After pleasantries were exchanged, Staal took a seat in a conference room opposite Staff-Sergeant Prichard, and Sergeants Freeman and Sheppard. Staal didn’t make eye contact and he let out a long sigh. The room held at least ten and Staal knew more Team members would join the group. He didn’t care how many came. He looked away and noticed a Stephanie Black painting of a pod of Orcas following a fishing trawler.
The RCMP has a long-standing tradition of success, of getting their man. Now the room was full of bruised egos and testosterone.
“You ever hear of backup, Staal? Chin was right; you should have quit!” Berger-Johnson said as he took a seat.
“Harold Zimmerman give you directions, BJ?”
“Fuck you, Staal,” Berger-Johnson barked.
“You first, cheeseburger,” Staal said.
“Jack, that’s enough.” McEwen entered the room and took a seat next to Staal.
“Hey, Staal. Where’s your partner—the Pooch,” Corporal Chin said.
Staal stood and moved toward Chin as the corporal left his chair.
“Detective-Sergeant Rachael Gooch was killed in the line of duty today,” McEwen announced. The tone in the room changed in an instant as every face turned toward the deputy chief.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Prichard said. “Chin, take your seat.”
Staal stepped away from the RCMP side of the table and sat next to the chief. Berger-Johnson and Woolworth offered their condolences, but Staal ignored them.
Prichard made a short speech about Rachael Gooch and then asked for an account of the Staal’s actions during the last twenty-four hours. Staal barely heard any of it. His body was in the room; but his mind was a hundred miles away. A Saturday evening at home with a good bottle of wine, a movie in the DVD and Gina in a pink and black teddy with that naughty grin she got after a couple glasses of Merlot.
“Detective, could you please tell us what happened after Berger-Johnson and Woolworth last saw you?”
“Yeah, sure.” Staal began the story from Charles Lipton’s call from Japan, and the visit to Mrs. Delleman, which lead them to the island. He finished with the Harris House entry and Gooch’s death.
“Why didn’t you call us when you obtained the info from Lipton or at least when you traveled here?” Donald Chin demanded when he was done.
Staal wanted to say that it was because he thought IHIT had become a bunch of arrogant pricks after the Zimmerman confession. “I didn’t realize it was my responsibility to keep you informed of my movements. Anyway, you people had Harold Zimmerman and wouldn’t listen to Sergeant Gooch when she tried to update you on my Campbell theory at the time.”
“Why did you not secure the area, and evacuate this,” Prichard glanced at his notes, “Harris House and wait for the Integrated team or members out of Nanaimo to arrive and take over?”
“I didn’t know how long it would take your people to get here.” Staal felt his temperature rise. “Plus the guy was strapped with thirty sticks of TNT. “What was I suppose to do, just watch as he drove away?”
“You’ve never heard of a surveillance tail, Staal?” Woolworth asked.
“At the time, the only vehicle at my disposal was a marked patrol cruiser.”
Two and a half hours later, he had described the longest day of his life more times than he could count. He told his story, retold it, and then wrote the events down before they video-taped him. He finally stood up.
“I’m done with this, gentlemen. I’m not a suspect here, and I’m getting a little fed up of being interrogated like one.” He turned away from the group. Donald Chin rose and moved toward him.
“Pack it in, Staal,” Chin whispered.
“What’s that, Donny?”
“You need to retire—quit, whatever. I’m tired of mopping up your shit.” Chin continued to speak in a hushed tone.
“You’re tired?” Staal said loud enough for the room to hear. “Chin, if you and your cowboy outfit had found Campbell instead of circle-jerking around that fuck Zimmerman—then...”
“Then what, Staal?” Chin was inches from him.
Staal shook his head.
“Sit down, Corporal,” Pritchard ordered.
Staal turned from Chin and left the room, crossed through the office and stepped out into the night. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Jeffery Snow was getting into his pick-up, but when he noticed Staal, he walked toward him.
“Where are you staying tonight, Jack?” Snow asked.
