Unreasonable Doubt

by Vicki Delany

  “Nothing,” Rose said, “can help us. Nothing ever has.”

  “Leave us now,” Gino said. His fists were clenched, and a vein pulsed in the side of his neck.

  Keller got to his feet. “There’s one more thing you should know, sir. Mr. Desmond got on a bus in Vancouver this morning. He’s coming to Trafalgar.”

  The couple stared at him, open-mouthed.

  “He’s free to come and go as he likes,” Keller said. “You have to remember that. Leave him alone. If he attempts to contact you, call Sergeant Winters immediately. Stay away from him. Please.”

  Rose moaned again. Her husband made no move to comfort her. “Stay away from him? Leave him alone? No, Chief Keller. I will not leave him alone. If I see him, I will kill him.”

  Chapter Three

  “What’s up?” Molly Smith whispered to Dawn Solway.

  “No idea. Maybe the chief’s going to announce he’s retiring. Your mom say anything about that?”

  “Nope.”

  The conference room of the Trafalgar City Police station was filling with inquisitive officers and curious civilian staff. It was shift change, and a meeting had been called at this time so as to get the maximum number of people in the room. All the chairs were soon taken, and Smith and Solway had to stand against the wall. They waited.

  When they’d been asked to report to the meeting room, Smith had initially assumed someone was being given a promotion or maybe a service medal of some sort.

  That couldn’t be it. Clearly, whatever was going on was not a good thing. Chief Constable Paul Keller and Detective Sergeant John Winters stood at the front of the room. When everyone was in place, Keller stepped forward. He was not smiling, and Smith figured he wasn’t about to announce his retirement. His face was too grim, his back too straight for that. John Winters didn’t look all too pleased either.

  Worst-case scenarios galloped through her head. All around her people mumbled darkly.

  Geeze, Smith thought, don’t tell me the city’s decided it can’t afford to have its own police service anymore and we’re being handed over to the Mounties.

  “I’ll get straight to it,” Keller said. Every whispering voice died. “I trust some of you have been following the Walter Desmond case.”

  Nods all around. Desmond had served twenty-five years for the murder of a young Trafalgar woman. For more than twenty-five years he’d protested his innocence. Last year, an organization dedicated to overturning wrongful convictions had taken up his case and launched an appeal. The original evidence against him turned out to be shoddy at best. Out and out police incompetence, or corruption at worst.

  The appeal court of British Columbia had ordered a new trial. The Crown prosecutors, faced with the total collapse of their original case, dropped all charges. Desmond had been incarcerated at the Kent Institution in Agassiz, B.C., near Vancouver, where he’d been transferred a few years before on the closing of the penitentiary in Kingston, Ontario. He’d been released only last week. As he was fully cleared of the crimes for which he’d gone to prison, he was not on parole and no restrictions or limitations had been placed on his movements; he’d simply walked out of the prison and been allowed to go his own way. A free man. But a man who’d done a lot of years, and who had no support to help him integrate back into the community.

  “He’s on his way here,” Keller said.

  Groans filled the room.

  “Doesn’t he have to go to a halfway house or something first?” one of the clerks asked.

  “He’s not guilty, or so say the laws of Canada, Marjorie. He can do anything any citizen can. No restrictions.”

  “Does he still have family here?” Solway asked.

  “No. His wife followed when he was sent to Kingston Pen. They didn’t have any kids.”

  “Why do you suppose he’s coming back then?” Dave Evans asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” Keller said. “But it can’t be good.”

  No, Smith thought, it couldn’t. The murder of Sophia D’Angelo and the arrest and conviction of Walter Desmond had happened a long time ago. The case had been forgotten by the members of the Trafalgar City Police and most of the townspeople. Then the appeal had filled the local and national papers, and got everyone talking about it again. Walt Desmond and his wife had lived in Trafalgar. He’d been a real estate agent; his wife owned a woman’s wear shop. He belonged to Rotary, coached soccer, had even served on the city council for a few years. A respectable member of the community. He’d been sent away for the sexual assault and murder of a woman who’d been viewing a house for sale. He’d always maintained his innocence, even when to confess would have given him a shot at parole. Officers of the Trafalgar City Police had arrested him, prepared the case against him, testified against him in court. Celebrated when the verdict came down.

