The look on Casteven's face provided full confirmation of Auburn's surmise.
"Day after day you watched that going on, and day after day you tried to figure out how to get your hands on that money. You saw that she was concerned about security, so you decided to pretend to represent a company that installs electronic burglar alarm systems.” Casteven's eyes opened wider and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
"You figured if she couldn't see well enough to drive, she probably wouldn't recognize you as the guy from the bar and grill across the street, especially since she avoided your place like a leper colony. Probably you thought if you could once get inside her house you could jam a window latch or figure out some other way to fix it so you could slip in from the back some Sunday morning while she was at church.
"According to the phone company's records, you called her last Friday evening, and again on Monday. And Wednesday night you turned up at her place, didn't you, by appointment? Greg Rakovy's truck was parked on Jardine last night for hours, and it's parked there again today. After dark it would have been easy to climb up in the back and borrow his toolbox."
Casteven shook his head and spoke for the first time since they'd entered the room. “Hard hat. And a pair of gloves."
Dollinger sat down and started taking notes.
"Okay, his hard hat. And you put a piece of tape over his name and wrote a fake name on it. And you put on his gloves so you wouldn't leave fingerprints anywhere, and took along an old revolver just in case—"
"I never owned a gun in my life,” said Casteven. “And I never fired one in my life, either. It was her gun. Something I said or did when I was down in the basement must have tipped her off. Anyway she went upstairs for a minute and when she came back she was pointing this big old cannon right in my face. I freaked out because she was blind as a bat and her hands were shaking. I tried to take the gun away from her and she shot herself. That's what happened, and even if you bring a hundred prosecutors in here, it was still an accident."
"No, sir. A homicide that occurs during the commission of a felony offense is automatically first-degree murder. That's how the law reads, and that's how your arrest warrant reads. This happened around—what, eight or nine o'clock Wednesday evening?"
Evidently alarmed by what Auburn had just said, Casteven clammed up again.
"You found her purse, got her keys, and opened the safe. You probably waited until Rakovy closed up for the night before you went across to the bar and grill and got a big, resealable plastic freezer bag to stow the cash in. And later that night you moved the body and the purse to the riverbank. Your idea was obviously to conceal the fact that you, the killer, had ever been in the house."
At the word “killer,” Casteven clamped his lips still more tightly shut.
"But then you decided to put the gun and the gloves in another freezer bag and throw them in the river. Why?"
Casteven shrugged and his eyebrows went up, but he said nothing.
"After all, the gun couldn't be traced to you. And you could have burned the gloves. Why throw them in the river and go to the additional trouble of sealing them up together in a waterproof bag? I'll tell you why. When you peeled the tape off Rakovy's hard hat you saw that his name had come off on the sticky side, and you decided to frame him for the murder you hadn't planned to commit.
"You and he obviously don't get along. Maybe you think you're paying him more than he's worth, and maybe you resent the fact that he hits it off a lot better with Darla than you do. Or maybe you just could never stand the guy. But at some point between the death of Ida Blanford and the moment when you tossed that bag in the river, you decided to make it look like Greg was the killer.
"There weren't any fingerprints on the stuff in that bag. How do you handle adhesive tape without leaving some partials somewhere? How do you take off a pair of gloves and stuff them in a plastic bag without leaving any prints on the bag?"
"I guess you might wear another pair of gloves,” said Casteven, “which you don't have to get rid of because they don't have blood on them."
"But if you didn't expect the bag to be found, why worry about fingerprints at all?"
"Wouldn't I have been taking a pretty long chance that they'd even look for the gun in the river, let alone bring it up?"
"Not really. When Fire and Rescue dredged up that gun from the Karlowski shooting a couple of years ago, the papers made a big deal about how there are sandbars lying crosswise in the riverbed that catch debris and keep it from washing downstream until there's been a lot of rain. It looks to me like evidence of a frameup, but it'll be up to the prosecutor to formulate the charges.
"Although the cash we found in your freezer is evidence that you robbed Ida Blanford, I want to remind you that the charge on which you were arrested was first-degree murder. And the evidence I showed the judge to back up my application for that warrant was the scrap of paper you used to wipe up the blood from the basement floor.
"That paper was a photocopy you made of the contract for the security system you had installed seven years ago at your old house at 808 Eversole. It was just a stage prop, and you figured it would be good enough to fool a woman who was legally blind. Before you made the copy, you whited out the information that had been written in the blanks and the signatures, but you missed the serial number—it's in red ink on the original document. When I called the home office of the security company in Pittsburgh, they identified you immediately as the person to whom that contract had been issued."
By the time Auburn and Dollinger had booked Casteven, dispatched him to the cells, placed the stolen cash under lock and key in the evidence room, and finished up most of the paperwork, it was almost seven p.m. They headed for the canteen in the basement at double time.
The entrees of the day—or what was left of them after hours of torment in a steam table—were Cajun-style shrimp delight and Salisbury steak.
