Unreasonable Doubt

by Vicki Delany

  “Shouldn’t have even come to trial,” Solway said, “from what I’ve read.”

  “Come on, you two. None of us were around then. They wouldn’t have exaggerated the evidence if they weren’t positive he’d done it.” Tocek shook his head. “They knew.”

  “Travesties of justice happen all the time,” Smith said. “Look at Truscott, look at Moran, at…”

  “I don’t know the details of those cases. And neither do you, Molly. But I know that Jack McMillan and Doug Kibbens had decent records. They never fudged…”

  “You’re defending Jack McMillan?” If Smith hadn’t been trained in how to behave in a public place (by parents as well as at police college), she would have screamed. “The same Jack McMillan who called me a drag queen?”

  “He didn’t actually call you that, Molly,” Solway said, trying to lighten the mood. “He was simply making an observation. As I recall, Adam put a stop to his observation.”

  McMillan was an old-time cop who hung around the station when retirement got too much for him, trying to interest the current officers in how things had been done in his day. He was sexist, racist, and homophobic and most of the staff, police, and civilian, ignored him. About the only ones who had much time for the old guy were Jeff Glendenning and Dave Evans—probably because they approved of, but could never say, the things McMillan said. Glendenning was an old guy, and he’d be gone soon. But Dave Evans was the same age as Smith herself, and she’d have to work with him for a long time. Until he got the new job on a big-city force which they all knew he was desperate for, and not having much luck finding. A couple of years ago when Smith and Tocek had first started dating, Tocek overheard McMillan goading Evans into making a comment about the sexual habits of female officers in general, and Smith in particular. That incident had ended in a hideously embarrassing brawl in no less a place than the police station in front of all her coworkers.

  Smith had told Tocek never to defend her honor again.

  He’d been pretty good about it. As far as she knew.

  “That’s all irrelevant,” he said now. “Walt Desmond was a straight white man, so no one can accuse McMillan of railroading him because of prejudices.”

  “I didn’t say that was what happened.”

  “If they’d deliberately created evidence against an innocent guy, then they had to know they were letting the guilty one off. They wouldn’t have done that.”

  “I didn’t say that either. I said that in some cases, we know—because it’s been proved—that innocent people are convicted of crimes they did not commit, and sometimes it’s because the police were either shoddy and careless or deliberately vindictive. If you want to give McMillan some credit, I’d put my money on shoddy.”

  “You’re saying the entire TCP covered up a crime?” Tocek asked.

  “No! I’m not saying that at all, Adam. Plant some false evidence, hide some exonerating stuff, then step back and watch everyone around you believe it. Easy enough.”

  “As fun as this is,” Solway said, getting to her feet, “I have to get back out there. It’s my job tonight to stop any potential fights from breaking out. I won’t be getting a call here, I hope.”

  Tocek laughed but Smith glared at her friend. “Soon as Adam admits he’s wrong, this is over.”

  “Not gonna happen, Mol.”

  “As Adam pointed out,” Solway said, “neither of you were around then. I’m sure the case files are easily available. They would have had to have been brought out of storage for the appeal, right? Read up on it. Then you can argue with some idea of what you’re talking about.” Her radio crackled. She lifted a hand, asking her friends to be quiet, and bent her head to listen. “Two-two here. Do you need backup? I’m in the Bishop, can be there in a sec. Okay.” She pushed herself to her feet. “911 call. Dave’s got it, but I’d better go and see what’s up. A woman’s been attacked in the alley just down the way. Sounds like the attack was interrupted by a passerby and the perp took off. Catch you later.” She weaved her way through the crowded room, heading for the back door at a rapid clip. She threw a wave to Mike behind the bar as she passed.

  Smith glared at the man she loved. He finished his beer and returned her look with the sexy grin that always made her heart melt.

  Right now, it didn’t exactly melt, but perhaps it softened, if only a little.

