A Striking Death (15 page)

forty-five

Detective Richard McDonald was comfortably ensconced in Celeste Chappell’s garden shed. He had rearranged tools and bags and made himself space for an observation post. He was sitting on a kitchen chair which was positioned on a piece of carpet to avoid making any noise. On a little table beside him was a bottle of Guinness. The doors to the shed were closed but ajar and there was sufficient distance between them to afford him a decent view of her backyard. It was cold in the shed and the smell of gasoline and rotting vegetation wasn’t entirely pleasant, but he’d put up with much worse in his career.

He had his gun, handcuffs and phone. The phone’s sound was turned off and he had a little flashlight in case of need. He had decided not to use the light and his eyes had adjusted very well to the darkness. With the chair turned around backwards and his eye up to the doors, he could see clearly. There were no lights on at the moment in any of the rooms that he could see; the back of the house was in darkness.

The plan was to make things as easy as possible for a stalker or peeper or whatever he was, so the outside lights were off. If a light
were
turned on in any of the back rooms, it would be immediately obvious. The kitchen, Celeste’s bedroom, a second bedroom and the main bathroom all were at the back of the house. Anyone watching would see the light come on and presumably move closer in order to get a better view.

Dick had scouted around before and discovered that it would be easy for an intruder to get into Celeste’s backyard unobserved. There was a walkway along one side of her house, blocked only by an unlocked gate, which led directly to the back. The gate opened noiselessly, he had found, so it would be a simple matter for someone to get in unnoticed. As he presumably already had at least once before.

He took a sip of his beer. It had been Celeste’s idea; a hot toddy might have worked better.

“It’ll be cold out there, and you’ll be bored. You need something.”

So he had taken a beer after having three earlier and just now he was glad he had. It gave him something to do and he was trying to make it last. He couldn’t smoke for fear the smell would give him away. He would really like one, too; Celeste wouldn’t let him smoke in her house and it had been a while since his last cigarette. He had on a thick leather jacket so the cold wasn’t an issue. The biggest problem was his feet getting chilly. He blew out noiselessly; yes, he could see his breath. Good thing he had gloves on.

It had been decided that Celeste would come into one of the back rooms every fifteen minutes or so, and turn on a light. The blinds were open partway in the kitchen, so she would be clearly visible in that room. The bathroom window had frosted glass, of course, but the curtains in the two bedrooms were left open a crack, as if by accident. If, by ten o’clock, no one had shown up, Celeste was to come into her bedroom and stay there, reading in bed, with the light on. The matter of what she was to wear had been discussed. It had been decided that nothing revealing was needed, that the fact she was there alone was bait enough.

Just then the light in the kitchen came on and Celeste was visible getting something out of the fridge. McDonald craned his neck in order to extend his view of the yard. There was nobody there. After a couple of minutes, the light went out. He settled back to wait some more.

Time passed slowly. The level in the beer bottle dropped, he got more and more bored and his feet were turning into blocks of ice. He had seriously underestimated how cold it would get. Late October was no time to be sitting outside in a garden shed, even if it was out of the wind. Celeste did her part three times more, but there was no activity in her backyard at all.

He drained the beer and looked at it ruefully. Another would be good. But what he badly wanted was to get up and stomp his feet to try to warm them up. He couldn’t risk the noise, though, even with a brisk wind rattling the trees around outside.

Celeste’s bedroom light came on. He leaned forward to scan the yard. And there he was: a dark figure with his back to him, a few feet from Celeste’s bedroom.

The man was dressed all in dark clothes; it looked like black sweatpants and a blue or black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. From his angle in the shed, Dick could not see his face at all. McDonald took off his gloves, eased one of the shed doors open and stepped out onto the grass. The wind covered any slight noises he might be making. He drew his gun and advanced until he was right behind the man.

The prowler’s head swivelled from side to side as if making sure he was unobserved. Suddenly the man turned around completely, losing his balance in the process and stumbling towards him. McDonald had time to see a blur of white under the hood, a flash of something shiny in a glove, and then the man’s hand snaked out towards him. He had no time to react at all, it happened so fast, and he felt rather than saw the knife as it ripped into his left leg. He grunted with the pain of it and sank to his knees. The man had already turned and was running towards the side of the house.

McDonald pointed his gun and got off one shot. He thought he saw the running figure stagger, but the man continued on his way and disappeared through the opened gate. McDonald had time to see Celeste’s face appear at her window but his vision was blurring and he was feeling incredibly weak. He could barely hold his weapon. He let it drop and struggled to explore his leg with both hands. Christ, the blood! It was pumping out of him! A tourniquet, that’s what he needed. What could he use? It was difficult to think straight. The shed – there was an electrical cord in the shed. Could he make it?

McDonald tried to get to his feet, realized he would have to crawl. But his strength was going. The world turned black and he pitched forward onto his face. Underneath him a pool of blood spread in the darkness.

forty-six

Drumm was sitting in his favourite chair, food in his stomach, Will at his feet, beer by his side. Emily was in the kitchen, tidying up. What more could a man ask for? He and Emily had enjoyed a quiet meal together, a simple pasta dish that she had prepared. She hadn’t seemed fazed by his sudden appearance for dinner; she chatted away companionably about the real estate market and a couple of new listings she’d obtained.

