulder Thorpe opened the email titled “video of death on a court.”
Thorpe opened the email letter and the detectives read the brief note: “Happy Hunting.”
“Son of a bitch,” hissed Collins.
Thorpe opened the attachment. The video showed Deputy Chief Murray playing squash. Thorpe paused the video and grabbed Collins’ arm. He pulled Thorpe through the door leading to Captain McCoy’s office. They hadn’t knocked and McCoy was on the telephone. He scowled at the interruption. When he saw the shocked look on Thorpe’s face, he ended the conversation.
“What’s up, Albert?”
“Sir, I just received a video of Robert Murray playing squash. It’s titled “video of death on a court.”“
Captain McCoy got out of his chair and pointed to the conference room on the other side of the detective’s department. “Set it to play on the screen in there.”
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Thorpe and Collins ran across to the conference room and Thorpe sat down and logged into his email from that terminal and prepared it to send it to the large screen.
McCoy grabbed his phone and called the office of the Chief of Police. “Donna, I need to speak to the Chief, immediately.”
“He’s extremely busy, Captain. Is it something that can’t wait?”
“It is vital, Donna.”
“Okay, just a moment.”
The silence only lasted moments.
“Chief Talbot. What is it, Captain?”
“Chief, Detective Thorpe just received a video of Bob playing squash.”
A moment’s silence. “I’ll be right there.”
* * *
Unbeknownst to the two detectives and the dozens of other policemen in the area, the two men they so desperately wanted to catch were walking out of an internet café on Jasper Avenue less than two blocks from the police station. The brothers had just transmitting the video of the agonizing death of the beloved Deputy Chief from their digital camera to a computer, and then to Detective Thorpe’s email account. They dropped their squash gear in a charity collection bin and walked several blocks down Jasper Avenue. They peeled off the false fingerprints and dumped them in a garbage can.
“Feel like sushi for lunch, Eric?”
“Whatever.”
“Eric, this is everything. We’re going to have the cops scurrying around like mice. Wait. Just wait. You’ll see.”
The brothers turned down 101st Street and entered a second floor Japanese restaurant across the street from police headquarters. Ken slipped the waiter at the door twenty dollars and pointed to the only table available overlooking the street. “That table.”
“Of course, sir.” The waiter pocketed the twenty and pulled out the chairs at the table. Ken sat down and smiled at the view of the large building. Eric looked around the room, pleased there didn’t seem to be anyone from the police department in the restaurant.
Rough Business Page 6
