Thorpe turned to Collins. “I hope your passport is in order.”
The detectives got copies of the report from the lab technician and headed straight to the Chief’s office. After going over the information, the Chief made a call to his secretary asking her to arrange plane tickets for the detectives. He also called the head of the police department in St. Kitts to get a contact for the detectives.
“We know these two are still in town, but my gut tells me they’re heading out soon. Maybe we can beat them there and let them come to us. As soon as the dust settles here I want you two to go and see if they have a permanent residence, but don’t disrupt things. We don’t want them to know you’re there.”
As the Chief finished briefing the two detectives, word of the bombing at Gervais Industries came in. The explosion killed twelve people, injured eight, and completely destroyed the building.
Both detectives received a text advising of large explosions with mass casualties. “We have to go. We’ll check in later, chief.”
Thorpe and Collins drove out to Gervais Industries and inspected the site. The building smoldered with multiple hot spots.
Thorpe walked up to Collins and pointed to a police sergeant. “There’s nothing left here, Jim, but that officer has found two witnesses from nearby buildings that said they saw a cleaning van pull up to the back and a tall man in workman’s clothes walked down the street shortly after. Nobody knows where he went from there.”
“It had to be one of the Clelland boys,” said Collins. “Let’s go check on Gervais.”
The detectives went to the hospital and talked to the doctor in charge of Gervais’ care. The man was paralyzed by to the poison and was showing no sign of improving.
“He is able to hear what we say, but cannot respond. We can only tell that he understands what is said by gauging his pulse rate during the conversations.”
The detectives thanked the doctor, and gave him a card and asked him to contact them immediately if there was any change in Mr. Gervais’ condition.
* * *
Eric stood three blocks down the street from the café in a strip mall across from the police station on Edmonton’s south side watching the policemen stream in and out.
“I’m outside the building.” Eric said to Ken via cellphone.
“Stay cool. Remember, I promised you this is the last one.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll meet you in a couple hours.”
Eric put the phone in his pocket and walked to the back lane a block down from the coffee shop, firmly gripping the toolbox. Taking a few deep breaths Eric relaxed and confidently walked down the lane, stooping over to inspect gas metres if a vehicle went by. Finally he arrived at the back of the coffee shop, where he again bent over, pretending to inspect the gas valves and metres of the cinderblock building. He straightened his blue hat and entered the rear door of the coffee shop. A cook was busy at the grill. Eric looked though the large window into the front of the café. The place was half full of policemen, far less than usual due to the havoc in the city. Eric pointed to the identification badge on his chest as he walked up to the heavy cook. “Simons, Gas Company. I’m here to inspect your gas lines.”
“Knock yourself out,” replied the elderly, busy cook.
The man never gave Eric a glance as he scooped chili into a bowl, wiping some spillage off with a dirty cloth draped over his shoulder. At the other end of the kitchen an unhappy young man washed dishes, steam building a cloud around him, and sweat streaming off his brow. Eric quietly walked over to the rear wall of the kitchen and set his toolbox on the floor. He glanced at the pipes. There were four connections to the gas main. Pipes leading to the furnace, stoves, and dishwashers. Pulling the toolbox closer Eric opened it and gripped the top tray, preparing to lift it off.
A moving shadow darkened the area where Eric was working. Glancing up he released the handle on the tray and saw the young dishwasher sitting on the counter across from him eating a chicken drumstick. Grease dripped on the dishwasher’s already filthy apron. The young man just sat there chewing and starring.
“Taste good?” asked Eric.
The young man shrugged and took another bite.
“You’re making me hungry,” Eric lied. He was actually nauseated at the sight of the greasy food.
The stare continued, as the young man devoured yet another drumstick. “My uncle is with the gas company. Does the same thing. You know him, Glen O’Laughlin?”
Eric, who was busying himself inspecting the piping, turned and stared straight at the young man. “O’Laughlin? O’Laughlin? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Another bite of chicken. “You serious?”
Eric smiled and sat up, pleased he and Ken researched the key personnel in the gas company. “Are you talking about the O’Laughlin who is union president?”
“Yup.”
“Sure, I’m new in Edmonton. Haven’t met him yet…”
“Hey, meathead, I’m paying you to wash dishes, not eat the profits,” yelled the cook from across the room.
“What an asshole I work for,” whispered the dishwasher as he jumped off his perch. “Got to go.”
The dishwasher threw the chicken legs in a big garbage can and wiped his mouth with his dirty apron. “See ya.”
“Later.”
