Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  “Step out of the vehicle,” Fraser yelled as he swung open the driver’s door of the Mustang.

  “Guess we’re going down, too,” Rodriquez said.

  “Yeah. Look at Jonesy take those two dickheads. Twenty years plus on the job and he still loves this shit.”

  Corporal Fred Jones had Hennessey in handcuffs before Fraser moved to read the suspects their rights.

  “Down on your knees,” Fraser barked as Staal got out of his car. Gooch removed Staal’s weapon from his holster as she frisked him.

  Constable Jason Rollins moved Hennessey past where Gooch was reading and informing Staal of his right to remain silent from a business card.

  Gooch said, “Do you understand these rights as I have read them, Mr. Lynch?”

  “Yeah, I understand, fuckin’ pig!” Staal said, barely able to hold his laughter.

  “That’s damned original, Lynch,” Fraser said, his voice full of authority.

  Fraser loaded Staal into the rear seat of his Impala. Next, Gooch sat Mohammed beside Staal. Rodriquez and Hennessey were placed in Gooch’s vehicle, just as they had arranged ahead of time. Staal hoped he and Rodriquez could gain the suspects’ trust this way.

  “Hey, man, this will turn out fine. Don’t worry, those guns are clean, and they’re in Blood’s ride.” Staal said to Mohammed, as Gooch pulled her Impala from the alley. “Fuckin’ cops got nothing—on you or me.”

  “Just shut up. Just fuckin’ shut up!” Mohammed’s eyes bore into Staal.

  “Both of you shut up!” Gooch turned to yell.

  Chapter 18

  From the corner of his eye, Staal studied Abdul Mohammed. Mohammed mumbled continually at an inaudible level. Perhaps only a nervous grumble, or even a prayer, it sounded at times like a chant. Other than the muttering, Mohammed exercised his right to remain silent.

  Gooch made a left on Broadway, only minutes from 565. Staal heard a helicopter in the distance and his stomach growled.

  “Jesus Christ, we’ve got sharks,” Gooch exclaimed, as she drove the Impala toward the underground parking.

  “Yeah, look; we’ve got CBC, Global, even CNN is here!” Fraser responded. “Hard to believe for this late at night.”

  Staal saw the television vans, reporter’s vehicles, video shoots in progress, others setting up, and at least two choppers overhead. It was full-burn media madness greater than any other case in his career. Staal was glad when Gooch turned the Impala around and headed for the gated rear entrance.

  After placing Mohammed and Hennessey in separate interview rooms, the six detectives met in the hallway of the interrogation area. Staal watched his suspect through the one-way mirror in Room One. Francis Hennessey sat motionless at the small table in the center of the room, his head down and his arms crossed. Staal walked two steps and glanced at Abdul Mohammed in Room Two, sitting cross-legged on top of the table, his eyes closed, and his lips trembling.

  Staal turned to face the others and began to lay out the plan of action. “Go at them about the photos. Get them thinking about a kidnapping and murder charge. We’ll use the pistols later.”

  They decided that Fraser and Gooch would talk to the suspects first and inform them of where they stood with the investigation. Later, they would hit them with a more aggressive interview.

  “I told Barnes that these two are up on stolen property charges. Wakamatsu and Hayes were already looking at a weapons dealer,” Gooch said.

  “Nice cover.”

  Staal knew that IHIT would take over the second the team heard about Hennessey and the others. He turned to the interview rooms. It bothered him that he couldn’t go at Hennessey and work him his way. For now, he would stay out and quarterback the strategy from the hallway, watching it all through the one-way glass. It was important that the suspects believed that he was Jeff Lynch and in as much trouble as they were.

  Wakamatsu and Hayes left to keep tabs on the remaining members of DFA, Dwayne Shultz, and Stephen Posh. Patrol officers had informed the detectives that they were sitting in their car a few blocks from the Sanguinary nightclub.

  “Got to head out, people. Got bad guys of my own to catch,” Rodriquez said.

  Ken Fraser walked up to Hennessey, paused for a moment, and then slammed his hand down on the tabletop inches from Hennessey’s left ear. Hennessey jolted upright.

  “Shit!”

