Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  “Look, Staal.” Barnes wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Antoski’s got three walking wounded over there, and Freeman’s working to put away a piece-of-shit who killed his wife and mother-in-law.” Barnes jabbed a finger at the note in Staal’s hand. “So get out there and get started and let the Mounties decide what team they send. Got it?”

  “Bullshit! You’re just pissed at me for not keeping you in the loop with these two. Or is this your pussy way of getting back at me for the heat I brought you over the Burke case?” Staal knew he was approaching a line with Barnes. He could smell a disciplinary action.

  “Sean Moore is your case, Staal. Secure the scene with Detective Wakamatsu, and wait for IHIT.” Barnes turned, crossed the hall, and ducked into the coffee room.

  Staal followed. “Max—that piece of shit Hennessey tried to pay me and Rodriquez to snatch him a twelve year old girl off the street!”

  “Fraser and Sergeant Gooch have this.”

  “Perhaps you’ve heard of Death From Above—human sacrifices?”

  “Sean Moore is your concern—not death cults—get out there or go home.”

  “Unfuckinbeleivable!” Staal hissed.

  “I’ll say,” Gooch said, coming out of Room Two. “You had Mohammed figured. When we broke his code, he spilled everything.”

  “Yeah. But look at this,” Staal handed the note to Gooch.

  “What the fuck?” Gooch snatched the sheet from Staal. “Another case, when we’re this close?”

  “Yeah. Me and Cameron. Let me know when you hear any results. I’m gone.” He started down the hall.

  “Hold on Jack, this is nuts. I’ll talk to Max. Then I’ll call Antoski—and see how soon his team can get assembled.”

  “Forget it, Rach. Barnes is an asshole.” He shook his head. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter 19

  Staal’s mind drifted away from the job and he felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. The sun was rising, warming the interior of the Impala. He flipped the visor down to shield his eyes and stared at a photo of Brenda clipped to the visor. He hadn’t thought of his daughter for several hours, but now she filled his mind. The resemblance between Samantha Van Allen and his daughter was uncanny. The thought took his breath away sometimes; that it could have been her.

  He shook off his reverie, lifted his hand from the steering wheel, and turned the ignition key of his Impala. The engine screeched as the starter-motor gear grinded with the rotating ring-gear. The engine was already running. “Shit!”

  Staal thought about his current situation and all of its possible implications. Perhaps Max Barnes was still hot because Staal had solved his first major case with Hanson in a day before IHIT even got on scene. A reporter wrote that Staal had embarrassed the Team, and soon after some considerable heat came down to Barnes from the Chief Constable of HPS. Now with Staal making progress with Hennessey and Mohammed, the Team would take over. Corporal Chin would have reason to persuade his boss to have Staal and the others removed from further work on the Birthday Boy case.

  He shook his head to clear it, took a deep breath, glanced at Barnes’ note, and shifted into reverse.

  “Sean Moore,” he whispered.

  “Sean Patrick Moore, a thirty-two year old plumber, married, no kids, found by his brother-in-law, Theo Garner,” Wakamatsu read from his pad. “Garner is still here if you want to say hello.”

  “Yeah, later. What is this—” Staal waved his hand across the area. “—a park?”

  “Nah, just a city-owned vacant lot. It’s got a creek running through it over there. People walk their dogs here, dump crap, and kids use it for drinking parties.”

  “You call Wong’s office?”

  Staal smelled dog feces on the breeze. Across the street were two blocks of ranch-style homes dating to the 1950s. The neighborhood was serene, rarely upset by serious crimes, and families still moved here from the big city to feel safe.

  “Yeah, on the way. Drummond and his people, too. This one is weird, Jack, but what about Birthday Boy?”

  “Damned if I know. While we’re out here, Gooch could be handing it all over to the Team.” Staal tossed his cigarette butt and said, “Where’s the body?”

  Wakamatsu led Staal along a trail that cut through tall grass and thick bushes, and up a slight incline to the south end of the creek. Staal had to quicken his pace to keep up with Wakamatsu, a twenty-eight year-old who worked off the stresses of the job not at the local watering hole, but at the gym.