  And, twenty-five years later, those officers had been found to have been complicit in concealing evidence in Desmond’s favor.

  Thank God, they all thought, although they didn’t say, no one who’d been on the force back then was still working here.

  “He’s arriving on the five o’clock bus,” Keller said.

  “Want someone to meet him?” Sergeant Jeff Glendenning asked.

  “Emphatically not. I want no contact between our members and Desmond whatsoever. Other than in circumstances that would happen with any citizen.”

  “I’ll do it,” Glendenning said, as though he hadn’t even heard the chief. “Someone needs to tell him he’s not wanted here.”

  “I said, no. Stay away from Desmond. All of you. I know you’re friends with Jack McMillan, Jeff, so I’ll advise you strongly not to discuss the case with him.”

  Smith was standing behind Glendenning, seated in the back row. She heard him mutter under his breath. Dave Evans threw him a glance.

  “John or I will find out where Mr. Desmond’s staying, and pay a courtesy call tomorrow. That’s all.”

  “Do the D’Angelos know about this?” Solway asked.

  “They do. John?”

  Winters stepped forward. “Chief Keller and I called on them a few hours ago, soon as we got word that Desmond had bought a bus ticket to Trafalgar. They were not, shall I say, pleased at the news. For those of you who don’t know, Sophia D’Angelo was a local girl. She’d been in Victoria for university and came home the previous summer. Her parents wanted her to stay in Trafalgar, and they gave her the money for a down payment on a house to encourage her to settle down.”

  “So the family had money?”

  “They were comfortable, but no more. Remember, twenty-five years ago property in the Kootenays didn’t go for anything like it does now. Even taking inflation into account. The family has never had the slightest doubt that Desmond killed their daughter. They were extremely upset to hear the case was being reopened.”

  Upset was an understatement. Molly Smith had been in the constable’s office a few months ago when Mr. and Mrs. D’Angelo had arrived, demanding to see the chief. Mr. D’Angelo’s bellows and Mrs. D’Angelo’s weeping could be heard throughout the station.

  “We had to tell them Desmond’s coming back. Can’t allow them to run into him unexpectedly on the street or in the grocery store.” Winters pressed his lips into a tight line. The meeting had obviously not gone well.

  “You think they’re going to do something?” Dave Evans asked.

  “Wouldn’t blame them if they did,” Glendenning mumbled, although he made sure it wasn’t loud enough for the men at the front to hear.

  Winters and Keller exchanged glances. “God help us, I hope not,” Winters said. “Mr. D’Angelo made threats against Mr. Desmond, but he’s seventy-four, his wife seventy-three. Both of them are in poor health. I advised them to stay out of Desmond’s way, but I don’t have to remind you people that this is a small town, the chances of them running into him in a public place are considerab
le. If that happens, all we can do is try to de-escalate the situation. I remind you that Walt Desmond, in the eyes of the law and thus in the eyes of the Trafalgar City Police, has not committed any crime. He was, apparently, a model prisoner….”

  “What about the rest of the town?” Solway asked. “How do they feel about this?”

  “Divided,” Keller said. “Those who were here back then anyway. To newcomers it’s nothing but an interesting news item. At the time, the town was convinced Desmond was guilty. When the appeal began and news of the police… uh…”

  “Incompetence is the word you’re looking for,” Detective Ray Lopez said.

  “That’s not fair.” Barb Kowalski spoke for the first time. The chief’s administrative assistant, she’d been with the TCP for almost thirty years. She was the only person in the room who’d been working here back then. “Jack and Doug and the rest of the guys did a thorough investigation. What the paper said about them was a lie.”

  “Enough,” Winters said.

  Smith suppressed a sigh. Not only the town was divided.