The dishwasher was back at work and Eric returned to his task. He reached under the top tray of his toolbox and pulled out a cellphone secured with duct tape to a heavy package of explosives. Eric gently lifted the package and taped it with more duct tape between two of the gas lines. He moved two boxes of plastic plates in front of his bomb, packed up his toolkit, and walked out the rear entrance of the coffee shop. As he went around the back of the building he looked back and checked that nobody followed him. Two blocks south of the coffee shop he found a quiet place between two rows of warehouses where he removed his coveralls and threw them and the toolbox behind some cardboard boxes. He walked several blocks down the alley and turned onto 101 Street. As he moved south, walking towards the airport south of Edmonton he thought that it was definitely time to leave. Both he and Ken were becoming careless. After four more blocks Eric walked into the yard of a storage company and pulled a key out of his pocket. The heavy door squeaked as Eric opened the storage space they had rented several weeks earlier. As he walked into the dark storage area the bicycle stored there came into view. On a hook on the wall at the back of the room was a complete racing outfit and helmet. Eric dusted off the gear and bicycle and put on the outfit. He took it out of the storage space and closed the door, tossing the key on the ground, not much caring if the owner of the storage facility sent a bill for the missing key to the condo in downtown Edmonton. Hopping on the bike, Eric slipped his feet into the pedals and started riding south, towards what he hoped would be freedom.
Twenty minutes later he pulled over to the side of the highway, cars flying past him. He pulled out his phone and keyed the pre-set number. Behind him a cloud of smoke rose from the area of the coffee shop.
* * *
Dust fell from the wooden rafters as the explosion shook the building where Ken sat in the booth at the rear of the pub. He smiled, reached into his pocket and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills.
Ken drained his drink, waved over the waitress, and handed her the two twenties to cover the twelve-dollar bill. “My dear, please keep the change.”
“Really?”
“Of course. The service has been exemplary.”
“Thank you.”
Ken pointed to the service entrance at the rear of the pub. “Now, if you would be good enough to summon a limousine and have it pick me up outside that door right away.” Ken handed her another twenty.
The waitress rushed to the phone and was back in one minute. “The limo will be here in five minutes.”
Ken shook her hand, rolled his fingers around his grey handlebar moustache that matched his grey hair, pristine English accent charming the young lady. “Thank you, my dear.”
Within minutes there was a knock at the rear door of the bar. The waitress opened it and the head of a limo driver peaked around the corner. “Someone order a car?”
“Indeed.” Ken, playing the part of the elderly man, slowly stepped into the rear lane and into the car, stretching out on the rear seat.
The driver got into the front, separated by Plexiglas, and pressed the intercom button. “Where to, sir?”
“The airport please, young man,” responded Ken.
“Right, we’ll have to take a longer route sir, the main route out of the city is filled with emergency vehicles. There must be a hell of a mess over there.”
“Not a problem. My flight is in three hours. I just like to get there early.”
The car moved west for ten blocks and then turned south. The secondary highway was busier than normal, but not terribly congested. Smoke was rising from the industrial park to the east and from the coffee shop explosion to the west.
The driver had Ken at the airport in thirty minutes.
“International or domestic flight?”
“Domestic, please.”
The limousine parked beside the terminal. The driver hopped out and opened the door for his elderly passenger. Ken peeled off five twenty-dollar bills and handed them to the driver.
“No bags, sir?”
“I’m meeting my wife. She has everything.”
As the limousine driver drove away Ken walked towards the terminal. He glanced over his shoulder, spun around and walked along the outside of the terminal building, across the road, and into the parking garage. He weaved through the cars and trucks until he arrived at the far end of the garage where long-term parking was located. A dusty van sat in parking spot number B492. Ken opened the driver’s door, reached between the front seats, and pulled out a package of paper towels and several large bottles of water. He climbed into the van and washed the grey colouring out of his hair and removed the fake moustache. While waiting for his brother, he wiped the dust off of the van, keeping constant watch nobody was taking undue notice of his actions. The van was clean in twenty minutes and Ken checked his watch. Eric was ten minutes late. Ken tossed the towels in a garbage can, sat in the van, and adjusted the mirror so he could see the entrance to the parking garage. He kept one eye on the door and the other on the road into the airport.
In the distance an expensive racing bike going at a very slow speed came into view. Ken shook his head and smirked at the lethargic effort that reflected Eric’s outlook on life. The bright yellow jacket and blue helmet confirmed it was his brother. Eric rode straight to the international terminal and set the bike, unlocked in a bicycle stand. He hooked the helmet over a handle and took a roundabout route to the van, arriving twenty minutes late.
Dropping himself in the passenger seat Eric wiped the perspiration from his brow. “At least you didn’t leave without me.”
“We’re family, we look after each other.”
“Okay, let’s move.”
Ken paid the parking fee in cash and steered the van east of the airport before turning north and proceeding back towards Edmonton on Highway Two. Four kilometres later, Ken turned east on a secondary highway. A quick stop at a gas station to refuel and purchase a couple of magazines to fill the boredom of the long drive east and they were on their way.
The minivan moved quietly along the secondary highway as it approached the Saskatchewan border. The Clelland boys picked up food at a fast food restaurant as they passed through the border city of Lloydminster. They parked the van in a provincial park just outside of the small city and ate the hamburgers.
Ken studied a map and pointed, leaving a smear of ketchup. “There, that’s the spot.” The ketchup rested on Madge Lake on the Saskatchewan/Manitoba border.
Ken used a phone that was kept in the van’s glove box and dialed a preset number. “Hi, this is Ken Dillon. I called a few weeks ago indicating that we might need a cabin. Any vacancies tonight? Good, very good. Now we’ll arrive quite late tonight so can you kindly leave a key hidden by the door to the cabin? We’ll pay in the morning. Right. Got it, under the rock shaped like a turtle. Cabin sixteen. Thanks.”