Copyright (c) 2006 John H. Dirckx
[Back to Table of Contents]
The Boxing Day Killer by Edward D. Hoch
"This is Beth Valparaiso, live from Toronto Harbor. Now back to you, Glen.” She waited until the red light blinked off, and disconnected her lapel mike.
"Good job, Beth,” her cameraman said. “Take the rest of the day off."
"I wish I could, Foxy! Boxing Day is a holiday for normal people."
Foxy O'Dwyer usually worked with her on weekend remotes. Sometimes he tried to flirt a bit, but he was twice her age and hardly the romantic type. He grinned and replied, “Since when are TV people normal?"
December 26th was on a Sunday that year, so it would have meant a day off for most people even if it hadn't been a holiday. Beth had become accustomed to the Boxing Day holiday after moving to Toronto three years earlier to take a job as a local television reporter with CBC. She knew the post-Christmas holiday was not an occasion for prizefights but rather the remains of an old British tradition of rewarding servants and tradespeople with year-end gifts. When it fell on a Sunday it was never moved to the following day, as was Dominion Day, on the first of July. Boxing Day was always the day after Christmas, and like this day it was usually cold.
The Sunday papers had mentioned the Boxing Day murders, of course. For three years now, while the Christmas tree still glittered in Eaton Centre, gaily wrapped holiday boxes had been appearing around the city, containing the body parts of that year's victim. The first had been a homeless runaway from Thunder Bay, a nineteen-year-old girl named Norma Durban. The second had been an ex-convict named Larry Amsterdam. Last year the killer had moved up a notch on the social scale, targeting a gift shop owner named Earl Sydney.
While Foxy stored his camera in the remote van and lowered its antenna, Beth walked to her own car across the street. They'd been at the harbor covering an overnight fire that had damaged some expensive yachts in dry dock on Lake Ontario. She wasn't surprised to see Detective Constable Matt Bates of the Metropolitan Toronto Police stepping out of his car down the st
reet. He saw her at once and waved.
"You're up early,” he said by way of greeting.
"I always get to work the holidays. The married ones are home with their families. How about you? You're a couple hours late for the fire."
He shrugged. “The Arson Squad's looking into it. Could have been kids with matches. But it's Boxing Day. Everybody works."
She knew immediately what he meant. “You don't think he'll do it four years in a row, do you?"
Bates shrugged. “What's to stop him?"
"Maybe he moved or died or got religion."
"Maybe.” He checked his watch. “Got time for a coffee?"
"Sure.” She glanced back to the remote truck and waved as Foxy pulled away. There was a Starbucks down the block, and they strode quickly toward it. Though the winter sky was clear, the temperature hovered around freezing, and a breeze off the lake made Beth thankful for the coffee. “Maybe by next Christmas I'll be married and they'll give me the holiday off."
"I hope so,” he said with a little smile. “You've put in your time."
She'd bumped into Detective Bates several times during the year, and she sometimes wondered if the meetings were more than accidental. He was unmarried, she knew, and no longer living with the young woman who'd been his companion until recently. Some of the other women at the station considered his chiseled features handsome, and Beth supposed they were, in a way. After a brief discussion of the fire she asked, “Do you have any leads on the Boxing Day killer?"
"Some.” He took a sip of coffee. “We're trying to figure out how he chooses his victims, and just when he kills them. The condition of the body parts indicates the murders probably take place on Boxing Day, just hours before the boxes start turning up."
"How ghastly! I don't even want to think about it."
"I'm working on a theory that he chooses his victims earlier in the year, but then waits till the holiday to kill them."
"He must be insane."
"Most serial killers are, even the ones who seem quite rational. After a string of killings, though, juries aren't likely to accept an insanity defense."
"You have to catch him before you start talking about juries."
Bates nodded. “I know.” He finished his coffee. “But if my theory is correct, the killer is known to his victims."
"How could one person know people as diverse as that? A teenage runaway, an ex-convict, a gift shop owner?"
"Drugs,” he replied at once. “A drug dealer might have had them all as customers. Larry Amsterdam, the ex-con, was in prison for assault and robbery, but he'd had a drug arrest too."
"What about the others?"
Bates shrugged as he got to his feet. “Earl Sydney was gay, with lots of contacts around town. We've been checking them all for a year now."
"No connection with the first two victims?"
"None that we can find. How late are you working today?"
"Till four. They might use my segments on the evening news, but I don't have to be there."
"I'll bet the station is a dead place on holidays like this. Not much news unless there's another killing."
"The staff keeps busy. The sports guys all watch Sunday football on the Buffalo stations, and some of the news people usually have a poker game going."
"Really?"
"It's been known to happen."
"Maybe I'll drop by the station later."
"What for? Poker?"
He grinned. “Do I need a reason?” He took out a card and passed it to her. “That's my cell phone number. Call me if you need anything."
They left the Starbucks together and she waved to him. “See you later, Detective."
"Take care."
The Broadcast Centre between Wellington and Front Streets faced the vast Metro Toronto Convention Centre. It was conveniently connected to the array of underground walkways known as PATH that linked the buildings of downtown Toronto like the web of some giant spider. Beth was thankful for it on stormy winter days when she could cover the several blocks to City Hall or the Eaton Centre mall without setting foot outdoors.
