“I’ll help him to his car,” Sheila said.
“Maybe we should put some ice on that?” Wilkinson asked.
At the bar, Sheila wrapped a handful of ice in a bar-rag and held it to his face. Jed poured him a root beer. “You’ll be fine, kid. Just rest awhile.”
Retro pulled away from them and shot an uneasy glance at the front door.
“It’s okay; they’re gone,” Sheila reassured him.
“Why were those dudes after you, man?” Wilkinson asked.
“I knew them in high school.” Retro shrugged. “They were jerks back then. I guess they still are.” He rose from his chair. “I need to get going.”
Sheila led him to the front door. She unlocked it for him, and before he could help himself Retro put his hand out and gripped hers tightly. Sheila looked back at Jed, shrugged her shoulders, and walked out into the cool night air with him. They were silent until he opened the door to his Chevy and swung himself inside.
“Um, thanks.” He felt his face heat, so he kept it turned aside as he turned the ignition on and drove slowly through the lot, but as he reached the street he saw Sheila waving. He smiled, before a vision of Sean Moore flashed through his mind. His hands trembled on the steering wheel and his right foot slammed to the floor.
Chapter 2
Jack Staal lay in his bed, propped against the headboard. He held a half finished Scotch neat in his left hand. He didn’t normally take a drink to bed, but lately he’d had trouble sleeping. In his lap were numerous photos and 3x5 index cards with notes and bits of information about what he was beginning to think might turn out to be the most important case in his twenty years on the job.
Two women violently raped and murdered on their birthdays. The media, mayor’s office, Chief Constable and the public were all buzzing about a serial killer in Hanson and the department’s lack of progress. He glanced at the cards.
Stephanie MacKay, 32, found in Discovery Park, ambushed while jogging, brutally assaulted and left for dead on March twenty-third. Gabriella Haywood, 31, a realtor, found dead nine days later in the basement of a townhouse she was supposed to be showing. Research had turned up no link connecting the two women. Clues, tips, trace evidence, and leads went nowhere.
Staal tossed the file folder aside and shook his head when he realized how much time he had spent on the cards. The case was not officially his. Just minutes after he responded to the first victim, Max Barnes—the Staff Sergeant in charge of the Criminal Investigations Branch of the Hanson Police Service had called in the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team.
The IHIT combined the skills of homicide specialists from the RCMP’s “E” Division with those of the experienced detectives from local law enforcements agencies. They were in charge of working homicides, attempted murders and all unexplained deaths across Metropolitan Vancouver.
Staal’s former partner, Lesley Degarmo, had been assigned to one of the seven IHIT teams only five months earlier. She was the one who had kept him up to date with the case, going so far as to e-mail him copies of the case files.
Analysis done on footprints at the park scene revealed that the killer probably stood around five foot eight, weighed 150 pounds, and was perhaps a teenager. In the house where Haywood died toys had been scattered around the children’s bedrooms, presumably played with by the suspect. When that bit of information had leaked out, the press had instantly dubbed the murderer “Birthday Boy.” Now it was June 29. Almost three months had passed since the last victim’s death. Experience and his gut told him the killer would strike again, and the waiting made him uneasy.
Lying next to Staal was Gina Hayes She had fallen asleep shortly after their lovemaking, and neither his restlessness nor the rustle of his paperwork seemed to disturb her. He’d worked with Hayes for almost two years, but her muscular, athletic body still excited him. He could get lost in her deep brown eyes, and he marveled at how beautiful she was, even when asleep. She was a cop, not Staal’s partner; however they were both assigned to the Major Crimes Section and worked closely.
Gina held a black belt in Karate, and when she expressed an interest in boxing professionally, Staal had volunteered to train her. She accepted. Long hours in the gym had moved their relationship quickly from colleagues to good friends, and now Gina spent most nights at his place.
Gilbert, an aging black tabby, lay at the foot of the bed. The feline had kept him company on many late nights as he mulled over difficult cases. Staal set his drink on the side table, slid the cards into the drawer, and slid further under the covers.
“Go to sleep, old man,” he whispered to Gilbert. He closed his eyes and drifted off thinking of the way Gina had smiled down at him as they’d made love.