  “Some people,” Keller said, not looking at Barb, “are still convinced Desmond is guilty. Some believe he was treated unfairly. We can only hope people will keep their opinions to themselves and go about their business.”

  “In Trafalgar!” Solway said. “That would be a first.”

  People laughed, but the laughter wasn’t comfortable. This was a passionate town, full of passionate people. Passion, Smith sometimes thought, was a requirement for living here. Whether for the environment, justice, peace, or politics, the people of Trafalgar could be expected to have strong opinions on any issue.

  “The bus from Vancouver,” Keller said, “will be pulling in soon. I want everyone to be aware that this is an extremely delicate situation. We are to stay strictly neutral if conflict does break out.”

  “Do you have any idea what Desmond’s long-term plans are, Chief?”

  “Not a clue. We can only hope he decides he doesn’t like it here after all and moves on. Dismissed.”

  “Tough one,” Solway said to Smith as they began to file out of the meeting room.

  “I can’t imagine spending twenty-five years in prison for something you didn’t do.”

  “That’s a heck of an assumption, Smith,” Glendenning snapped at her. “Didn’t you hear the chief? We have no opinion.”

  “I’m allowed to have an opinion, Sarge. I am not allowed to act on it, and I have no intention of doing so.” Glendenning was new, came in from Edmonton several months ago. He was an older guy, probably looking for what he thought would be an easier small-town job to fill in the time until he could retire. He’d rubbed her the wrong way right from the start. She could guess why he didn’t like her: he didn’t get on too well with Dawn Solway, either. Solway was the only other woman on the force, and not only that but she was an out-lesbian as well. Glendenning might not like them, but he did nothing, said nothing, that would cause either of the women to lay a complaint. As long as it stayed that way, she was fine with it.

  “Dave,” Glendenning said, “give me a moment, will you?”

  Chapter Four

  The town hadn’t changed all that much, Desmond thought as the bus pulled next to the small building that served as the Greyhound station. The surrounding mountains, not tall enough to be snowcapped in summer; Koola glacier in the distance; the wide, fast-moving Upper Kootenay River. The big black bridge crossing the river. More traffic, maybe, or perhaps that was just because this was summer and he’d last seen the town in the early fall.

  Last seen, out of the small window in the sheriff’s van taking him, shackled, shamed, defeated, to prison.

  All that was over now. Over, thanks to Louise and her team.

  There were more houses than he remembered, a new condo development down by the water, homes marching further up the mountain on the far side of the river. Most of the shops were different. The town looked good—prosperous, doing well. He’d followed the news from Trafalgar over the years. Ecotourism had been a boon for this area. The streets, he noticed from the bus, were full of young people, and many cars had kayaks or bike racks mounted on the roof.

  The bus stopped and the doors opened. The building hadn’t changed much, except to get a bit older, a bit shabbier. The woman in the seat next to Walt lumbered to her feet with a groan. “Thank God, that’s over,” the man behind muttered.

  Walt waited until everyone was off before standing up and taking his backpack down from the overhead rack. A line of cars waited in the lot. People greeted friends and hugged and cried. Walt’s seatmate was surrounded by a pack of squealing kids and a smiling woman. The bus driver unloaded luggage. Passengers waited impatiently for their own bags, and then snatched them up and hurried away.

  Walt had no luggage. He owned nothing in the world other than the few toiletries and clothes Louise’s secretary had taken him shopping for with the credit card Louise’s organization had given him. They would, she’d told him, be asking the government for substantial compensation for his lost years.

  He hefted his bag, unzipped it, and got out his hat, making sure to keep concealed the single thing Louise’s secretary had not helped him buy. In just one way prison had been good for him: He was a heck of a lot fitter than he’d been twenty-five years ago. He hadn’t had a lot to do in prison other than work out and study law books.

  He glanced around, getting his bearings. His house, their house, his and Arlene’s house, was over there—to the east, about halfway up that hill. He squinted. He thought he spotted it, but the trees had grown over the years so it was hard to tell. He wondered who lived there now. He hoped they were happy. As happy as he and Arlene had been.