  “We can argue about this ’til the cows come home,” he said. “But I’d rather not. Let’s get Norman and have a walk. I’m in the mood for ice cream.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He waved at the waitress to bring the bill. Smith glanced around the room. People were eating and drinking, laughing and talking. If she and Adam were divided about the Walt Desmond case, what must the mood be like in the rest of town?

  Adam’s phone rang. He rolled his eyes as he answered. “I’m in town now. On my way.” He hung up and threw Smith a grimace. “They want me at Dawn’s call. The guy got away on foot. It happened only minutes ago so they’re hoping Norman can find the trail.”

  “I’ll go with you. No need to call someone out to watch your back.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I’ve called for help,” the woman said. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it. Are you okay? Eliza, help’s coming.”

  Eliza looked up. She was sitting on the pavement, her back against the front tire of the BMW. A woman crouched over her. She’d gotten out of her car but left the engine running, and the headlights on. Brilliant white light flooded the alley. The car radio was playing classical music. Mozart, Eliza thought. Suitable music to walk into heaven by. “Merrill?”

  “Yes. It’s me.”

  “What are you doing here?” Eliza said.

  “I was baking granola bars for tomorrow.” Merrill Young worked at Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen, a shop further down Front Street. “While Rosemary’s away, I’ve been running the place, and I got it into my head that I forgot to turn the oven off. I’ve been known to have a touch of OCD on occasion.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Eliza said. She laughed. Merrill laughed.

  By the time they heard sirens, and red and blue lights were sweeping the alley, both women were laughing so hard tears ran down their faces.

  “Is everyone okay? What’s happened here?” A male voice said. “Mrs. Winters, is that you?”

  Constable Dave Evans stood over her, his handsome face full of concern. She stopped laughing, and began to cry.

  “Let’s get her inside,” Merrill said.

  Eliza flinched when Evans touched her arm.

  “It’s okay,” Merrill said, her voice as calm and soothing as though she were speaking to a frightened toddler. “Let us help.”

  Eliza’s legs felt like they were made of rubber. She pushed Evans away and leaned against Merrill.

  “Do you need to go to the hospital, Mrs. Winters?” Evans asked.

  “No. I’m okay.” She breathed. It hurt.

  “You look like you took a couple of punches,” Evans said. “You’re going to be darn sore tomorrow. Let the medics check you out.”

  “No,” Eliza said. “I want to go home.”

  “She needs to sit down,” Merrill said. “Let’s get her inside.”

  “I’m going to call the Sarge,” Evans said.

  Eliza shook her head. That hurt too. “I will. Where’s my bag?”

  “I see it,” Merrill said. She scooped up Eliza’s purse as well as the key ring she’d dropped.

  “Everything okay here?” a woman called. Constable Dawn Solway stepped out of the darkness into the circle of light.

  “Eliza’s been attacked, but I chased him off,” Merrill said. “Help me, please. Dave, you get the door.” She passed him the ring of keys. He opened the door to the gallery and switched on lights, as Solway and Merrill half-carried Eliza inside. Two brown leather chairs were arranged around a c
hrome and glass table displaying a collection of art and architecture magazines. Eliza had envisaged the comfortable space as somewhere for the spouse to rest while the art lover browsed, and thus was able to make an unhurried decision.

  Eliza dropped into the soft, warm, buttery leather. Merrill placed her phone in her hand. Eliza’s hands shook as she struggled to find the right buttons. Merrill took the phone back. “What’s your password? Is John in your contact list?”

  Eliza nodded and recited the numbers. Merrill made the call and handed the phone back to Eliza.

  Evans gave Merrill a jerk of his head, telling her to come with him. “While Mrs. Winters is on the phone, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  ***

  John Winters liked to cook, but he wasn’t very good at it. His wife, on the other hand, neither liked to cook nor was she any good at it. She’d spent too many years as a model, when her meals consisted of a handful of lettuce leaves without dressing and an ounce or two of broiled fish, to take any pleasure in the preparation of food. He’d been raised in the sort of home where cooking was considered women’s work. His father hadn’t known how to so much as make himself a piece of toast and a boiled egg.