  “Francis Hennessey, there are nine photographs of thirteen-year-old Jo-Anne Rodgers in the trunk of a 1998 Firebird registered to you,” Gooch said. “Why are there pictures of a homicide victim in your vehicle?”

  No response.

  “This looks bad, Francis,” Fraser added. “Somebody threw that girl in a dumpster...somebody took 250 grand from the parents.”

  Hennessey looked nervous, but he still said nothing.

  “Was this Abdul’s plan? Were you just along for the ride?”

  “Maybe a threesome got out of hand. Did she ask you to choke her while you where doing it? Maybe the bitch just up and overdosed on you guys.”

  “I don’t know her—I pulled the photos off the web...that’s it...” Tears started to flow.

  Staal grew tired of this line of questioning. It was his idea, but somehow he had no patience for any of it anymore. He paced the hallway, listening to the conversation over the intercom.

  Fraser attempted a change in tactics. He endeavored to make it easy for Hennessey to say something. “How do Lynch and Rodriquez fit into this? Did they kill this girl, Francis? Did you help them get rid of the body?”

  Gooch allowed a full minute to pass before she spoke. “Fuck, Hennessey! This ain’t no pissant assault charge. You’re lookin’ at murder one!”

  “Twenty-five to life, Francis!” Fraser stood next to Hennessey’s ear. “You ready to do that kind of time? Talk to us, man. We can’t help you if you stay silent.”

  “Help yourself. Tell us what happened. If not, we’ll build a murder case against you, then hand it over to Crown Counsel and it will be too late.”

  Hennessey opened his mouth and sputtered, “Maybe—maybe I need a lawyer.”

  Gooch sighed. “You could go that way, Francis. But then we couldn’t help you.”

  “We would spend all our time nailing you for murder. And your buddies, Abdul and Lynch, might flip on you and pin it all on your ass,” Fraser said. “Besides, legal-aid counselors tend to fuck up more then they help.”

  Gooch allowed more time to pass. “Do you want a lawyer, Francis?”

  “No, I um—I need to think about this.” Hennessey hesitated. “Can I talk to Abdul?”

  “No, man, you can’t talk to your friend. But sign this letter stating that you have waved your right to counsel, and we’ll get you a cigarette and something to drink. Maybe some chow.” Fraser pushed the sheet in front of Hennessey.

  After Hennessey signed the document, the detectives left the room and nodded to Staal in the hallway. Staal handed them both a cup of coffee and turned to watch them work the same angle on Abdul Mohammed.

  An hour later, Fraser and Gooch had a signed Declined Right to Counsel Form from Mohammed. Abdul had said less than Hennessey, but it was obvious that he did not intend to take a murder charge.

  In the coffee room, Staal stuffed a Boston cream into his mouth, while Fraser sliced an apple and Gooch sipped tea. The initial conversations with Mohammed and Hennessey had taken too much time, but it had been worth it to keep them from lawyering up.

  Staal’s cell-phone buzzed in his pocket. “Yeah.”

  “It’s Gina. Thought you might like an update. Posh and Shultz are still hanging tight. They have made repeated phone calls. Apparently unanswered. I’m thinking to Hennessey. They look worried...anyway, that’s about it.”

  “Thanks, Gina. Gooch and Fraser are about to go back at our boys. Talk to you soon.” Staal hung up.

  “About time?” Gooch said, rising from the lunch table.

  “Yeah, go at them about pistols. Go hard. Let’s get what we need as quickly as p
ossible,” Staal said.

  “Round two,” Fraser said as the detectives entered Interview Room One. Gooch and Fraser took up positions in the interview room next to Hennessey. Fraser set an open can of Coke on the table and offered a cigarette. Hennessey accepted both stimulants.

  “So, Francis, we have some good news for you,” Gooch began. “I hope you’re willing to cooperate with us.”

  Hennessey nodded and inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

  “We have information concerning the murdered girl. Vancouver homicide just laid charges after a suspect confessed to the kidnapping.”

  Hennessey choked as he exhaled and his eyes lit as he stared at Fraser.

  “So it appears that you are clear on the issue of her death. However, there are the stolen firearms to talk about,” Fraser said.

  “First, and most importantly, we have the unregistered Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol found on your person,” Gooch said. “We called in our firearms technician. He can tell a great deal about a gun’s history, like when and where it was used.”