  Patrol Constable Linda Riser greeted the detectives. Riser was young, in her second year on the force. Rumor had it that she had slept with half of East Precinct. It was Riser’s job to keep any civilians from stumbling onto the crime scene.

  The undergrowth thinned closer to the creek and the ground showed signs of regular foot traffic. Staal paused to take a mental photo of what he saw. A loveseat had been turned upside down and placed on top of the body. All he could see of the victim was his size twelve cross trainers. The contents of several garbage bags lay strewn around, as if torn open by dogs or wildlife. Sean Moore’s face was hidden. Staal stood back a dozen yards from the loveseat, in an attempt to save any footprints or trace evidence until Wilson Drummond arrived.

  “The brother-in-law—Garner—must have rolled back the couch to make an ID,” Staal said.

  “Yeah, must have. Hope he didn’t fuck up the scene,” Wakamatsu said. “Over there,” he pointed, “by the NO DUMPING sign, is the weirdest part. Someone mounded up the soil into a mermaid or something, and partially covered it with a blanket.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Staal took a closer look, stepping over some discarded lumber and paint cans.

  He shook his head at the silhouetted female form. It had breasts and everything, and was clad in a red and green checked blanket. “Jesus,” he whispered.

  “Think this is related to the murder, Jack?”

  “Doubt it. Probably just some kids screwing around. Take lots of Polaroids, though, and wait for Drummond’s people. I’ll see if I can find this Garner.”

  Staal pulled his crime scene kit from the trunk of his Impala. He checked to make sure he had a supply of rubber gloves. Someone tapped him on his shoulder.

  “Staal, this is Theo Garner,” said Patrol Constable Paul Carpenter.

  Staal didn’t know Carpenter. He offered his hand to Garner. “I’m detective Jack Staal. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Garner shook Staal’s hand. “Thank you, Detective.” Garner was in his mid to late thirties, just under six feet, about two forty, balding, with a full beard.

  “Do you feel up to some questions, Mr. Garner?” Staal saw Drummond’s crime lab people leave their vehicles for the hike across the lot, and Wong’s Coroner’s Office van pull up.

  “Yeah, sure; call me Theo.”

  “Okay, Theo. Tell me about Sean Moore.” Staal nodded to James Wong when Wong passed by the Impala.

  “Sean didn’t return from his walk yesterday but his dog did. My sister and I called you people, but it was too soon to file a missing persons report. I know his walking route and followed it here. I—thought that maybe he was hit by a car. A hit and run or something. But, fuck, nothing like this...” He took a deep breath and wiped his brow. “What the hell am I going to tell Sherry?”

  “Approximately what time did Sean leave home?”

  “His routine was out by noon and back by one. Sherry called me at work around six, freaking out. I told her he probably hit the pub for lunch and lost track of time. She said, ‘No way. Sean always calls if he has plans.’”

  Staal gestured for Garner to continue.

  “She called this morning at four AM—frantic—and said that he didn’t come home last night. I got worried and came out looking for him.”

  Staal jotted in his notebook before he continued. “Was Sean in any financial trouble?”

  “No. Plumbers do pretty well.”

  “Did he use drugs?”

  “He liked to have a few beer
s with his friends—that’s about it.”

  “Any chance he was having an affair?”

  “Jesus Christ! You don’t hold anything back, do you?” Garner’s face grew red.

  “Sorry, Theo, I have to ask. I mean no disrespect.” Staal tried a more calming tone. “These are standard questions.”

  “No, Sean and Sherry were lucky. They were happy, real happy.”

  “Theo!” a woman’s voice called.

  Staal turned to see Sherry Moore. She was close to her brother’s age, but in much better shape. She was five-eight or taller, with the long legs of a dancer and an ample, natural looking bust, her mascara awash in a river of tears.

  “Theo? What’s going on?” She read the faces of Staal and Garner. “No. Oh God, no!” She buckled at the knees.

  Garner moved quickly to steady his sister, helping her to sit on the rear bumper of a patrol cruiser. Moore began to sob, her hands trembling, teardrops spotting her jeans.

  Staal stepped away, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Wakamatsu. “It’s Staal. Anything?”

  “Nothing of note. Will’s just starting. With you?”