  Winters’ work schedule didn’t leave a lot of time for meal planning or complicated prep, but over the years he’d learned how to make a few nice dishes, and he had some tricks for getting a good meal on the table quickly. Tonight, he was making pizza. Homemade crust was far beyond his skill-set, so he’d bought the dough ready-made from the supermarket. He’d sliced mushrooms, onions, and green peppers, laid out pepperoni, grated a mountain of cheese, and opened a can of pizza sauce. While Eliza was getting out of her work clothes and hopping into the shower, he’d assemble the ingredients and put the pizza in the oven. He smiled at the thought of Eliza eating pizza. She continued to get modeling work into her middle age and had to pay even more attention to what she ate as she got older. But, eventually, she decided it was all getting too difficult and announced her intention to retire. He’d been delighted, secretly imagining the little wife at home instead of traveling the world, ironing his shirts and having a hot, hearty meal on the table when he came through the door at the end of the day.

  He should have known better. Before she’d so much as finished her last modeling gig, Eliza had bought two art galleries, one of which she planned to manage and staff herself.

  Now that she wasn’t modeling, she’d relaxed fractionally and started eating slightly better. He hated to think what her bone density must be after a lifetime of Melba toast and carrot sticks. In her early days, before they’d met and married, she’d supplemented her lack of food with substantial quantities of cigarettes and illegal drugs. Most models had to, she’d told him, to keep the hunger pangs at bay, particularly when they were young and still growing. She’d been able to give up that part of the life, and although her diet had always, to his eyes, been sparse, she’d eaten with an eye for adequate nutrition.

  She’d enjoy a small piece of pizza tonight, although he made one quarter of it without pepperoni and only half the amount of cheese. He glanced at the clock on the wall. She was running late.

  His phone rang. He checked the display. Eliza. Delayed by a last-minute customer perhaps, or a friend wanting to talk. “Winters’ Pizza Parlor. Head chef speaking.”

  All he heard was sobs.

  “Eliza? What’s the matter? I can’t hear you. Where are you?” A car accident, he thought. That she was well enough to make the call had to mean she wasn’t trapped or injured.

  “Sarge?”

  “What the…? Dawn is that you?”

  “Yeah. I’m at your wife’s art gallery. Got a 911 call. She’s okay, but really shook up. You’d better come down.”

  He was out the door before he’d even hung up the phone.

  Chapter Ten

  It was too hot tonight to leave the dog in the truck and Tocek didn’t like to keep the engine running and the air conditioning going for hours, so he’d asked the manager of the Bishop and Nun if Norman could stay in the office while he and Smith were in the place. It was never a problem; Norman was a very well-behaved dog.

  Smith ran for the truck to get Norman’s police vest as well as Adam’s RCMP jacket and a police-issue vest for herself, while Tocek got the dog. They slipped out the back of the Bishop and Nun into the alley. Norman could usually be counted on to attract a crowd when he was working, but the alley had been sealed off. Cruisers were stationed at the intersections, breaking the gloom with rotating red and blue lights.

  Smith would follow while Tocek gave the dog his head and Norman cast about for a scent. She’d done this before. The dog-handler’s total concentration had to be focused on his animal: someone had to watch their backs.

  No problem spotting the scene. A civilian car was parked askew across the alley, engine running and lights on. No bodies that she could see, and that was a good thing.

  “What you got?” Tocek said.

  Detective Ray Lopez said, “Woman attacked. A passerby arrived and the perp ran off.”

  “Here?” Smith said, “That’s Eliza Winters’ art gallery.”

  Lopez nodded. “She’s inside. Dawn’s with her. John’s on his way.”

  “Is Mrs. Winters okay?” Tocek asked.

  “Well enough to refuse to go to the hospital.”

  While they talked, Norman sniffed about, nose to the ground, searching for a scent. The only thing he had to go on would be a trail recently laid down.