“I dunno. I’ll find something, I guess. Can you recommend a place?”
“Yeah, my house. I have a spare room, and in the morning—my Judy makes a great breakfast.”
“It’s late, Jeff. I don’t want to wake up your wife.”
“That woman would sleep through an earthquake. Come on, Jack; I insist.”
Staal swung his weary frame into Snow’s Ford. The Corporal reminded Staal of his father, with his serious face and take-no-bullshit attitude.
“I appreciate this, Jeff. Feel like I could sleep for a week.” He ran his hand over his face and through his hair. Snow nodded. “Do you make it over to the mainland much?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a son, a daughter and five grand-kids all across Greater Vancouver. I try to get over as much as possible to see them.”
“Well, if you feel up to it, next time you’re over—give me a call. We could grab a beer or a Lions game, my treat. Hey, I could drag my dad along. Travis is PD retired. You two could commiserate about retired life.”
“Sounds good, Jack.” He pulled the Ford into the driveway of a two-level Victorian.
Chapter 38
The bed in the Snow spare room was comfortable and warm, and the blueberry bran muffin that Staal washed down with a shot of Scotch sat well in his stomach, but he didn’t fall asleep until almost four AM. When he woke, he smelled bacon, toast and fresh coffee, and heard voices in the kitchen. He had hoped to make the 6:35 A.M ferry, but it was already after seven.
He rolled off the mattress, attempted to sit upright, and gritted his teeth against the pain that seemed to inhabit every inch of his body. With his clothes on, he stepped into the hallway and hoped that he could remember where to find the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, rinsed his mouth with Scope, and wished that he had taken Jeff Snow up on his offer of a shower.
He remembered the conversation he’d had with the old-timer the night before, about the shooting in Stanley Park. About how it had affected him long after the event, crippled his confidence and occupied his dreams.
Snow shared a story from a time near the end of his career, about a group of teenagers who had killed themselves. A hose fitted to the exhaust pipe of a Chevy van and vented to an open window asphyxiated nine young people. It was the five-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s suicide. The incident haunted Snow for months, and eventually led to his retirement.
Staal followed the breakfast aroma, stood just outside the kitchen, and watched Mrs. Snow at the stove. His dilemma was how to enter the kitchen without scaring her out of her slippers. “Good morning, Mrs. Snow,” he said, and she jolted in surprise.
“Oh, hello, Detective. Please call me Judy.”
“Morning, Judy. Call me Jack.”
“Coffee, Detect...Jack?” She smiled. “Grab a seat. Breakfast will be up in a sec.”
“Yes, please, coffee would be great.” Staal took a seat at the kitchen table. He watched Judy and noticed that she looked exactly as a grandmother should. Her gray hair cut short, glasses dangling on a gold chain, pink apron over blue slacks and blouse.
The kitchen featured framed photos of children that Staal took to be Snow’s son, daughter, and grandchildren. The refrigerator was adorned with crayon artwork and more photographs. He thought of Brenda and the promise he had made to himself to spend more time with her.
“How are you feeling, Jack? Jeffrey tells me you had a rough day yesterday.”
“Oh, I’m all right. A little banged up and sore.”
“I’m so sorry about your partner, Jack.”
“Thanks,” he said. He thought he should add something. “Rachael deserved better.”
Jeff Snow arrived at the table in time for a plate of hash-brown potatoes, fried eggs, bacon, and toast.
“This looks wonderful, Judy,” Staal said.
“Just what you need, Jack; a Judy Snow special,” Jeff said. “All those bullshit diets leave people feeling tired and hungry all day.”
“Jeffrey Arthur Snow! Watch your language.” Judy said with feigned anger.
“Well, it’s true,” Jeff said.
After begging off a third helping of eggs and hash browns, Staal left the table feeling full. The stress and pressure of the case had already begun to lighten from his shoulders, replaced by the guilt he felt about Rachael’s death. His mind drifted to Rachael and her morning custom of a thick spread of cream cheese on a toasted bagel and a cup of tea.