Staal struggled against the dream, thrashing as if he could prevent the vision from stirring in his brain. He saw a children’s playground surrounded by dense bushes and evergreen trees. A man lay dead near the swings.
Staal fought the unfolding images.
Three injured children.
Blood.
Screams.
A young woman begged him to save her daughter as the child died. A man cradled a limp arm and screamed as he ran.
Staal looked beyond him to see dozens, then hundreds of tiny faceless forms. Some of the injured struggled in agony, while others were as motionless as mannequins.
“Jesus Christ!” He bolted upright and took a deep breath. He sat hugging his knees. The wall clock thumped steadily and Gilbert’s purr sounded like a diesel engine.
Gina put her hand on his shoulder. “Jack, what’s wrong?”
“Just a damn dream.” He reached for the cocktail glass on the night table and swallowed the last sip.
He glanced at Gina. She smiled and sat up in bed beside him.
“Dream? About the shooting?” She ran her fingers up and down his leg.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sorry to wake you.”
“It’s been a while since the last one?” Gina asked.
“Yeah, a couple months,” he lied.
Staal often wondered what Gina saw in him. He wasn’t the best looking guy around. At forty-two; he was still in good shape despite the recent adding of over twenty pounds to his normal 200. The job and over a hundred amateur and twenty-six professional boxing matches had left him with his share of scars and blemishes, and a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. She didn’t seem to mind.
He slipped out of bed and headed for the kitchen where he poured himself a shot of whiskey. He downed it in one long swallow, shuddering as it burned his throat. Too bad it did little to calm his trembling hands. He fumbled to light a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew nine months of surviving without nicotine.
Staal stared at the calendar. “Shit, thirteen straight nights, that God-damn dream!” He shook his head and poured another shot.
Jack hated stereotypes, especially cop stereotypes. He struggled against the overweight, doughnut chomping, two-pack-a-day habit, bottle-of-hooch-in-the-desk-drawer cliché. The cop dinosaur so often played on television by Dennis Franz. He looked at the glass in right hand, the cigarette smoldering in his left and shook his head.
“Have you been keeping your appointments with Dr. Connelly lately?” Gina asked.
Jack poured himself a glass of ice-water and moved into the living room where he slumped in his Lay-z-boy. “Missed the last two.”
“You’re gonna hear about it from Barnes.”
“Yeah. I know.”
He had never known Gina to nag or push. This time was no exception. She kissed him on the cheek and left him alone.
Staal didn’t have time for therapists, didn’t believe in their ability to help him, and hated talking about his personal stuff. He preferred to go it alone. He remembered his first visit with Dr. Janet Connelly, Hanson Police Service’s Staff Psychologist. His career as a cop was on the rocks; his superiors at the Vancouver Police Department had removed him from the street after failed stints in the Auto-Theft unit and Vic
e, and set him behind a desk. Then an opportunity with the Hanson surfaced.
“Mr. Staal,” Connelly flipped through a file folder. “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder can be debilitating.”
“I feel good. The rest and therapy has really helped.” He said, cringing.
“Dr. Goldberg’s notes mention complaints about flashbacks, dreams, hyper-arousal...anger.” She looked into his eyes. “Anything like that now?”
“No, that was several months ago...just after the shooting. I’m...I’m, okay now.”
“I see.” She turned more pages.
Just give me a chance, he remembered thinking hopefully.
“Eighteen years with VPD?”
Staal nodded.
“Twelve in Criminal Investigations...the last six with the homicide unit?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Isn’t Hanson Police a step back, Detective?” She glanced at him. “Very little serious crime out here.”
“I prefer to look at it as a change of pace.”
She paused for a minute to look through her notes. “Okay, Detective. Barring any problems with your physical, I’m recommending to the Chief Constable that you be sworn in for full service with the Hanson Criminal Investigations Branch.”