“Sounds like we’re set, Ken. I guess we’ll need more coffee if we’re driving all evening. I’ll stop up ahead at that gas station and get some snacks as well as the coffee.”
“Good. I wonder if they have espresso?”
The brothers laughed. Eric waited out of sight in the back of the van while Ken parked at the service station and purchased food and two large cups of stale coffee. The van pulled into a small shopping centre in the next city. Ken parked near a similar make and colour of van at the far end of the lot. Eric hopped out of the van and bent down holding a cordless drill with a screwdriver bit in the chuck. Within seconds he had the licence plates removed from the other van and switched with the plates on their van.
They continued down the highway until they arrived at the entrance to the campground at the lake.
At the gate Ken pulled the van over to the side of the road. “Okay, Eric, in the morning I’ll go and pay. You slip into the back of van while I’m gone. We don’t want anybody to realize we’re twins. The whole country’s looking for us. Tomorrow I’ll drop you at the Winnipeg airport and you can catch a flight to…well, wherever you want. Remember, take several days to get to St. Kitts. I’ll continue on to Chicago and work my way to St. Kitts from there.” Ken flipped through a stack of passports. He selected a Canadian passport with the name Stewart Cromwell. “I think I’ll take a cruise from Boston to the Bahamas and charter a boat home from there.”
* * *
The preliminary results of the crime scenes in Edmonton were on their way up to the task force at police headquarters.
Thorpe entered the room after giving the media photos of the suspects. Ken and Eric’s faces were digitally enhanced and showed a good likeness. The detectives scoured through the notes of the investigators and the evidence from the crime scenes. The Edmonton bombings were divided among two groups of detectives. The Sherwood Park investigation was handled locally but working in conjunction with the Edmonton Police.
Chapter Ten
Traffic was brutal on the highway entering Edmonton from the south. Adam Jacobson had been driving his limousine for six straight hours. He pulled off and parked the long, white car outside a bar one block off the highway. Jacobson took off his driver’s jacket and hat and put on a denim jacket he kept under the seat. He walked into the bar and ordered a beer. He took a long drink and relaxed. While munching on peanuts and pretzels he daydreamed about the date he had that evening with the dispatcher from work. As he took his second drink he glanced at the television at the end of the bar. He recognized the national news channel and behind the announcer was a picture of two men who both looked like a younger version of the man he took to the airport.
“Hey bartender, what’s with those two?”
“Christ man, where have you been all day. Those two are wanted for the bombings and multiple murders in Edmonton. Yeah man, dozens dead. They’re looking nation-wide for them.”
Jacobson knew there were explosions over the last couple days, but thought today’s incidents were fires. He listened to CD’s rather than the radio, as the news depressed him. He threw five dollars on the bar and went outside, pulled out his cellphone, and dialed 911.
“Police. What is the emergency?”
“I, I saw one of those two, the ones you want for the bombings.”
“Where did you see them, sir?”
I drove one of them to the airport.”
“What’s your name, sir?
“Adam Jacobson.”
“Hold the line, sir. I’ll put you through to the detectives handing the case.”
Jacobson paced on the sidewalk outside the bar as he waited for the detective.
“Detective Thorpe here.”
“Hi, I’m Adam Jacobson. I think I drove one of those brothers to the airport this afternoon.”
“Mr. Jacobson
, I need to see you right away.”
“Okay, I’m on the south side. I can meet you at the parking lot at Whyte Avenue and 104th.
“Great, thanks. What will you be driving.”
“You can’t miss it. A white stretch limo.”
“Alright, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Right.”
Jacobson hung up the phone and got in his car. He changed into his driver’s uniform and sprayed breath freshener in his mouth to mask the smell of the beer. He arrived at the parking lot and found a police car waiting for him. A second car pulled up and Adam’s experience taught him that it was also a police car despite the fact it was unmarked. The basic hubcaps were a dead giveaway. A man in a suit got out of the passenger seat and walked over to him.
Thorpe stretched out his right hand. “Detective Thorpe. Mr. Jacobson, is it?”
“Yes. I’m sure I saw one of the two men in the picture on TV. He was made up to look much older, but I’m sure it was him. Like, he didn’t act old. I drive a lot of older people and they don’t move as quick as he did.”
“Where did you see him, Mr. Jacobson?” Thorpe kept his voice calm to try and relax the nervous witness.
“Actually, I drove him to the airport this afternoon.”
Thorpe started scribbling on his smartphone. “Do you remember at what time you drove him?”
“Yes, I have my log. Just a sec.” Jacobson leaned into his window a pulled out a small clipboard. He ran his finger down the list. “Right, I picked him up at the Barkerton Hotel at 2:10 and dropped him at the airport at 2:45.”
“What airline did you drop him at?”
“Well, I don’t know what airline, but he asked to be dropped at the domestic terminal where he was meeting his wife.”
“Did you hear him say anything that gave an idea where he was going? Perhaps he talked to somebody on his cellphone. Did he say anything at all?”
Rough Business Page 11
