Staal drove along Morgan Creek Way, a street that ran the circumference of the complex. The homes of the Creek were just as he remembered, with spotless windows and siding, short-cropped bright green lawns, and shrubs clipped into topiary birds and animals. He made a right turn on Dominion Avenue, another on Creekside Drive and stopped at number 44.
A pair of patrol unit Impalas and an unmarked Crown Victoria, all from East Precinct, were parked near 44 Creekside Drive.
A patrol cop standing at the front door of number 44 took one look at Staal and Gooch and stepped quickly inside before Staal could figure out whom she was.
Before Staal could enter, Detective Tyler Bronson, and Sergeant Joyce Fennel emerged from the hallway and Fennel moved toward Staal and Gooch. Bronson and Fennel were from the General Investigations Section and had responded to the call.
The four detectives exchanged pleasantries and Fennel began. “Drummond took one look at this and said it was Birthday Boy. The word from Inspector Ross is that you guys will work this until the Team takes it over. Drummond will call when you can take a look.”
“Drummond’s here?” Staal asked. He couldn’t see the FIS unit van. “How the fuck did he get here so quick?”
“Will lives here, Jack—in the Creek,” Bronson said. “He was here before me and Fennel.” Bronson was an old school detective. Severely overweight, you could hear his wheezing before you saw him. A few years ago, he was the Sergeant in the Major Crimes Section, until he resigned his rank and went back to catching cases in General I.
Fennel was African American, and in just six years had made detective and replaced Bronson as Sergeant of G.I. Most believed she would make Inspector by the time she was forty.
Fennel and Gooch stepped aside to talk about the case, which left Bronson and Staal alone for a minute.
“So, Staal. Rumor has it that you didn’t buy that Zimmerman shit, right off.” Bronson lit a cigarette and offered one to Staal. “I, for the record, am glad that this one is yours, Jack.” Bronson paused to give his belt a heave up. “With the Mounties screwing things up and all the media heat—you can have it.”
“Yeah, thanks, Ty.” He dropped his cigarette and stepped out the butt. Gooch signaled him that Drummond had given the green light. “Next fucked-up-mess is yours!”
Staal and Gooch walked through the front door of number 44.
“Her friends called it in, Jack,” Gooch said.
Staal nodded.
“Dropped her off around one—then went back to talk to her around two.”
“We have their names?”
“Uh-huh. They’re still here.” She looked at her notes. “Todd and Shelia Gates.”
Fraser and Hayes would begin a door-to-door canvass as soon as Barnes and Wakamatsu arrived. Staal wasn’t sure if Barnes’ idea to personally work in the field was good or bad. It definitely was rough for Wakamatsu, but as long as Barnes left the decisions to him, Staal thought he could tolerate the Staff Sergeant’s intrusion for now.
In only two hours on scene, Drummond had a pathway marked with crime scene tape, leading from the rear sliding deck door to the pool house. The taped path kept foot traffic from destroying any trace evidence before Drummond’s technicians could comb and mark it as clear. Both Gooch and Staal paused in the short trimmed grass, not at all eager to witness the most recent Campbell carnage. Staal couldn’t believe how exhausted he felt, and he was certain the other cops would notice he was limping.
It was obvious what had happened in the yard; an empty wine bottle and goblet still sat on a portable table, where Jim Tomlinson would dust it for prints. Newsome had taken a dip in the Jacuzzi and Campbell had waited to ambush her in the pool house.
Inside the house were a sauna/steam room, change area, toilets, and four shower stalls. The prostrate naked form of Newsome lay in the first glass-walled shower stall. There was little doubt of cause of death, as ligature marks could easily be seen around her neck, and her skin had a bluish tinge, suggesting that she had asphyxiated. Protruding from her anus was Campbell’s signature, an eight-inch piece of branch that he had probably found in the cedar shrubbery on the property.
“Jack, Rachael. Glad you could join us,” Drummond said when he noticed the detectives stepping up behind him. “Detectives, meet Amber Nicole Newsome-Wright.”
“Kind of close to home, Will?”
“Too close.”
“Anything interesting?” Staal said.