  Lopez pointed down the alley, away from the Bishop and Nun. “The woman who intervened said he went that way. I’ve tried to keep people from walking around too much, knowing you were coming, Adam.”

  “Thanks. Looks like it’s show time.” Norman had found something. His ears stood up, his nose swept the pavement, and he set off at a rapid clip down the alley. Tocek kept a light hand on the leash and Smith followed. Officers stopped what they were doing to watch them pass.

  Norman kept to a straight line close to the wall of shops on his left. They reached Elm Street, where a patrol car was keeping people out of the alley. Norman didn’t hesitate and turned left. The heavy traffic and bright lights of Front Street were only a few yards ahead. He walked up the hill. People spotted him and pointed. Phones came out of pockets or bags and snapped pictures. Norman and Tocek paid not the slightest bit of attention. They were used to attracting a crowd. “Stand back, please. The dog is working,” Smith told the over-friendly and over-curious.

  They reached Front Street. Norman hesitated, and then he walked in slow, searching circles. He found something of interest and went left, but he stopped after a few yards and cast around again. He sniffed at the ground under a late-model Explorer parked at the curb. Smith put her hand on the hood. Warm.

  Norman continued sniffing. He glanced back at Tocek and seemed to say, “Sorry, partner.”

  Tocek gave him a pat on the head. “You tried, buddy.”

  A couple dashed across the street at a break in the traffic. They were in their mid-thirties, dressed as though going out for dinner. “Everything okay, Officer?” the man asked.

  “Is this your car, sir?” Smith said.

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  “May I ask how long you’ve been parked here?”

  The couple exchanged glances. “No more than two or three minutes. We’re early for our dinner reservation so we were window shopping at the jewelry store across the way and saw your dog checking out our car. What happened?”

  “Did you see the vehicle parked here before you?”

  “No. The spot was empty, wasn’t it hon?”

  The woman nodded in agreement. “I said we were lucky to find a place so close to the restaurant.”

  “Thanks,” Smith said.

  “Come on, buddy.” Tocek pulled at the leash and Norman gave up the search.

  “It was a long s
hot,” Smith said, as they walked back to the alley. “Worth trying, though. If only he’d stayed in the alley and hid behind a garbage bin, we’d have had him.”

  “Just like in the movies,” Tocek said. “It’s not too late and Norman needs a win. Do you mind?”

  “Go for it,” she said.

  “You distract his attention, and I’ll set it up,” Tocek said.

  Smith led Norman behind a parked car. She crouched down and gave him a scratch behind the ears, so he wouldn’t try to find out what his partner was up to.

  A few minutes later Tocek was back. He took the leash and said, “One more job for you, buddy.” He led the dog to the scene of the earlier attack. This time he gently edged Norman to the wall on the far side of the alley from the Mountain in Winter. Norman cast about and instantly found something. He set off at a determined pace, Tocek and Smith following. When they reached the hardware store, he didn’t hesitate before cutting into the narrow driveway running beside the building. A collection of garbage cans was set by the back door. Norman leapt forward and came to a halt. He barked, once only.

  “Hey! You got me. I give up.” The woman concealed there popped up, a huge smile on her face.

  “You’re under arrest,” Smith said, in her toughest voice. She grabbed the woman’s arm and led her away while Tocek praised the dog to the skies.

  “Thanks,” Smith said to Constable Liz Farrens of the RCMP. Farrens was new and had not met Norman yet.

  “Nice dog,” Farrens said. “Nice guy, too. Yours?”

  “Yes,” Smith said.

  Farrens pretended to pout. “That was fun. Anytime. Ron’s calling me. Gotta go.” She went to help Ron Gavin, the forensic investigator.

  Tocek and Norman joined Smith. The man was grinning and the dog had a satisfied swagger to his step. They hadn’t had a successful conclusion for the last several outings. Norman didn’t work for money, and he considered being sheltered and fed nothing but his due. He worked only because he wanted to; it was important he get regular doses of praise. Tocek couldn’t congratulate him on a failure so when it had been a while since a successful search, he set Norman up for a win.