Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  Campbell, distracted by thoughts of the birthday celebration his mother had planned for him, walked right in on the Girls’ LSD and booze bash. Nicole knew it was Nathan’s birthday. Meneghello convinced Campbell that she would perform oral sex on him for his birthday.

  Campbell had his pants down when Meneghello punched him in the face. At first the girls only stripped him naked, threw his clothes in the mud, and colored his body with make-up. Meneghello took it a notch further when she urinated on him.

  Campbell jumped to his feet, knocked Kim Walker down, and tried to escape through the woods. Meneghello wasn’t finished with Campbell, though. She caught up to him, tied her belt around his neck, and dragged him back to the clearing. She used her strength and size to hold him down. She pulled the belt tighter as she rained punch after punch down on Campbell, and told the others to join in the beating.

  Walker and the others spat on, kicked, punched, and threw beer bottles at Campbell until he was bloodied and bruised. Nicole begged Meneghello to stop, and Meneghello relented. She rolled off Campbell, and signaled the group that it was time to go.

  “Campbell, the stupid shit,” Lipton said, “called them all dikes.” Charles Lipton paused for half a minute. “Meneghello lost it then. Just fucking freaked.”

  “Let me guess,” Staal said. “Meneghello raped Campbell with a broom handle or something, strangled him with the belt until she thought he was dead, and then, last but not least, she planted a piece of branch into his anus, as a victorious army would plant their flag on conquered soil.”

  “Yes, Detective. They left him for dead. But how did you know?”

  “It was just a...” Staal was about to lie. “That’s what Campbell did to each of his victims, Mr. Lipton.”

  “Sandra was a time bomb back then, they all were. Meneghello’s father got drunk and stoned one night when she was twelve or thirteen. He raped her repeatedly for several hours while the mother was at work. Nicole’s foster-brother fondled her when she was a child. All of them had stories.... They all went to group therapy in ’94 or ’93.”

  “We investigated that angle, thinking that the women might have used the same therapist as adults,” Staal said. “Mr. Lipton, are you certain that you can’t recall Sandra Meneghello’s new name?”

  “No; I never knew it. She’s an artist. I heard at the reunion that she was selling her work in a Robson Street Gallery. I don’t believe she’s still there, because Nicole and I looked for the gallery when we lived together in 2006.”

  “Do you know of any family?”

  “I think her mother still lives in Hanson.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of, Mr. Lipton?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  Staal thanked Charles Lipton and gave him his cell number in case he thought of any other information. He hung up, looked at Hayes, and asked her if she had anything on Sandra Meneghello.

  “Sandra Angela Meneghello is now Sara-Ann Delleman,” Hayes began. “There’s no record of marriage. Her last local address is also the address for James and Lisa Delleman. Mrs. Delleman was once Lisa Meneghello. James is deceased.”

  “That was fast, Hayes,” Staal said with a smile.

  “The Internet, Staal, perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Gina grinned.

  “You going to enlighten us about your phone call, Staal?” Gooch said.

  “Yeah, Jack. You want us to friggin’ guess?” Fraser said.

  “In a minute. We need to find this Delleman woman. She’s next on Campbell’s hit list!”

  “How can you be so sure?” Gooch asked.

  “Trust me, she’s next,” Staal said. He asked Gina to keep working on finding Sara Delleman. “We need to visit this Lisa Delleman—Sara’s mother.”

  Staal took the next twenty minutes to explain how Charles Lipton did what five Hanson detectives and three IHIT teams couldn’t do. He connected the Birthday Boy victims. Staal told the story of how Campbell was assaulted, strangled, and left to die in an overgrown lot in 1994. How he thought that Campbell was now stalking Sara Delleman, learning her routines, and planning her murder.

  “You get vitals for Delleman, Gina?” Staal asked.

  Gina used a government website in the Department of Statistics in Victoria. “Born in the city, September 17, 1977 to Lisa and Anthony Meneghello. No record of an official name change.”

  “What about a sheet? Any priors?”

  “Two DUI’s, possession of cannabis, an assault charge that was later dropped.”