“Other than that?” Drummond gestured to the signature stem. “Campbell is either getting careless or cocky.”
“How so?” Gooch said.
“Got prints this time.” Drummond waved his hands as if latent prints were everywhere. “I got a perfect thumb on the shower tap. Then almost a complete hand on that bench over there,” he pointed to a changing area seat. “Then another complete and a few partials on the tile next to the body.”
“All confirmed matches to Nathan Campbell?” Staal asked.
“Not yet. I’ll get Jimmy to run it on the portable as soon as he arrives,” Drummond said.
Staal noticed that Drummond was looking him over, his face showing concern. “What?”
“You look rough, Jack. I’m just wondering if you’re overdoing it a bit.”
“What are you getting at, Sarge?”
“Well, you were run down by a car, what, seven days ago?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Jesus Christ, Staal; you were in a coma-like state for a fucking week! You have a concussion and your legs were almost broken. Anybody else would be sitting on their ass, watching the soaps for a month.”
“Well, Will. I’m a reality TV kind of guy and it was only five days.”
“Five days, shit!” Drummond smiled at Staal. “Okay, if you’re so damn good—take a look under that black card over there on that bench.”
Staal pulled on rubber gloves and crossed the shower room to the change benches, found Drummond’s black 4x6 inch cardboard tag, and flipped it over.
“What the hell?” Beneath the tag were two playing cards, a King of Spades sitting over a Jack of Hearts. “In the Knight novels, it was King over the Joker.”
“Yeah, I read the file,” Drummond said.
“This is a message,” Staal said. “The King is Campbell, and the Jack is—”
“—the Jack is you, Detective.”
“Shit!”
“What’s wrong?” Gooch said when she saw Staal step back from the change bench.
“Take a look, Rachael,” Staal said. “Campbell is calling me out.”
Gooch stared at the playing cards for a minute, and then snapped several photos. “He’s just responding to the news coverage we ran today.”
“It’s a taunt, Rachael. The little bastard is daring me to catch his ass.” Staal ran his hand through his hair and exhaled a long breath.
“Hey, Staal,” It was Chief Coroner Jason Wong. “You look like road kill.”
“Not now, Wong,” Gooch interjected. To Staal she said, “We need to find the mother.”
Staal said nothing. He felt like he was that Jack of hearts, that the weight of that King—the entire Campbell mess—was crushing him.
“Jack, let’s go.”
Chapter 30
Slumped at his desk at the 565 Major Crime table, Staal sipped thick hot coffee. Rachael Gooch waited until nine and then called the insurance company that handled Irene Campbell’s house fire and worked to find out where Mrs. Campbell was staying. Staal checked his voice-mail and erased messages from seventeen newspaper and television reporters before he found one that interested him. It was Constable Red Hartley calling to inform him that Drummond’s FIS team had arrived at Duncan Quinn’s and that Hartley and Kasson were leaving the scene.
“Yes, is Irene Campbell there, please?” Gooch said into her phone. “It’s Ms. Corrigan calling. I’m with the Insurance Council of Canada. I have a few questions pertaining to the level of service she has experienced with her insurance provider.”
Staal thought she was onto something. He looked for Newsome on the student list from Ballard, during 1988-97. For the first time in the case he had a connection.
Two minutes later Gooch hung up the phone. He handed her a fresh cup of tea and said, “Any luck?”
“Yeah, I found her. The old bat is living with her sister, Denise Hallman. You ready to roll?” Gooch sipped her tea.
“Uh-huh. I just got to grab something from the printer.” Staal had run off a few photos from the Birthday Boy crime scenes. “Hey, Campbell and Newsome both were at Ballard high in ’95.”
Rachael’s face lit up with surprise. “Yeah but not Haywood, Walker or MacKay. How do they fit in?”
Staal parked the Impala in front of number 788, 217 Street NW. It was a newer concrete apartment tower of twelve floors. The suites featured balconies, which most of the tenants had decorated with potted flowers and plants.
Gooch buzzed the manager and waited for a response. “Hanson Police. Can you let us in?”
“I’ll have to come down and check your ID. Building policy,” the grumpy male voice said.
