“Nate, these detectives want to talk about your car,” Mrs. Campbell said.
“Yeah, okay. So, did you catch the prick who torched my car?”
Campbell was obviously nervous and shifted his weight from leg to leg. Staal made a mental note of his lack of eye contact.
“You ask me, it was that Sean Moore and his gang,” Mrs. Campbell said. “That bunch were no good back in school and nothin’ has changed.”
“Ma’am, can we talk to your son in private?” Wakamatsu asked.
“Just look at my Nathan.” Mrs. Campbell pointed at her son’s bruises. “The lot of them, hittin’ and stompin’ on Nate like that. That’s three on one, Detectives.”
“Mrs. Campbell. Do you mind stepping into the kitchen? Or another room?” Staal asked.
“You should arrest the whole bunch of them. You ask me...”
“Mrs. Campbell!” Staal barked. When he had the woman’s attention, he lowered his voice. “We need to speak to Nathan alone.”
Mrs. Campbell said she understood and retreated to the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Nathan Campbell asked. His forehead shone and his upper lip trembled.
“Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday from eleven AM until about four PM?” Staal asked.
“Um, well, I, ah...” Campbell stammered.
“He was here all day,” Mrs. Campbell called. “Where could he go? His car all burned up like that?”
“Mrs. Campbell, please!” Wakamatsu said. “If you can’t be quiet, we’ll have to take Nathan to the precinct house.”
“Like my Mom said, I was here all day. After the fire crews left, I just played video games on my PC.” Campbell fidgeted and picked at a scab on his chin.
“Did you have any contact with Sean Moore, Byron Becker, or Randy Oake, after the night you fought them outside of the Thirsty Gull? Staal reached into his jacket inside pocket and pushed the send button on his phone.
“No, thank God, I never saw those guys again.”
A moment later Wakamatsu’s phone chirped and he stepped aside to answer it. He recognized Staal’s number on the display and said, “Hello? Hello?” as though no one was on the line. He held the phone up above his head, mumbled something about bad reception, and snapped several photos of Nathan Campbell with the camera function on the device. He snapped the phone closed and said, “So, back in the day, Sean Moore was the school bully?”
“Yeah. He was a jerk.”
“Picked on you a lot, did he?” Staal added.
“I guess,” Campbell stepped back from the detectives.
“It pisses you off—even now—fifteen years later. Doesn’t it?” Staal moved forward.
“Yeah, so...everybody’s got shit from their past.” Campbell’s agitation grew. He looked left and right and took another step backward. Staal thought he might try to bolt.
“What the hell is going on here?” Mrs. Campbell appeared from the kitchen.
“Mrs. Campbell. Sean Moore is dead,” Wakamatsu said.
“Drank himself to death, I’m sure.” She moved to her son’s side.
“No, ma’am. He was murdered and left in vacant lot near his home,” Staal said.
“Surely, you don’t think Nathan had anything to do with a murder?” She looked into Staal’s eyes and saw his answer. “Oh, good Lord! Nathan wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s a gentle man, loves animals.” Her anger grew, “He’s never been in any trouble in his life! He’s a good boy.”
“Mom!”
“Mrs. Campbell, in a homicide investigation it is standard procedure to talk to everyone who had any recent involvement with the victim.” Staal said. “Nathan does have a history with Sean Moore.”
“That’s enough. I won’t stand here and listen to anymore of this nonsense. Please leave!” She gestured at the front door.
In the Impala, Wakamatsu linked his phone to Staal’s printer. “Got two nice ones.” He handed the 8X10s to Staal.
Staal nodded. “So what do you think of Campbell?” He set the prints on the dash.
“I think he looks good for Moore’s murder.” Wakamatsu put the printer back in the pouch and waited for Staal’s reply.
“Yeah, he’s our guy. I’m going to show these around Moore’s neighborhood near the crime scene. I want you to head back to West Precinct, draw up a search warrant request form and then find Judge Wanamaker. Tell him we have a witness that puts Campbell in the area around the time of the murder, and fill him in on the history between Campbell and Moore.”