Staal had a good idea why the dreams had returned. Wendy Reynolds, the widow of his first partner, Peter Reynolds, had called him two weeks earlier for help with her daughter. Rebecca Reynolds had wasted most of her short life with dirt-bag guys and hardcore drugs. Now she was missing. The memory of five-year-old Rebecca screaming hysterically at Pete’s funeral had somehow triggered a return of the Stanley Park shooting dreams.
He swung out of his chair, shuffled toward the bathroom, and washed his face. A knock on his door had him swiveling around. It was past one in the morning; nobody visited him at this hour. With a heavy sigh, he rambled across the living room to the front door. When he peered through the peephole, he saw Rachael Gooch, his partner. He opened the door.
“Christ, Rache, what’s up?” The look on her face answered his question. “Shit. Birthday Boy?”
“Yeah, get dressed. Let’s go.” She stepped into his living room. Rachael’s raven hair was naturally curly and she kept it tied back in a ponytail. She wore no make-up, tonight or anytime. She wasn’t pretty or ugly; plain was the word that came to mind when describing the sergeant.
“Why are we responding?” Staal asked. “Isn’t the Team rolling?” He began to move for the stairwell.
“Barnes wants us to secure the scene until IHIT assembles.”
Staal jogged up the stairs, swung into the bedroom, pulled on jeans and a white t-shirt. He reached for the coat rack, slipped on his shoulder holster and Glock 17 pistol, and then a dark gray blazer.
“Leaving, Jack?” Gina asked from the bed.
“Yeah, it’s Gooch. Looks like Birthday Boy.”
“Jesus. Guess I’ll see you when I see you.” She rose and came to give him a kiss on the lips.
“I’ll call you when I can.” He grabbed the Polaroid camera from his dresser drawer, checked the film, found his cell phone in the charger and rejoined Rachael in the front hall.
Staal climbed into Rachael’s Explorer. She was quiet at first as she reversed out of his driveway, but her irritation showed when she said, “I’ve been trying to reach you for half an hour. Your phone’s been busy the whole time.”
“Shit. The new phone’s been wonky all week,” he said. He waited for her to start in on him, but uncharacteristically, she let the subject go.
“You’ve been drinking.” She glanced at him.
“Yeah—couple. I’m fine.”
Another glance.
When Staal joined HPS, he believed he was in the running for head of Major Crimes. When the time came, both he and Rachael Gooch had written the Sergeants exam. Staal scored higher, and carried a better arrest and conviction record, but Gooch was female and part Native American.
Now Staal was stuck in the same old pay grade and Gooch, who had worked fewer than a half dozen homicides, and had fewer years on the job than he had as a detective, was his sergeant. Sure, he was pissed off at first, but Gooch was a first rate cop and a true professional. His buddies on the job had a pool going, betting on how long Staal would last under Gooch. Fuck them; he wouldn’t transfer over a damn promotion.
Gooch said nothing for several minutes and Jack thought about what Gina had said about keeping his scheduled appointment with Dr. Connelly.
His history with department shrinks was not good. With VPD it was Dr. Goldberg. The man had a reputation for pulling cops out of the field and wasted no time in doing so with Staal. His first of several visits to Dr. Howard ‘How-Do-You-Feel’ Goldberg started bad and rapidly grew worse.
In the days after the infamous shooting in the park, Internal Investigations had cleared the incident. Still, it was departmental policy that any officer involved in a fatal shooting had to see the shrink. He’d attended his appointment dutifully, thinking it nothing more than a formality. Then came the news from ballistics that nearly ended his career.
Staal lit a cigarette.
They passed a young mom, about eighteen or nineteen years old, walking along the street with two tiny identical girls in hand. Staal turned his head to watch them, concerned over their safety at such a late hour. Scenes from the park invaded his mind.
Kids bleeding—dying…the mother’s eyes.
That day had started easily enough; just another undercover stakeout. Staal and his VPD partner, Bobby Singh, were working a homicide. Lester Curtis had enjoyed six weeks of parole after a five-year stretch for breaking and entering. The jerk-off was selling stolen jewelry out of van in Stanley Park. He had witnessed a murder, but wouldn’t talk. Jack needed the theft and possession collar to use as leverage to get Curtis to talk about the killing.