“What’s the problem, Detectives?” The man said when he opened the glass door and glanced at their badges. He was in his late sixties, with a small build, white hair, and thick glasses. He didn’t step aside to allow Gooch and Staal to enter.
“I’m Detective Staal. This is Sergeant-Detective Gooch.”
“I’m Ralph. Ralph Glass.”
“We have police business with Mrs. Hallman in 917, Mr. Glass,” Gooch said.
“Hallman? She is one of my best tenants,” He held the door for the detectives to enter. “The elevators are straight ahead.”
Gooch knocked on the door of 917, and when Hallman asked who it was, Gooch held her badge to the peephole and said, ‘Police.’
“What is this about?” Hallman said. “Is this about my nephew, Nathan?” Her face was worried, as though she had expected a police visit.
Staal could see through the two inches she’d cracked the door that Hallman was an identical twin of Irene Campbell. “This is important, Mrs. Hallman. Can we come in and talk?” Staal hoped to get a word with Denise before her sister discovered the police were here.
Hallman gradually opened the door. Staal introduced himself and Gooch as Hallman motioned them to take a seat in the living room.
“Is your sister home, Mrs. Hallman?” Gooch began.
“Yes, she’s still asleep in the spare bedroom. Would you like me to wake her?” Denise’s hair was longer and she was a few pounds heavier, but other than that, she was a clone of Irene.
“No, we would like to talk to you, Mrs. Hallman.” Staal said, glancing at Gooch.
The suite was modern in every way except for an old fashioned couch with flower print material and wood trim, and a Television from the 70s encased in dark stained woodwork.
“Since the fire, has Nathan Campbell been in contact with his mother?” Gooch said.
“Well, yes, several times.” Hallman fidgeted with her wristwatch band.
“Do you know where he is staying?”
“No, Irene wouldn’t tell me. She thinks that you people are prejudiced against Nathan. Says you’re trying to pin that awful murder on him because you can’t find the real killer.” Hallman turned her head toward the bedrooms, and lowered her voice. “I don’t believe that the police would do such a thing. That Nathan has been odd his whole life. He was a strange child and now he is a strange man.”
“Strange, Mrs. Hallman?” Staal removed his notepad from an inside pocket.
“Denise? Denise, who’s out there?” Irene Campbell charged down the hall. “Oh, my God! Denise! What did you say to them?”
Staal and Gooch stood and faced Irene. “Where’s Nathan, Irene?”
“Get out of here! Get out of here, right now!” “You need to talk to these detectives, Irene,” Denise pleaded. “Talk to them before it’s too late for Nathan.”
“Oh, shut up, Denise! I won’t turn against my Nathan!” She flopped into an easy chair and covered her face with her hands.
Gooch moved in behind the easy chair and placed her hands on Campbell’s shoulders as if to offer comfort. Staal picked up a TV tray to use as a display table. He pulled a photo from an inside pocket in his blazer and positioned it on the tray.
“Look, Irene,” Gooch said. She pulled Campbell’s hands from her face and held them at her side. “This is Sean Moore.” The photo was of Moore’s body lying in situ at the creek.
“Oh, dear God. Why are you doing this to me?” Campbell stared at the photo.
“Moore was knocked down with a stun gun. We know that Nathan purchased such a weapon on the Internet,” Staal said.
“So what? That doesn’t prove anything—it’s a coincidence,” Campbell said.
“We found Nathan’s DNA on the body, Mrs. Campbell. Do you know what DNA is, Irene?” Gooch asked. She glanced at Staal. None of the DNA had actually been matched to a sample harvested from Irene’s son.
“Well, yes. I watch CSI like everyone else,” Campbell said.
Staal set a second photo in front of her, larger than the first. It was the blanket found on the sand maiden at the Moore scene. “Do you recognize this?”
“Yes, it’s a blanket from my couch. I thought it was lost in the fire.”
“It was found near the body. It had several flakes of snakeskin on it. We know that Nathan kept reptiles at your home,” Gooch said.
“Lots of people keep snakes, Detective.”
Staal put another photo down. “This is Kimberly Walker. She was 32, and she had two sons aged eight and ten.”