The morning news was long ended by the time she returned from the fire scene. “Where've you been?” Glen Walker asked in a fatherly tone. He was the handsome grayhaired anchor of the morning and noon weekend shows. A few years back he'd co-anchored the nightly news until someone decided they needed a younger face.
"Coffee with Detective Constable Bates. He was down at the fire scene."
"Learn anything more?"
"Nothing. It might have been kids playing with matches."
"Arson?"
"That's the preliminary suspicion, but it's not Bates's department.” She glanced around the newsroom. “Pretty quiet, even for a Sunday."
"The sports department has a poker game going till the American football games start at one.” It was already nearly noon.
She poked her head in and found four of them seated around the small conference table. The ceramic Christmas tree that decorated it the previous week had been shunted aside to the top of a filing cabinet. Rich LeFavre, the weekend sports anchor, was dealing a hand of stud poker, and she could see a cluster of five-dollar bills for the ante. “We've got room for a fifth, Beth,” Rich called out. “Always happy to take your money."
"Too rich for my blood,” she told him. She'd mainly wanted to see who all was in there, and was a bit surprised that Hayes Merritt was one of them. Hayes was a big deal, the station's evening news anchor. She'd never seen him at the station on a Sunday, to say nothing of Christmas weekend.
Walker glanced up as she returned to the desk she shared in the newsroom. “No room for an extra?"
"You think I'm going to sit in on a stud game with Hayes Merritt? I don't see you in there."
"Afraid to take his money, Beth? He earns more than the two of us put together. Way more."
"And he's here on a Sunday afternoon, Boxing Day, instead of home with his wife and kids."
"We're all waiting. You know that. If a story breaks he'll be on camera for the evening news."
"Yeah,” she agreed. It was like sitting around in a hospital waiting for an elderly uncle to die. Once they got the word, the newsroom would spring into action. Until then, there was stud poker and American football.
"Want to take Foxy and go over to Eaton Centre? Find out how people are spending Boxing Day?"
"Now there's excitement.” She thought about it and suggested instead, “I should dig out the clips of the previous victims, just in case we need them."
"I think Merritt already has them lined up, but you can check it."
She typed in the name of the first victim on her computer. Norma Durban. The dates sprang up on the screen: 6/10/01, 12/27/01, 12/28/01, 12/29/01, and every day into the new year. Then there were a few skips that gradually lengthened into weeks, then months. December 27th would have been the day the body parts were identified through fingerprints. That had been Beth's first Christmas in the city and she remembered the story all too well.
But she hadn't been here yet on June 10th of that year and she wondered how the dead girl had made the news that day. She brought up the tape and saw a familiar face. It was Constable Bates, leading three young ladies into the Dundas Street police station during a brief crackdown on women cavorting topless in the City Hall fountain. Their names were given and the middle one, her top suitably covered for television, was Norma Durban. The topless movement had been short-lived in downtown Toronto, more or less settled by the establishment of a “clothing optional beach” at Hanlon's Point on the west side of the Toronto Islands, near the small island airport. But Beth didn't remember any mention of Norma Durban's involvement in it.
She picked up the phone and dialed the cell phone number Bates had given her. “This is Beth,” she said when he answered. “I wanted to ask you—"
He cut her off. “I'm on my way to your place right now. I'll be there in five minutes.” His voice was gruff, all business, and she wondered what was up.
From the sports department came the sound of the American football game, and Beth knew without checking her watch that it must be one o'clock. The poker game would be put aside now for football, while they all waited for the news everyone expected.
As soon as Bates came through the station door she asked, “Has there been another killing?"
"I hope not. I'm here about that yacht fire you were covering."
It had almost slipped from her mind. “What about it?"
He slipped off his topcoat and draped it over a chair. “The arson investigators found something, a book of matches from this station.” He slipped a photograph out of an envelope he was carrying.
She stared at a charred matchbook with the station's call letters clearly visible. “I never saw these and I've been here over three years. We don't give out matches any more. Hardly any businesses do, with the smoking bans."
"Who would know about them?"
She thought of the men in the other room. “Hayes Merritt, I suppose. He's been here longer than me. I'll get him."
"He's here on a Sunday?"
"It's Boxing Day,” she reminded him, as if he'd forgotten. “I'll get Hayes for you."
The weeknight news anchor left the TV set with some reluctance and followed her out to the newsroom. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?"
Bates showed him the photo. “The arson boys found this at the scene of the yacht fire this morning."
Hayes Merritt grunted. “We haven't had any of those around for five years, maybe longer."
"The arsonist might have dropped it, assuming it would be destroyed in the fire."
"Anyone might have dropped it. Believe me, Sergeant, we're not so desperate for news that we go around starting fires."
"By the time I got there the fire was out anyway,” Beth said. “All we had was a talking head of me standing there."
AHMM, Jan-Feb 2006 Page 8