Drumm hardly listened, focused as he was on the two unsolved murders. He’d excused himself quickly after the meal, using Will as the reason to get out for a little time alone. Will loved the cool fall air and he had been a happy Sheltie trotting around the block in the dark.

Now Drumm was waiting for Emily to join him and dreading the conversation that he knew he must have. She finished in the kitchen and sat down on the couch.

“What’s on, Nicky?”

The television was on but he wasn’t paying attention to it. “It’s all yours, Emily. I have to go back to the station.”

Emily turned to him, a look of disbelief on her face. “What? You just got here, and you already put in a full day!”

“I have two unsolved homicides, Emily. And a whole lot of leads to pursue. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.” He was watching her carefully to see her reaction.

Predictably, she was annoyed; he could tell by the set of her mouth. This, he knew, would lead to the chilly Emily, with cutting comments and sarcasm. She didn’t get violently angry or throw things but she made it uncomfortable for him all the same. Before she could say anything, he said, “This isn’t working, Emily.”

“What isn’t working?”

“Us. It’s not working. For me, at least.”

Emily was staring at him. She seemed to be waiting for him to continue. He forged ahead.

“It’s the same thing as last time, the same arguments. I just don’t want it any more, any of it. Arguing about the same stuff, over and over. It’s too hard on me.” He paused, waiting for her to speak, but she just kept looking at him. “Say something, Em.”

“Why? You’re doing fine, saying enough for both of us.”

“Em—”

“I don’t think it matters what I think, anyway, does it? Your mind’s made up. Isn’t it?”

This was it, he realized, a turning point in his life. He could hedge, and probably patch things up again. Until the next time. Or he could move on. He hesitated.

“I’m not sure, Emily. As much as I love you, I don’t think we’re right for each other.”

She was sobbing now and he wanted to move over beside her and put his arm around her, like he had done so many times before. He was tempted. But he knew that wouldn’t solve anything.

“I’m sorry, Emily. But don’t you think this would be best?”

“Best for you, you mean. But what about me?” She got up and went out to the kitchen. She returned, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Don’t I have a say in it?”

“Emily, you can’t tell me you’re happy when we argue.”

“Don’t tell me what I think! I know how I feel!” She was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding the Kleenex up to her mouth. Her eyes were red and her shoulders were slumped. Drumm felt dreadful.

“Emily—.” His cellphone rang. He could see it was Mark Chappell.  “I have to take this, Emily.” He looked up at her as he said, “Drumm.”

Emily turned around quietly and went into the kitchen.

“What! Where?” He listened to the Staff Inspector’s voice, speaking urgently. “I’ll be right there.”

Drumm moved quickly. He found Emily in the bedroom, sitting with her head down, still clutching a tissue. “Emily, I have to go. Dick’s been stabbed.”

“Do what you have to do,” she said dully.

He stared at her. “Emily, did you hear what I said?” When there was no reaction, he raised his voice and said, “A cop is down! One of my detectives! I have to go.” He turned around without waiting for a response from her and tripped over Will, who was right behind him.

“Geez, Will, get out of the way!” Drumm hurried to the front closet, grabbed his jacket and yelled back at Emily, “Let’s talk about this later.”

forty-seven

Celeste Chappell’s street was alive with activity; emergency personnel and their vehicles were everywhere. The pulsating lights with their weird revolving patterns always reminded Drumm of a science fiction movie – War of the Worlds usually came to mind. As he watched, barricades were being set up at one end of the road. Dozens of bystanders in various stages of dress were standing on the sidewalk and driveways on the other side of the street, watched over by a couple of patrol officers. Behind the yellow crime scene tape, another uniformed officer was talking to an older couple who had jackets on over bathrobes.

Drumm ducked under the tape after showing his badge to the officer on guard duty. He hurried through the open front door of the house and saw Celeste Chappell sitting on a kitchen chair. Her face and hair and clothes were smeared with blood - blouse, shirt, shoes – everything was covered. She was sobbing quietly while a paramedic attended to what looked like a nasty bump on her head. A female police officer was kneeling beside her and trying unsuccessfully to comfort her. Shocked, Drumm raised an eyebrow in question and the officer, whom he recognized slightly, pointed out through an open doorway.

Drumm made his way out to the backyard where he stopped abruptly. The wind had died and everything was still. In the illumination from the outdoor light, he could see a cluster of people standing and conversing, looking down. Even from the back in poor light, he recognized Lori Singh and Mark Chappell. He moved forward, more slowly now. It looked like the time for haste had passed.

They were staring at the ground, at a large dark patch on the lawn, and some unidentifiable piece of clothing. There was a single shell casing gleaming in the grass.

Chappell saw him coming. “He’s at YDH. He was still alive when they took him away. I’m heading over there now.”