  “No current addresses other than the mother’s?”

  “No, I’m trying to find out where her credit card statements are going, but she either has no cards or she uses a different name. I might have better luck when the banks open.” Gina entered a special website installed for law enforcement by Visa, MC, and AmEX, to better combat credit card and identity theft. She learned of the site while working the fraud squad, a joint effort with the Mounties. “Revenue Canada shows she has filed no tax returns since 2004.”

  “We may not have time to wait until the banks are open,” Staal said.

  “What do you mean, Jack? We have two months until Delleman’s birthday,” Gooch said.

  “Campbell knows we’re on his tail. He won’t wait two days if he has Delleman in his sights,” Staal said.

  “I agree,” Fraser said. “We need to talk to the mother and find out where Delleman is, ASAP.”

  “It’s almost 4:30,” Staal said. “I say we throw down a few donuts and some coffee, and me and Rachael go knocking on the mother’s door at six AM.”

  “I agree,” Gooch said. “While me and Staal are out, Gina, you and Kenny keep on the Internet search for Delleman. Cameron, you’re good on searches; you can get one going, too.”

  Lisa Delleman lived less than five blocks from the home of Irene Campbell. Staal pushed the Impala hard, running yellow and the occasional red light. The house was at least forty years old, but was well maintained with a groomed lawn, new fence, and freshly painted siding. The home was in darkness, but a Chevrolet Malibu was parked in the driveway. Staal had long ago passed tiredness to complete exhaustion, but he had to be sharp; Sara Delleman’s life could depend on his ability to shake off his fatigue. It was ten minutes after six when Staal opened his door a few inches and tipped the dregs from his coffee cup.

  Rachael Gooch rang the doorbell a second time before lights came on in the living room of the Delleman house. A modern intercom system terminal was installed in the wall next to the front door. A woman’s voice, Caucasian, mid to late sixties, answered the page in an agitated tone.

  “Who the hell is it?” she said. “This better be damn good getting me up at this hour.”

  “Ma’am, it’s the Hanson Police Department,” Gooch responded.

  “Police? I didn’t call the police.”

  “Ma’am, this is important,” Staal said.

  Delleman opened the door and demanded to see ID. Both detectives flipped their badges and Gooch introduced them.

  “You’re Lisa Delleman?” Staal asked.

  “Yes. What is this about?” Delleman wore a faded, stained, and ripped nightgown and pink fuzzy slippers in worse condition. Her glasses drooped on her nose and she did not attempt to adjust them. Her hair was died an un-natural auburn color in an endeavor to hide the gray.

  “We are looking for your daughter Sandra, Mrs. Delleman,” Staal said.

  “Sandy? Why, what’s going on?” Delleman stood back and let the detectives into the house. She stood in the entryway to the living room. Her home was spotless, and could have doubled as a museum of the post war dwelling of the fifties and sixties.

  “We need to locate her. Did Sandra move abroad, or change her name, around June 2004?” Gooch asked.

  “Is Sandy in trouble, Detectives? Is she involved in something illegal?” Her eyes darted between Gooch and Staal.

  “Mrs. Delleman. We don’t wish to alarm you, but we believe that Sandra’s life may be in danger. We need
to find her and place her in police protection.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Delleman stepped away from Staal and slumped into an easy chair.

  “Mrs. Delleman?” Staal said, to get the woman’s attention.

  “Sandy told me never to tell anyone where she went,” Mrs. Delleman said in a troubled voice.

  “This is different, Mrs. Delleman,” Staal said. “I can’t guarantee her safety if I don’t know where she is.”

  “Sandy changed her name after high school.” Delleman appeared to be in a trace-like state. She stared off into the distance. “Her father abused her when she was a child and we sent him to jail for it.”

  Staal shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He didn’t have the time or patience for a Meneghello-Delleman family history lesson.

  “James, my second husband,” She crossed herself, signaling that James Delleman was deceased, “treated Sandy like his own daughter and she took his last name.”