Bobby was walking his dog and haggling with Curtis for a better deal on a watch. Jack sat on a bench reading the latest King thriller. He kept Singh in view. Bobby’s intense brown eyes watched Curtis’ every move. His muscular body made Lester appear skeletal.
Kids bleeding—dying....
Fifty yards to the left of the gold sale was a bigger transaction. Timmy Chang was shopping a half-kilo of heroin to his best customer, Tyrone Green. They argued, Chang pulled out Beretta 9mm and started firing. The first two bullets killed Green; eleven others hit five civilians including a 22-year-old mother and three kids.
Kids bleeding...SHIT!
Jack tried to shake off the memories. He had risen from the bench, his pistol out and the safety off. Chang just stood there, surveying the carnage. Staal yelled at him to drop his weapon.
Chang didn’t listen. He raised his pistol toward Staal. Jack knew that Chang was about to fire.
Staal fired two rounds—center mass, just like in training—Chang was dead before he hit the ground.
Staal was in the grass checking the children before Singh could join him. Nine year-old Ashley was dead; her sister Karen had a weak pulse. Singh started CPR on Collin, ten. The woman was gone; her eyes still begging Staal to save her daughters.
Staal jogged twenty feet to where another child lay, but he could do nothing for eleven-year-old Samantha.
A jogger rushed Bobby as he performed CPR on Collin. His hand was a mess, blood oozing and dripping from the elbow. “My hand, I’m shot!”
“Step back, sir!” Staal waved him away. “Put some pressure on it. You’re okay.”
The medics arrived, and took over working on Collin and Karen. That jogger, he grabbed a fist full of the fist medic’s shirt. “I’m bleeding, dammit!”
“How do you feel, Detective Staal?” Goldberg asked as he cleaned his glasses with a piece of cloth.
Staal felt his anger rise.
“How do I feel?” he stood. Don’t tell him about that damn jogger. Don’t, he’ll have your badge.
Staal pushed the jogger back away from the medics.
“Charge to 200.” The medic jelled the defibrillato
r paddles. “Clear!”
The jogger came at the medic again.
Jack had a handful of his track suit; he jammed his pistol to the jogger’s cheekbone. “Those kids are dying, you son of a bitch!”
“Jack!” Bobby screamed.
How do I feel? Fuck me!
“You all right, Jack?” Gooch asked again.
“I’m good. Just tired.” He shook off the reverie, took a long drag on a cigarette and tossed it out the window. He ran his hands through his hair, rubbed his face, and sighed.
Chapter 3
Rachael Gooch had no emergency lights or siren on her Ford, but she still turned left on a red and zipped through numerous yellow lights. When a blue Toyota remained in her lane after she flashed the Explorer’s high beams, she said, “Move it, asshole!” in a barely audible hiss.
Jack couldn’t shake his dark thoughts. The first time he had ever fired his weapon on duty had resulted in death. It made no difference that Timmy Chang was a lifelong criminal with outstanding arrest warrants in both Canada and the United States. The event had put Staal on equal footing with the criminals he had dedicated his life to stopping. The vets on the force called it a career incident; you either got past it, used it to make you a better cop, or it ate at you until you quit.
The worst news of his life came a week and a half later from a civilian lab technician from Ballistics.
“Jack,” Phil Lennon had told him in a nasally tone. “The bullet that killed Samantha Van Allen was a .40 Cal S&W fired from a police issue Glock 22.”
“Staal? Staal, you with me on this?” Gooch asked. “Jack?”
“Yeah, sure. Why?”
“You were...never mind.”
“We sure it’s the same guy? The same M.O.?” Staal asked.
“That’s the word from Jones.”
They drove down Second Avenue, past Jim’s Diner, made a right on Jackson Street and another right up a narrow lane. Two squad cars were on the scene. The uniform cops had already sealed the area with police caution tape. The senior was Corporal Fred Jones, an old-school guy with over twenty-five years on the job. Jones moved toward Staal as he got out of Gooch’s Explorer. He should have spoken to Gooch first, since she was the ranking member on the scene, but he still harbored the prehistoric belief that women had no place on the detective squad.
Dead of Knight Page 2