  Once upon a time.

  He’d looked up B&Bs on the Internet and booked the first one he recognized. It wasn’t far from the bus station, and he’d enjoy the walk.

  A cop stood in the entrance to the convenience store attached to the bus depot. A young man who would have been nothing but a toddler when Walter and Arlene lived here. He was tall and well-muscled in his short-sleeved uniform shirt. Walt recognized the red stripe down the pant leg, the patch on the sleeve. Trafalgar City Police. A deep shudder ran though Walt’s entire body. The cop stared openly at him, his thumbs hitched through his laden utility belt. Walt began to turn away, to lower his eyes. Then he remembered. He was a free man. He had nothing to fear, not from this cop, not from any of them. He stared openly at the cop, until the man turned away and went into the store.

  ***

  “What do you remember about the Walter Desmond case, Mom?” Molly Smith asked.

  “Too much,” Lucky replied. “Far too much. It was a terrible thing, Moonlight. There hadn’t been a murder in this town in a hundred years or more. We thought we were so safe here in peaceful Trafalgar. It was an enormous blow to the town. And then to find out the killer was a local man, one of us, not a drifter passing through.” She shook her head and her masses of curls, far more gray than red now, moved. Molly Smith’s straight blond hair and blue eyes were her inheritance from her late father, Andy.

  “The police arrested a suspect almost right away, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. And we all breathed a sigh of relief. Safe in our beds once again.” Lucky’s face tightened. “But it looks like they got the wrong guy.”

  Smith didn’t know what to think about that. She’d read the newspaper reports. That the investigating officers had screwed up mightily was beyond doubt. Didn’t mean the guy wasn’t guilty. Just meant they hadn’t been able to prove their case.

  “I won’t go into a rant about police corruption, dear,” Lucky said with a smile. “That was before Paul moved here, and all the others involved are gone now, aren’t they?”

  “A couple of the old guys still live around here, but they’re retired, so they don’t have to talk about it if they don’t want to.”
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br />   They were in the tiny, cramped office of Lucky’s store, Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations. Flower and the summer employee, Tyler, were out front. The bell over the door tinkled as customers came and went, and voices inquired about sizes and prices.

  “Did you know him, Mom? Walter Desmond, I mean?”

  “Not well. I knew his wife, Arlene, better. She was in my yoga class. We didn’t socialize, other than an annual summer potluck and the occasional coffee after class. She owned a dress shop on Front Street. Where Eliza’s art gallery is now. I never shopped there myself. I thought the clothes were better suited to older women. You know, pastel colors and polyester.” Today, Lucky was dressed in a sleeveless, knee-length cotton dress in a swirling print of blues and greens worn over black leggings. Feathered earrings danged at her ears. She lifted her arms and her bangles clattered.

  Smith smiled at her mom. Since Lucky was now the official “partner” of the Chief Constable of Trafalgar, she’d invested in more sedate clothes than she normally wore for police and town functions. But still, pastels and polyester were not her thing.

  “The yoga group was very supportive of Arlene when Walt was arrested,” Lucky said. “I remember that. The poor woman. She was simply devastated, as you can imagine. She put up a strong front, and insisted that Walt was innocent. She must have aged ten years over the course of the trial.”

  “No one thought she might have been involved? Like a Karla Homolka sort of thing?”

  Lucky shook her head firmly. “That was never even considered. Back then who would have believed that a wife would help her husband kidnap, rape, and murder young women? It was a winter afternoon, as I recall. Arlene was at her store the entire time in question. She couldn’t provide her husband with an alibi.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Nothing good. She sold their house to pay his legal bills. After he was convicted and sent to prison, she moved away. She went to Ontario, to be closer so she could visit him regularly, we were told. I seem to recall that she died a few years later. Cancer, I think they said. So sad. And now, it looks like he was innocent all along. Why are you asking about that anyway?”