  “Moore’s wife is here. I’ll be back up there shortly.”

  Staal looked at dark gray clouds rolling in from the east. It would rain soon. Crime scenes didn’t do well in the rain. Drummond, Wong and their people would have to work quickly on this one before any trace evidence washed away.

  Staal’s mind drifted to the Birthday Boy’s three victims. They had much in common in death, but no apparent link in life. He wanted badly to walk away from these people and find that connection. Finding the link would solve the case. Somehow he thought that solving the case would end his dreams.

  He shook his head. He had to keep focused. Sean Moore’s wife and family deserved his best work.

  Sherry Moore whispered, “It can’t be true. It just can’t be Sean.” Garner held his sister until she pushed him away and said, “I think I’m going to be sick.” She gagged, but did not vomit.

  After several minutes, Staal heard Mrs. Moore say something that sounded like, ‘tell-im bout cabbell.’

  Garner said, “Just breathe, Sher. Take your time.”

  Cabbell? Gibberish or important words masked by sobs? He was about to inquire when Moore spoke more forcefully.

  “Tell the cops about Campbell! Theo, please.”

  Garner sighed. “Sean, ah, bumped into an old high school classmate two nights ago at a bar.”

  “Got a first name for this Campbell?” Staal interrupted.

  Garner shook his head. “I don’t remember it.” To Moore he said, “Sherry?”

  “Jesus, everyone just called him Soupy.” Moore’s hands were animated when she spoke.

  How original. “You both went to school with this guy, Mrs. Moore? Theo?” Staal asked.

  She nodded. So did Garner.

  “So, they met at which bar, had a fight or what?”

  “At the Thirsty Gull near the Smyth Cove marina. Sean and a couple of old friends recognized Campbell and tried to order him a round of drinks. Campbell goes nuts, gives Sean the finger and leaves.”

  “So Campbell wasn’t interested in catching up?”

  “No. Sean was pretty hard on him back in school, so he follows the guy to the parking lot to make sure there’s no hard feelings.”

  “Campbell was the class nerd type?”

  “Yeah, he was a complete loser,” Garner said, shaking his head in disgust. “Campbell takes off running across the parking lot and hides behind a semi-trailer truck. Sean tries to talk to the freak, to apologize for the past. What did he get? Campbell smokes him in the face with a fire extinguisher. Knocks him out cold!”

  “So Sean’s buddies jump in and rough Campbell up a bit? I’ll need their names, too, if you know them.”

  “Yeah, I know them. Then that giant one-eyed fuck of a bartender gets in on it and throws his weight around.”

  Jed Wilkinson had already relayed this part to Staal. “This all happened on the night of the twenty-ninth, around two in the morning?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Garner went on to tell how Sean Moore set Campbell’s car on fire in retaliation, a piece of shit old Chevy. Staal added Sean Moore’s friends to his notes. He handed his card to both Moore and Garner, thanked them for their time, and turned to make his way back to the crime scene.

  “He did this, Detective.” It was a whisper. Then louder, “That little shit killed my Sean.” Sherry Moore had no doubts.

  Staal walked toward the crime scene and called Dispatch for information about a vehicle fire yesterday morning.

  Several of Drummond’s lab techs worked the scene. One bagged the blanket covering the sand mermaid and another attempted to sort dumped garbage from evidence.

  “Hey, Staal, over here,” Wong called out.

  Staal could see Moore’s body lying on its left side. Wong knelt to take photos, and directed a video camera tech filming the entire scene. Staal walked north in a semi-circle for a better view. Moore’s hands were tied behind his back with plastic tie straps, similar to the ones police used as cuffs when arresting large groups of suspects. Numerous strips of duct-tape covered Moore’s mouth and nose. Pressed tight to the skin, the tape blocked the airways. Moore had asphyxiated.

  “Jesus, Staal. The Mounties scoop on you or what?” Wong said.

  “Maybe. Who knows.” Staal used a tone that said, ‘Let it go.’ “Any estimate on the time of death, James?”

  “Yeah, 12 to 18 hours,” Wong answered. “Give or take. Got something else you’re gonna like.” Wong moved around the body to the back. “Check this out,” he pointed at a mark a just above the buttocks that looked like a contact burn.