“A witness?” Wakamatsu asked. “You’re that confident?”
“Yep, somebody must have seen Campbell wandering about that neighborhood earlier when he stalked out Moore’s routine, or even yesterday. I’ll call you as soon as I have a credible wit.” He paused. “If Wanamaker’s in a half-decent mood it should be enough to get a search warrant.”
“Okay.”
Staal regretted his cockiness when he had knocked on the door of eight homes on 84 North, the street of the vacant lot, to no avail. The ninth house was the smallest home on the block. From the front it looked much like the Campbell residence, although in much better condition. The yard and shrubbery was impeccably groomed, the stucco bright white and the wood trim freshly stained.
Staal pushed the doorbell and the door opened, revealing a man.
“You the police?” he asked. He was at least eighty, with thick white hair, and clear blue eyes. He had a thin, muscled build and a strong jaw line. If Mel Gibson were thirty years older, he would look like this gentleman.
“Yes.” Staal introduced himself. They shook hands.
“I’m Barnard Segal. Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Over in the lot?” He nodded toward the green space across the street.
“Yes, Mr. Segal. A body was found near the creek earlier today.”
“Jesus Christ! A murder?” Segal asked.
Staal nodded.
Segal invited Staal to come in and sit at the couch in the living room. The room was tastefully decorated and free of clutter. Staal could see nothing that would lead him to believe a woman lived with Segal.
“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary lately, Mr. Segal? A stranger in the neighborhood, perhaps?” Staal took out his notepad.
“As a matter of fact, I have seen a stranger.” Segal rubbed his chin.
Staal nodded for him to continue.
“This guy, in his thirties—maybe late twenties. He came running out of the lot, looking all suspicious. Then he jumped on a bicycle—he left it at the street lamp—and tore out of here like all hell was after him!”
“What time would that be, Mr. Segal?” Staal clicked his pen open.
“Around noon—yesterday, and call me Barney.” Segal smiled.
Staal removed six photographs from his inside pocket and set them in front of Segal. Five of the shots were of cops; the other was of Nathan Campbell. “Do you recognize any of these men, Barney? Take your time.”
Segal removed reading glasses from his sweater pocket and put them on. He quickly pulled one photograph from the group and tapped it with his right hand. “That’s the guy I saw yesterday. I’m sure of it.”
“You see him any other time in the past?” Staal put away all but the picture of Campbell, and set out three other shots of the suspect.
Segal only took a few seconds before answering. “Sure, I saw him about three weeks ago along the creek in the lot. He walked up behind me and damn near gave me a heart attack. Asked me for a light.” Segal said that was the only other time that he saw Campbell.
“You look after things in the neighborhood, isn’t that right, Barney?”
“Sure, I see anything peculiar and I call you people.” Segal looked puzzled.
“Did you call us about the stranger? Either time?” Staal knew that if there were a call it would be in the records at the 911 callcenter.
“No, I didn’t call. The guy was strange, but he wasn’t doing anything wrong that I could tell.”
/> “Do you know Sean and Sherry Moore?” Staal asked.
“Sure. They moved in around five or six years ago?”
“How about Tim Cartwright?” Staal made up the name to test Segal.
“No, I never heard of him. You sure he lives around here?”
Staal ignored Segal’s question. “The Moores. Anything you can tell me about them?” That puzzled look from Segal again. “Rumors, gossip from around the neighborhood and that type of thing.”
“No, nothing like that. It—It wasn’t Sherry Moore. The one that was murdered, was it?” Segal looked like he might break down.
“No, it was Sean Moore.”
“Aw, shit, no!” Segal got up from the couch, and then sat down again. “Moore was a good guy. Did some plumbing work for me and only charged me for parts. Aw, shit!” He covered his face with his hands.
Staal let a minute pass before he asked if Segal would be willing to come in and make a witness statement at the precinct house. He mentioned the possibility of a future viewing of a suspect line up and testifying at a trial, if necessary. Staal wanted to know if he could rely on Segal as a credible witness in the case.