  “It’s called ballistics, Francis,” Fraser said. “Our guy fired a few rounds from your nine—and compared the slug to our nationwide records.”

  “Imagine our surprise when we discovered a match right here in Hanson,” Gooch said. “A bank heist, Canadian Imperial, back in March this year that turned into a homicide.”

  “I just bought that gun tonight, from that guy—Chimera—you, you call him Lynch,” Hennessey whined. “What does Lynch say?” his eyes darted between the detectives.

  “Lynch and his buddy say you were selling them the pistols.”

  “No fucking way!”

  “We’ve got detectives pulling the bank robbery file, looking at the video surveillance tapes as we speak.” Gooch ignored Hennessey. “A security guard was shot and killed that day, Francis. Hank Ogilvie, HPS, retired after 25-plus years on the job.”

  “Lot of cops right here in West Precinct, would love five minutes alone with the guy who put old Hank down, Francis.” Fraser stared into Hennessey’s eyes.

  Staal had seen that stare before, that tell-me-what-I-want-to-hear-or-I’ll-tear-your-fucking-head-off, Ken Fraser patented gaze.

  “I—I, never even fired that gun,” Hennessey stammered.

  Staal kicked the door to the interview room. He pushed the intercom button. “Gooch! Is that the piece o’ shit that killed Hank? Just let me have a minute with him!”

  Gooch turned away from Hennessey and spoke toward the door. “Constable O’Brien, step away from the interview area, please.”

  “See, Francis? You’re the most popular guy in the house. Every cop from Patrol to Major Crimes is looking to kick your ass,” Fraser added.

  “I didn’t rob any fuckin’ bank!” Hennessey attempted to sound unfazed. He looked around the room, rubbed his face, and then said, “The bank videotapes will prove it wasn’t me.”

  “The bank video shows two guys about yours and Mohammed’s build wearing ski masks,” Gooch answered.

  “It wasn’t me.” His voice was fainter now.

  “Both shooters were hit when Ogilvie returned fire,” Fraser said.

  “We have blood and DNA from both guys, Francis. You wanna prove it ain’t you?” Gooch asked.

  Hennessey nodded.

  “Then give us a DNA sample. Right now. We have a lab guy ready to take it.”

  “I don’t know,” Hennessey said.

  “Look, man. If you’re clean on this the DNA will show it,” Fraser said. He sat down for the first time across the table from Hennessey.

  “If you didn’t do this, then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Gooch sat as well. “If you’re clear on this shooting, I’m willing to look the other way on the possession of stolen property bit.”

  “Come on, that’s bullshit; no way you’ll let me go on that!”

  “Look, Hennessey, we’re Homicide. We don’t give a shit if you just bought some stolen pistols.”

  “If the DNA doesn’t match...you’re free to go. If you don’t give up a sample, Francis, then my partner and I will look to nail you on anything and everything we can.”

  “Okay.” A whisper.

  “What’s that, Francis?” Gooch asked.

  “I’ll do it. The DNA test.”

  “I knew you were a smart guy, Francis. You’ll have to sign this form giving us the legal right to test you without a court order.”

  Fraser passed the form to Hennessey. A few minutes later Wilson Drummond entered the room with an aluminum case. He opened it up, and removed two swabs and evidence bags. He prepped the first swab and motioned Hennessey to open his mouth.

  “Won’t hurt a bit,” he said. He turned the swab in Hennessey’s mouth, removing a sample of loose skin from the inside of the left cheek. He placed the swab in an evidence bag, sealed it, and then redid the procedure with the second swab in the right cheek. He also took a blood sample from a pinprick in Hennessey’s right index finger.

  “You’re doing the right thing here, Francis,” Fraser said.

  Drummond dated and added the case number to the sample bags and then informed Gooch that he was finished.

  Staal had left the interview area for a bathroom break as Drummond harvested the Hennessey samples. Upon returning, he found Fraser and Gooch working the same angle on Mohammed. However, this time Mohammed was playing games. When the detectives asked questions, Mohammed talked in gibberish riddles.

  Staal could feel his temperature rise, his pulse quicken. “We don’t have time for this shit!” he hissed.