  “I’m looking at...?” Staal said.

  “Contact burns, consistent with an electric cattle prod or stun-gun if you like.” Wong smiled.

  “Shit!” Staal was impressed, but tried not to show it.

  “Yeah, pretty big shit.”

  “Jesus, Wong. It’s not like you found your dick or nothing.” He called Wakamatsu over. “Check this out.” He pointed to the burns.

  “Hey Cam, who’s desk you been under?” Wong said smiling.

  “What?” Wakamatsu said, irritated. He moved closer to see the burns.

  “To work with the great Jack Staal, you must swallow or something.”

  Staal’s cell phone interrupted Wakamatsu’s comeback. It was Lucy Lehman in Dispatch. She had an address for Nathan Andrew Campbell, owner of a torched 1979 Chevrolet Nova.

  “Let’s roll, Waku,” Staal said. “Wong, let me know when you’re done with the Post, or when you lose your cherry. I know neither will happen tonight.”

  In the Impala, Staal steered out of the tight parking spot and relayed to Wakamatsu all that he had learned from Garner and Mrs. Moore about the series of events between Nathan Campbell and Sean Moore.

  “So, Campbell hides in the bushes and then jumps Moore,” Wakamatsu theorized. “But how did he know where to find Moore, or when?”

  “I’m thinking these two have butted heads before the night at the Gull. More than once, I’d bet. Campbell, either out of fear or revenge for all the high school shit, began to stalk Moore. He learned Moore’s walking route and then planned his little surprise.”

  Staal made a right on 84 Northwest and a left on 234 South and parked two blocks from the Campbell house.

  “Yeah, I agree. The fight at the Gull forced Campbell to put the plan into action. How do you think it went down?”

  “Campbell reaches that cleared area, finds a spot in the middle of the trail, and builds his Pam Anderson in the sand and covers her with the blanket. What red-blooded guy could resist a peek?”

  So then Moore strolls by, stops at the body, thinks, ‘What the fuck?’ Bends to flip back the sheet and then Campbell pops out from behind that bush and zaps Moore with the cattle prod,” Wakamatsu finished up.

  Staal nodded. “Yeah, and Sean Moore goes down l
ike he took a 45 round between the eyes. Campbell binds him with the tie-straps, and duct-tapes his mouth and nose.”

  “The poor bastard suffocates before he knows what hit him.” Wakamatsu ran his palm over his bald cranium. “Jesus.”

  Staal called Dispatch to run a full check on Nathan Campbell.

  “No outstanding warrants or priors. Not even a damn parking ticket, Jack,” Lehman answered.

  Staal turned to Wakamatsu. “You got a camera on your phone? One that can hook to my portable printer?”

  Wakamatsu nodded and Staal began to make his plans.

  Chapter 20

  The Campbell home, like most of the others in the area, was a one-level suburbia special, with dark blue stucco and baby-blue trim, built in the late fifties.

  The bell didn’t sound, so Staal rapped on the door. A woman answered, but didn’t open the door.

  Both Staal and Wakamatsu held up their badges for Mrs. Campbell to inspect through the peephole. Finally, the door opened, but only enough to peek at the strangers at her home. She was in her mid to late sixties, with thick glasses and shoulder length wiry gray hair.

  Staal introduced himself and his partner. “Can we come in, Mrs. Campbell?”

  “Is this about Nathan’s car, the fire?” Mrs. Campbell asked.

  “Yes, Ma’am. Is Nathan in?”

  Mrs. Campbell opened the door in a long slow motion. As she did she called to her son, “Nathan! Nathan, the detectives are here about your car.”

  The living room was clean, but cluttered with knick-knacks and souvenirs. The carpeting was threadbare and the walls covered with framed photos of Nathan, Mrs. Campbell, and a man who must be Nathan’s father. The pictures of Mr. Campbell were at least twenty years old. The man had left or died when Nathan was still a boy.

  Finally, Nathan Campbell appeared in the narrow hallway. He was in his early thirties, around five seven, a hundred and forty pounds, with short brown hair, a shiner under his left eye, and both cheeks bruised.