“Detective Staal, I’ll do what ever you need me to do if it will help you put the bastard that killed Sean away.”
“Thank you, Barney.” Staal gave Segal his card and told him he would be in touch.
By the time Staal finished the canvass of North Chestnut, a light drizzle had begun to fall. He opened his phone and dialed Wakamatsu.
“Yeah, Jack, any luck?” Wakamatsu asked.
Staal told his partner about Bernard Segal.
“I should have never doubted you, Jack.”
“I got lucky with both of them.”
“Both?”
“Yes. Jennifer Dubois,” Staal gave an address. “Out walking her dog, saw Campbell building his sand maiden. She kept her distance, but is certain it was him.”
“Both of them picked Campbell from a photo line-up?”
“Yeah. Dubois is a little freaked, but I think I can persuade her to come in to write up a statement. Anyhow, get working on those warrants and round up some back-up. Call me when you’re ready.”
Chapter 21
Nathan Campbell sat in the driver’s seat of Mathew Houghton’s Pontiac Sunbird. He was parked in Houghton’s driveway.
“Three fucking fire trucks! Shit,” he said when a third rig rumbled up his street and stopped across from the driveway. He shook his head in frustration.
Twenty minutes earlier he had packed two large suitcases of clothing and necessary items. Next, he went to the shed behind his house, retrieved a five-gallon fuel can, and carried it to the back door. He splashed gasoline around the sun deck, down the stairs, and emptied the can in his mother’s kitchen. He used the can to prop open the door and stood at the bottom of the stairs. Fumbling in his pockets, he produced a book of matches, tore one out, lit it, and then turned the match on the entire book. He dropped the blazing matchbook in a puddle of fuel and quickly turned away.
Over the drone of the trucks’ diesel engines, he could hear the fire chief bark orders to his men. He hated setting his own home on fire. It was unfortunate, but necessary, to destroy any evidence of his work. He noticed that the black smoke of the fire was slowly giving way to gray steam as water began to extinguish the flames. This setback would not alter his task. His duty was clear.
However, moving on the Moore mark had been a mistake. Detective Staal was too close, and now the entire mission was in jeopardy. If only the police could understand that he was on their side. His targets were rapists and killers, and worst of all, they were still living as free citizens years after committing their vicious crimes. Instead of persecuting him, the cops should be thanking him. Police work was hampered by rules and regulations and the media scrutinized their every move. He worked above the law and his judgments were permanent; they would never face appeal.
“Oh, well,” he whispered. “Every soldier of justice has his police entanglements.”
He slumped down in his seat when he saw a patrol cruiser ride past the driveway. He turned on the windshield wipers to clear the mist from the fire hoses.
* * *
Jack Staal pulled the Impala to the side of road after he drove through the intersection of 287 NW and 12th Street, and rubbed a hand through his hair in an attempt to clear his mind. A moment earlier, an Asian woman had walked past the front of his vehicle carrying a newborn close to her body and he had to fight off the overwhelming sensation that the child was in danger.
The daydream had disappeared as quickly as it arose, but it left him feeling foggy; and off his game. Staal swung his car away from the curb and continued on a course that would bring him to within two blocks of Nathan Campbell’s residence. Wakamatsu had already called to confirm that he had acquired a search warrant and was now on route with back-up.
Staal was only a few blocks from the Campbell neighborhood when he saw a thick black plume of smoke twisting for the clouds. He couldn’t see flames, but he heard fire crews racing to the scene. He knew what had happened; Campbell had set his home alight. Had he torched himself along with it?
“With a bit of luck the little bastard will be alive and on the run,” Staal said to himself.
Staal turned left on Renfrew Street and crawled slowly past the fire scene. The Campbell house appeared fully engulfed, with flames blazing from the living room window and dancing out of a gap in the roof. He held his badge up where the fire fighters could see and then scanned the crowd lined up to watch the blaze. He couldn’t see anyone who looked like Nathan Campbell.