Staal accepted Jeff Snow’s idea of catching a seaplane instead of riding a ferry, and thanked Judy for her hospitality and breakfast. He wished he could spend a week here to rest and relax, and maybe with his strength regained, he would be able to face the Gooch family.
“All right, Jack. You still should be able to catch the 8:50 plane,” Snow said. “It goes to Coal Harbor in downtown Vancouver.” He pulled the Ford near to the drop off area for walk-on passengers.
“Thanks for everything, Jeff,” Staal said. He paused for a moment. “I meant it when I said to look me up if you’re on the mainland.”
“Yeah. I’ll do that, Jack.” Snow looked Staal in the eye. “You take care of yourself, Jack. If you need to talk to someone about anything, you have my number.”
Staal purchased a one-way ticket for the nine o’clock flight. He paced around the waiting area for a few minutes, then stepped outside and stood at a railing. He stared across the airfield at the parked small aircraft, and fought off numerous thoughts of Rachel. He bought a vending machine coffee, and thought of calling Gina. He entered the numbers in his phone, but did not push send.
A steady vibration rolled across his seat as the plane pulled away from the loading ramp. He fastened his seatbelt and smiled at the young woman sitting next to him. The plane held eight passengers, but only four other people were on board. He noticed a newspaper in a sleeping man’s lap. He reached for the copy of The Vancouver Sun and saw the featured stories about the case. The headlines read, Birthday Boy Caught, and Birthday Killer in Custody, with smaller type adding, ‘This Time For Sure.’
Staal skimmed the story, ignored his name, and continued until he found a paragraph regarding Rachael’s death. The author told nothing about how it happened, saying only that she was killed during the arrest of Nathan Charles Campbell.
He folded and returned the paper to its owner. Fatigue had found a home in him and he wondered if he would ever feel rested again. He sipped his coffee and cringed at the strong, burnt taste. He set the cup at his feet, closed his eyes and drifted off into much-needed sleep.
He stood in a dark room, lit only by a thin seam of daylight shining through a quarter-sized hole in the wall. The floor was littered with trash and he smelt the familiar stench of feces. Then he heard it, faint at first but increasingly louder, the sound of an infant crying. He tried to follow the noise, stumbled on a broken chair, and fell to the floor.
Staal woke up, rubbed his face, and looked at his surroundings. The morning sun stung his eyes so he closed them again. He knew the room from the dream. He had learned to use it in the few group therapy sessions he had attended. In his mind he imagined taking all the negative thoughts, flashbacks, and anxiety and locking them in the dark room. This was supposed to keep the symptoms from disturbing him. It worked for a while until the dark room became part of the nightmares. He leaned back in his seat and slept again.
He heard the ocean lapping on a beach, and a flock of seagulls working the shoreline for food. The sand slipped around his toes, the sun warmed his face, and wind whipped his hair. He felt a presence and turned to his left to see Rachael Gooch. She smiled and looked out across the water. “Should have waited for back-up,” Gooch said.
“The bomb was real,” Staal said. “Campbell would have set it off if he felt cornered.”
“Should have called the Mounties and waited,” Gooch said. Her voice was flat and unemotional.
“I needed Campbell. We both did.” Staal noticed someone to his right. Sandra Meneghello.
“You took too long, Jack,” Meneghello said. “Look what happened to me.”
“I tried my best. There just wasn’t time.”
Nicole Newsome and Kimberly Walker crossed the beach to where Staal stood.
“My kids have no mother now, Jack,” Walker said.
“That’s not my fault. I tried...” McKay and Haywood stood nearby but did not speak.
“You let us down, Jack. All of us,” Karen Van Allen said. Samantha Van Allen and Collin Hughes from Stanley Park approached.
“No,” Staal whispered.
“You’re a sorry excuse for a cop, Staal,” Sean Moore said. The faces, he could see them all at once, begging for his help.