“We found snake skin on her body, too. There were cigarette butts found around the body that had Nathan’s saliva on them. That DNA also matches your son’s.”
“DNA isn’t perfect, detective. Remember the O.J. trial.”
Staal set down another photo. “This is Amber Newsome. She was killed last night. She was a schoolmate of Nathan’s in 1995.”
“We found Nathan’s fingerprints in several places around the body. We know that your son did these crimes, Irene. Don’t make me arrest you for obstructing a homicide investigation.”
“Please, Irene,” Hallman said from the dining room. “Tell the detectives what you know.”
Irene Campbell was silent for a full minute before she spoke. “All I know is that Nathan is staying at a Best Western. I don’t know where or which one.” Tears streamed down her face.
Staal couldn’t imagine how it must feel to know in your heart that your only offspring is a murderer. He thought of Brenda and shook his head. “Does that telephone have call display?” He pointed at an end table. Hallman nodded. Staal picked up the hand-held phone, scrolled through the call-display memory, and saw five entries from a Best Western. He dialed the number and wrote down the address of the hotel.
“I got it Gooch. Let’s roll.”
Denise Hallman stepped into the hallway outside of her apartment.
“One time, about a year ago, Nathan came here dressed all in black. His jeans, jacket, and baseball hat—all black. He even had dark colored contacts and he talked with an accent. I didn’t even recognize him.”
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Hallman.”
“One more thing,” Hallman said. “Nathan left this here with me.” She stepped inside and returned with a tin cookie box. “Said he would be back for it one day.” She turned, and then faced the detectives again and handed Gooch a pink envelope before closing the apartment door. “Oh, Irene gave me a picture of Nathan.” She paused. “She did that all the time—it’s in there .”
Staal sat in the passengers’ seat of the Impala, pulled on latex gloves, and lifted the lid from the tin that was a few inches larger than a shoebox. The first item to jump out at Staal was a .22 automatic with sound suppressor and a full magazine, an assassin’s weapon.
“Nice,” Gooch said. She reached into a duffle bag in the back seat and removed an evidence bag.
She held the bag open for Staal to set the pistol and ammo clip inside.
Next in the tin box was a money clip holding fifty twenty-dollar bills. “Thousand bucks,” Staal said. He found a Ford ignition key and placed it into an evidence bag. Then he opened the pink envelope and removed the photograph of Nathan Campbell. He was dressed in the black outfit that Mrs. Hallman described and that numerous witness’ depicted as the man known as Birthday Boy. He handed the snapshot to Gooch.
“Jesus,” Gooch exclaimed. “We need to get this back to 565 and get copies out to every patrol unit in the city.” She pulled the Impala away from the curb, moved into traffic, and then turned on the siren and emergency flashers.
“Yeah, I want to put out a BOLO to every cop in the province. Maybe get something on the wire to Washington and Oregon. Even extend it to Alberta in case he heads east.” A BOLO or Be On the Lookout would put photos of Campbell as himself and as Damian Knight in every patrol unit on the next shift.
“I’ll call for some backup to meet us at the B.W. and one of the units can run the photos in for Castro to print up. She can get them out to the watch sergeants for shift change,” Gooch said.
Gooch steered the Impala toward the Best Western Lake Hanson Inn in downtown Hanson on Yale Road. The hotel was a tourist favorite as well as a businessmen’s destination, located only a few blocks form the Farmers Market, golf courses, and three Vegas style casinos on the shores of Lake Hanson.
Staal and Gooch jogged through the front door of the establishment with four patrol cops close behind. Staal anticipated catching Campbell in his room, watching TV or enjoying a hot shower. He didn’t notice which cops had responded to the call for backup.
Staal flipped his detective badge to the attendant seated at the front desk. “I need you tell me if you have a Nathan Campbell staying here,” he said authoritatively.
“I’m sorry, Detective, but that’s against company policy. Do you have a warrant?”
“Look, I don’t have time for this bullshit! You may have a serial killer staying at your hotel. I could get a warrant, but in the name of public safety I’d have to get an order to evacuate the building, as well.” He paused a minute and then said, “It’s up to you.”
Dead of Knight Page 24