* * *
Campbell’s heart was pounding and his thoughts were racing as fast as the flames destroying his home. He had recognized Staal’s midnight blue Chevy Impala as soon as it appeared. He turned the ignition key and started the Sunbird. He depressed the clutch pedal and shifted the stick into first gear. He held down the clutch, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. He checked the fuel gauge and took a deep breath. “Easy. Calm. Control.”
* * *
Staal spotted Chief Bradley Sturtze of Fire Hall Number Three. He called out, “What’s it look like, chief?”
Chief Sturtze was in his late fifties and in as good of shape as any of his crew. His face showed signs of burns and scrapes, souvenirs of past battles with the city’s biggest infernos. Bradley crossed the sidewalk to Staal’s Impala. “Looks like, smells like—‘cause it was—deliberately set.”
“Yeah, how’s that?” Staal asked.
“Got a gasoline accelerant all over what’s left of the rear porch and staircase.”
Staal nodded.
“You just in the neighborhood, Detective?”
“Nope. The resident, one Nathan Campbell, is a suspect in a homicide. I was about to pop his ass.”
“You think he’s in there?” Sturtze asked.
“Could be. Let me know if your boys find a crispy.”
Sturtze went back to his fire and Staal to his search of the area. He parked the Impala and mingled with the growing crowd. Campbell wasn’t a pyromaniac, so he probably wouldn’t remain in the area to watch his house burn. Still, Staal’s gut told him that his suspect was nearby, so he continued to scan the crowd. He flipped out his phone and dialed Wakamatsu to update him on the situation. Before Cameron could answer, the master bedroom window exploded, showering the yard with hot glass. The crowd ducked and retreated a few steps.
Wakamatsu sounded disappointed when he heard about the fire and said that he would send the others back to 565. Staal closed up his phone and a moment later, he heard a familiar voice.
“Detective Staal. I hope you’re happy!” said Irene Campbell. Her hair clung to face, damp with perspiration.
“Happy, Mrs. Campbell?” Staal asked.
“You and that—that Chinaman’s questions. You scared him—so much he .... Just look at my home. I’ll sue. You, the police force, the city. You’ll hear from my—”
“Look, M
rs. Campbell,” Staal interrupted. “Your son will go down for Sean Moore’s murder and now you can add arson to the list of charges.”
Staal turned away form Irene Campbell, crossed the street, got back into his Impala, and drove around the block. He had a feeling that Campbell was studying the fire scene, watching him. Several people walked past the Impala heading for the fire. He never understood people’s need to witness carnage, to see others at the worst time in their lives. From car wrecks to murder scenes, street fights to structure fires; humanity had a sick need to see blood and guts.
This time Staal rolled past the fire from the east. He had only to turn his head slightly to see the crowd. Two patrol cops were working to keep the mass back and out of the firefighters’ way. Staal drove slow, the Impala jolting as he rolled over the two and a half inch fire hoses. He could feel the heat on his face and now that the wind had changed, he smelt a strong burnt chemical stench.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. Sitting at the curb at Campbell’s driveway were two extra-large orange trash bags. The bags either were out early or missed by the sanitation crews that week because no other resident had their garbage out for collection. Staal couldn’t believe his luck. He drove along side the bags, reached out the window, hoisted both with his left hand, and drove away struggling to keep them off the ground. He made a right on 12th Street and drove as far as he could before the weight pulled the bags from his grasp. He pulled over, opened the glove box, and popped the trunk release button, but before Staal could swing out of the Impala, his phone chirped.
“Jack, it’s Drummond. Those footprints all around Moore’s body, the sand maiden, and the kill spot—”
“Yeah,” Staal opened the Impala door.
“—Jimmy got some good casts and I’ll know better in the lab, but they’re all from the same shoe and person. And guess what? A size eight!”
“No shit, Sarge?” Staal got out and walked to the rear of the vehicle where he hoisted the Glad bags into the trunk. He looked down 12th to see a yellow coupe moving slowly in his direction.
Dead of Knight Page 17