  Staal knew that he couldn’t rush Delleman; she would tell her daughter’s story and reveal Sandra’s location in her own way and time. Still, he didn’t believe the woman understood the severity of the situation. Her need to chronicle her daughter’s life made Staal think that Delleman saw her very little, and felt closer by talking about her this way.

  “Later, Sandy went to art school—Emily Carr.”

  Staal knew that the Gulf Islands were popular with West coast artists. The theory was correct. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Is it possible that Sandra is living in the Gulf Islands, Mrs. Delleman?” Gooch asked.

  “Well, yes. How—how do you know that?”

  “Please tell us what you know, ma’am,” Gooch said, almost pleading.

  Lisa Delleman continued with her account of her daughter’s life as best as she knew it. Sandra became involved in a romantic relationship with a woman in 1998. When the affair ended, the girlfriend, Barbara Lehigh, became despondent and aggressive. She tried to kill Sandra in the fall of ‘99. Lehigh did eight months in a psychiatric facility, and when she got out, pursued Sandra relentlessly. In the spring of 2000, Sandra Delleman became Stephanie Black. Stephanie moved to Ganges on Salt Spring Island, the biggest of the chain, and opened an art gallery called the Dreamcatcher.

  In the street, standing next to the Impala, Gooch said, “Can you believe that? Shit, we won’t make a ferry for more than an hour.” She put her hand through her hair and sighed. “Maybe we can use the department chopper. I’ll call Sergeant Spears and ask him to file a flight plan.”

  “We don’t have time to set up any of that,” Staal said, “but I have an idea.” He flipped out his cell phone and called the private line of Dispatch Operator Grace Clarke.

  “Grace, I need the number for Fraser Valley Helicopter Charters.”

  “What am I, Jack? Your own private 411 operator?” Grace laughed.

  “Kind of in a hurry, Grace.”

  Staal closed the call and dialed. Before he could push send, Gooch spoke. “Jack, Inspector Ross will never go for us hopping a private chopper.”

  “You have a quicker way of getting over there?”

  “We don’t even know for sure that he’s on the island,” Gooch said.

  “Campbell’s there, Rachael; I’m positive of that.” He activated the call.

  A receptionist answered the call. “Valley Helicopter, Cindy speaking.”

  “I’m Hanson Police detective Jack Staal. Is Wendell Clarke there, please?” Staal started the Impala, but when he realized he didn’t have a course, he turned it off.

  “Mr. Clarke is in today, but he’s in a staff meeting,” Cindy said with an irritatingly polished tone.

  “Tell Mr. Clarke who I am and that it’s extremely important. I’m certain he’ll talk to me.” The call connected a minute later.

  “Clarke here. Are you Jack Staal? As in, the son of Travis Staal?” Clarke worked patrol with Staal’s father in the sixties.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Jesus Christ! How is the old buzzard?”

  “Dad’s fine. This is very important, Mr. Clarke.”

  “I understand. Call me Wen. Say, Jack, the last time I talked to Travis, he said you were with Hanson detectives. You’re not working that Birthday Boy mess, are you?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m calling you about.” Staal told Clarke about his urgent need to get to Salt Spring Island. “Can’t wait for department clearance so I’ll put it on my personal plastic.”

  “I’ll file a flight plan straight away. How many in your squad?”

  “Two for sure, perhaps four.”

  “You got a suspect on the island, Jack?”

  “Um, yeah. But I need your discretion on this.”

  “Okay, and forget the fare. This one’s on me.”

  “Our suspect may be in Ganges and ready to kill again.”

  “Look, Jack, you and your partner get here ASAP and I’ll get a bird fueled and ready. How soon can you get here?”

  Staal told Clarke his ETA was twenty minutes, hung up, started the Impala, and flipped on the lights and siren.

  “Where are we going, Jack?” Staal heard a familiar irritation in his partner’s tone.

  “We’re on a private chopper to Ganges on Salt Spring Island. Pack your scene-kit, your vest and an extra magazine.”

  “Jack, I’ve got to clear this with Ross!”