The scene went black and then he realized that the ocean had fallen away and he stared down a sheer cliff face. The victims fell; Staal dropped to all fours, grabbed for Rachael, and caught her by her hands. Second by second her weight increased as Meneghello held onto Rachael, and Walker grasped Meneghello, until each victim joined a chain of the dead.
Staal pulled with every ounce of his being, but the chain inched further into the abyss. Staal and Gooch locked eyes. “You should have quit the job, Jack.”
“No.”
“You only made detective because of your father.”
“No.” The weight was unrelenting. He reached with his left hand and fought to grasp something solid so he could haul up the victims. He clutched only sand.
“You failed me, Jack,” Gooch said. Her fingers slipped from his hold and the entire chain fell with her.
“NO!”
Staal jolted awake and sat up in his seat. Several passengers were staring at him and he realized that he had called out loud. He fought to catch his breath.
He knew that the dream was only a fabrication of his own self-doubt, but Rachael Gooch’s words cut him deeply. ‘You should have quit. You only made detective because of your father.’ Replaying her statement only made him feel worse. Occasionally, in weaker moments, he had wondered if what she said was true.
Over the public address system, the pilot’s voice announced that they were nearing Coal Harbor and that the plane would soon be making it descent and water landing.
It was almost ten AM when Staal jogged down the loading ramp and through the tiny airport out to West Cordova Street in Vancouver. There was a warm gentle wind hinting at hotter temperatures ahead. He knew that Gina Hayes would be at work, and fumbled to think of the number for anyone else who might be able to drive him home. He pulled out his phone and realized it was Rachael’s. He turned on the cell and it rang instantly. “Staal.”
“Jack, where the hell are you?” Inspector Ross asked. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
“I’m in Vancouver. I’m going home.” Staal looked west to the forest of Stanley Park. He shuddered and then turned away to the traffic and concrete towers.
“Staal, fuck. You can’t just disappear like this.”
Staal closed the phone and then dialed his father’s home number and left a message on the machine. Next, he called Travis’ cell phone and for once it was turned on.
“Jack, is that you? Damn these things!” Staal heard a beep-beep and then the call disconnected. He glanced at the charge level bar and noticed that the battery was almost dead.
He walked along Seymour and found a payphone outside of a high-end furniture shop. He searched his pocket and wallet and came up without a single coin. His slid his Visa in the pay phone charge slot. The phone would not accept his card and he tried again and again with
out success.
“Damn it!” He thumped the machine with the palm of his hand. He tried his MasterCard several times, but nothing worked. He stepped out of the phone booth and saw a woman with dark hair and glasses standing at a bus stop. He felt the sun squint his eyes as he crossed the street to the woman. He asked her if she could change a five.
“Sure,” But when she looked in her purse for the change she found only three quarters and two dimes.
“I’ll take it,” Staal said. He handed her the bill and turned back for the payphone. He lifted the receiver and put it to his ear. He heard no dial tone and the receiver pulled away form the phone. He slammed it down, smashing the receiver, and took a huge rejuvenating breath.
He continued walking east, found another payphone, stepped in the door, and closed it behind.
“Was that you that called a few minutes ago, Jack?” Travis Staal asked.
“Yeah, dad. My cell quit.”
“I’m on the road, so if I fade out, you’ll know why. How are you, son?”
Staal said nothing.
“Jack?”
“Not good.” His emotions were escalating, threatening to overcome his composure. He swallowed and twisted a kink from his neck.
“Not good? I heard that you guys got Campbell—so what’s the problem?”
“She’s dead. Everything’s fucked up.”
“Who’s dead? Jack, what’s going on? Where are you?”
“Rachael.” He felt like the weight of it all would crush him.
“Rachael? Rachael Gooch, your partner, is dead?”
“Yeah. When we took Campbell down.” His eyes filled with tears.
“Jesus, Jack. I’m sorry—I didn’t hear anything on the radio. Where are you? I’ll come by and we can talk.”
Staal paused before speaking again. He had to ask himself if he wanted his father to see him in this condition. What the hell, he needed a ride and someone to talk to.
Dead of Knight Page 31