  Fraser talked about a bullet taken from Hank Ogilvie’s body matching a test round from Mohammed’s Smith 9 mm.

  Mohammed looked toward Fraser and exclaimed, “You must learn the ways of the force if you’re to come with me to Alderaan.”

  “Enough with the bullshit, Abdul!” Gooch had an angry look that Staal knew well. He had seen that face a moment before Gooch knocked down a three hundred pound Hell’s Angel with one punch after he questioned her sexual preferences. “This offer won’t last. Don’t be a damn fool!”

  “Who’s more foolish? The fool or the fool who follows him?” Mohammed said to Gooch.

  Staal scratched his head. The last line had sounded familiar. “From where?” he mumbled. He paced the hallway, running Mohammed’s words through his head.

  “I’m going to try this one more time, Abdul,” Fraser said.

  “Do, or do not. There is no try,” Mohammed interrupted.

  “Shit! It’s movie dialogue,” Staal said. He knocked three times on the door to Room Two, the code for the detectives to step out and review tactics.

  After a five-minute strategy session in the coffee room, Fraser and Gooch were ready to go back at Mohammed.

  “You sure this will work, Jack?” Fraser asked.

  “Yeah. No. Just go at him hard with it.”

  Fraser stood in front of Mohammed and stared into his eyes while Gooch leaned against the north wall of Interview Room Two.

  “Impressive! Indeed, you are powerful as the Emperor has foreseen,” Fraser said in a commanding voice.

  Mohammed bolted to his feet, beaming. “You’ll find that I’m full of surprises!”

  Staal smiled. Fraser jabbed both of his hands into Mohammed’s armpits and hoisted the suspect off his feet. He turned, slammed Mohammed against the one-way mirror and held him there, his feet dangling free.

  “Enough!” Fraser said as he stepped back and slammed Mohammed against the window again, his eyes burning into Mohammed. “Of this shit.”

  Staal didn’t see Staff-Sergeant Max Barnes in the hallway until Barnes was close enough to see Mohammed pressed up against the mirror.

  “Staal! What the fuck is Fraser doing in there?” Barnes reached to hit the intercom button.

  “Hold up, Max. Fraser’s just about to get what we need.”

  Fraser put Mohammed back down on his feet and helped him to a chair.

  “And what is that, Jack? A brutality beef wi
th Internal?” Barnes tried again to reach the intercom. Staal blocked him and managed to turn off the audio.

  “No. A DNA sample to compare to the ones we got from the cigarette butts found at two of the three Birthday Boy crime scenes. We don’t have enough for a court order, so we’re being creative.” Staal let his words sink in for a few seconds. “This guy’s been jerking us over and Kenny was just bringing him around.”

  “Jesus—fuck! You’re interrogating these two as Birthday Boy suspects?” Barnes’ face turned bright red and his eyes darted around as though he was contemplating what would happen if IHIT filed a formal complaint.

  “Well, Max, this city’s about to go bug-shit. The Team is still fucking around with Douglas. We need something solid—and if that means going at these guys hard—and without the Team—then that’s what I’m gonna do!” Staal watched Gooch and Fraser work Mohammed. He knew Mohammed was close to breaking down.

  “We need an arrest, but not this way.” Barnes shook his head.

  “Look there, Sarge,” Staal pointed at the window. “Gooch just got a signed permission form. Drummond’s people will have a sample in twenty minutes.”

  “Fine, great. I’ve got another one for you, Staal.” Barnes handed Jack a folded sheet paper.

  “Another what? What is this, another case?” Staal asked, his voice rising.

  “That’s right, Detective, a homicide. Get over there and secure the scene.”

  Staal looked into the shorter man’s eyes. Barnes was just under six feet tall with a lean build, despite his year-long desk posting. He sported a graying goatee in a vain attempt to look up-to-date. “Perhaps you haven’t been keeping up on current events, Boss. But I’m working a serial right now.” Staal’s patience was wearing thin.

  “Wakamatsu is already out there. Work it with him,” Barnes said, turning to leave the interview area.

  Staal stopped him. “Call in IHIT. They still have four teams idle. Antoski’s squad can handle this one. I know Freeman’s guys are tied up in court with that child prostitution thing, but Degarmo told me that Antoski’s load is light.”