  “Rachael, you’ve got two choices. I drop you at West and you can run this by Ross and Barnes, or you can call the boss in the air and tell him what’s going on. I’m catching that chopper, with or without you.”

  “Okay, Jack. I’ll call Ross once we take off.”

  Chapter 34

  Wendell Clarke was true to his word. He had a newer looking bright-blue commercial chopper running and they lifted off as soon as Gooch and Staal were belted into their seats. Two minutes later, his voice came over the headsets and announced that they would touch down at ten AM in Ganges.

  Staal gazed out across the mountains and valleys. He took deep breaths and worked to clear his mind.

  Gooch’s voice crackled in his headset. “Those notes he left were too easy.”

  Staal knew what she meant. “Yeah, my daughter could have figured it out.”

  “Campbell wants you, Jack.”

  He smiled.

  Gooch shook her head and pulled out her cell.

  Staal dialed information and asked for the number to the RCMP detachment in Ganges, Salt Spring Island.

  “RCMP, Ganges, Marla speaking,” The civilian secretary said.

  “I’m Detective Jack Staal, Hanson Police, Homicide. I need to speak with the Constable. Who is on duty?”

  “Constable Saunders is on patrol, Detective. Is this an emergency? If so, please use our 911 service.” Marla had a nasally whine to her voice.

  “Look, Marla. I’m not in town yet. A woman’s life may depend on this, so please put me through to the on-duty Constable!” The line went to elevator music and Staal cursed the woman’s ignorance. The flight was making him anxious. It was the same every time he got into a helicopter; the damn thing had no business staying in the air.

  “Saunders here. What can I do you for, Detective?” Saunders spoke with a faint prairie accent, Saskatchewan, Staal thought.

  “A killer from Hanson may be stalking one of your citizens.”

  “I’m listening, Detective, but your line is real bad. You up in a plane or something?”

  “Helicopter. My partner and I will be in Ganges by ten.”

  “Okay, what can I do?”

  “We believe the intended victim is Stephanie Black, she owns a gallery called the Dreamcatcher. Do you know it?” Staal glanced at his watch and noted that it was twenty-five minutes to ten.

  “Sure, I know Stevie. She’s got Bud the barber’s old place, over on Rainbow Road.”

  “If you could roll over there and check on her. Tell her that two detectives are on the way. If you could stay with her till we arrive, that would be great.” />
  “We’re a little short-staffed. But I’ll definitely head over there.” Staal could hear the siren wail. “I’ll call you when I find her, Detective. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”

  Staal hung up his phone and gazed out the window. Fishing boats and pleasure craft dotted the ocean below. He felt a surge of dread, and he knew that nothing good would come of this day. The feeling reminded him of the darkness in the dream he had in the strategy room at West. He wanted, needed, to be on one of those boats below, fishing, or cruising, exploring beaches and coves. His phone buzzed and his anxiety swelled.

  “Jack—where are you? Are you on a chopper?” Gina asked.

  Staal spent the next few minutes updating Gina about where the case was taking him and Gooch. “We’ll touch down shortly.”

  “You just left? Why-why didn’t you come in and find me? I—mean...”

  “I’m sorry—but I didn’t want Ross or Barnes to shut us down, so me and Rachel just go the hell out of there.”

  “Wakamatsu finished all twelve of the D.K. books, Jack.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “In every book Knight is seconds away from being caught by a Special Agent, J.S. Jameson.”

  Staal thought about the FBI angle.

  “Jack—you’re Campbell’s Jameson...that’s why he left those notes for you.”

  “Yeah,” he shook his head.

  “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Love you.”

  Staal could hear the emotion and worry in her voice. “Love you, too.”

  His phone buzzed as soon as he hung up from Gina. “Detective Staal? Constable Saunders. I’m over at the Dreamcatcher. It’s locked up, still. Which is strange, because Stevie opens at nine every morning.”

  “Have you called there?”

  “Sure have. It just keeps ringing and the machine is turned off.”

  “You have an address and home number for Black?”

  “She lives in a suite above the gallery. Marla has called her private number and left three messages.”