Drumm found his voice. “What happened?” He looked at Lori but it was Chappell who answered.

“He was stabbed in the upper thigh. The knife got his femoral artery. Poor bastard probably didn’t see it coming.”

Drumm asked. “But why? What was he doing out here? By himself?” He realized his voice was rising but he seemed powerless to stop it. He caught Lori’s eye but looked away when she shook her head.

Chappell spoke quietly. “We’d set it up so that he would wait out here and try to catch our stalker in the act.” He shook his head. “I guess he did. Looks like the bastard surprised him and put a hole in him, then turned and fled.” He pointed to some shadows over to their left. “That way. There’s a gate there. Dick got off one round. Celeste heard the shot – she was in her bedroom. Her immediate reaction was to roll off the bed and lie down on the floor.”

Drumm nodded. Of course she would.

Chappell went on, “But she’s a cop’s wife. She got up quickly and went to the window and saw Dick on all fours on the grass. She said she knew he was hit. She thought he was shot. She ran into the kitchen, called 9-1-1, and then tried to get out here as fast as she could.”

“Smart, brave woman,” murmured Drumm.

Chappell didn’t hear him. “But she tripped on the step and hit her head. She says she was only stunned and out for a few seconds, but who knows how long it actually was? Anyway, she got out here and found him face down. She rolled him over, and that would have taken some doing. She’s not a big woman at all. She could see the blood everywhere and tried to stop the flow with her sweater. Then she got a piece of rope.” He paused wearily. “We don’t know yet if she was in time.”

Lori said, “When the paramedics got here, and thank God they were here fast, he was barely alive. He’d lost so much blood…” Her voice tailed off.

Two technicians had finished setting up some portable lamps and the backyard was suddenly flooded with light. Everything stood out all too clearly in the harsh glare.

Chappell headed back into the house. “I want to check on Celeste first. And then I’ll get over to the hospital.”

Drumm watched as Lori Singh came over to stand quietly beside him.

“Fuck! What a screw-up! He deserved better than this.” Drumm was angry. “And fuck Chappell too for getting him into this!”

“Come and take a look at this, Nick.” Lori took his arm and tugged gently. She led the way to the shed. With the doors open and the new lighting, he could clearly see the empty beer bottle sitting on the table. “Looks like he was sitting in here waiting and he had at least one Guinness to keep him company.” She looked at him. “Staff hasn’t seen this yet. But I assume the beer wasn’t part of the arrangement. It was a good plan, though. It should have worked.” She waited calmly for him to react.

Drumm looked at the beer bottle, then out to the yard, then back to Lori. “It might have slowed his reactions, just a little. Just enough. Is that what you’re thinking?”

She nodded. “There’s more.” She led the way over to the gate and the little alleyway that led out to the street; there were two members of the FIS team at work, down on their knees on the bricks. “This is likely how the intruder got in. It’s certainly how he left.” She looked at Drumm. “The good news is that Dick hit him. Those are drops of blood they’re looking at. There are more of them leading out to the street, and then a small pool out on the sidewalk, as if he stopped for a bit. Then it looks like he was running, the distance between the drops shows that. There’s a lot of blood, and the drops continue for several hundred yards, and then around a corner. Then the drops stop, like he got into a car. Or a white van.”

Drumm and Lori were still standing by the gate. “You’ve been busy,” he said.

“I was able to get here pretty fast,” she said. “We may have a couple of witnesses, too. An older couple heard the shot and came to their front window. They saw someone running away. I left one of the uniforms to talk to them.”

Drumm remembered the couple in their bathrobes standing outside the house. “With that amount of blood, the bastard could be in trouble. Let’s hope he bleeds out too in his car somewhere. But if he doesn’t—”

“Notify all the hospitals and clinics to be on the lookout for a gunshot victim.” Lori interrupted him. “I already did that. And I made it clear that this was a special case, which we are particularly interested in. And, of course, every cop everywhere is on the lookout for this asshole. The description was a male, dark clothing, average height, bent over, like he was holding his side.”

By law, in the province of Ontario, all hospitals and walk-in clinics had to notify the local police if a gunshot victim came in for emergency treatment. When a law enforcement officer was involved, the chances of the wounded attacker escaping justice were slim and none. Every available resource that York Police Services possessed, as well as those of all the surrounding jurisdictions, would be mobilized.

“We’ll get him, Nick.”

Drumm nodded. “We will. Well done, Lori.” The two detectives had moved back near the shed. “Let’s go talk to those witnesses.”

They went back into the house and found Celeste Chappell still sitting in the kitchen. She’d been cleaned up a little but she looked worse than ever. The female police officer was still with her and still trying to settle her down.

As they went by, Drumm said in a low voice, “Somebody should get her out of here and cleaned up. When she’s calmer and had some sleep, we need to talk to her and go over her story again. She probably didn’t see the bastard who did this but she might be able to tell us something useful.”

Lori nodded. They had reached the street and looked at the dozens of spectators who were still huddled on the far side of the tape. Aside from emergency vehicles, pulsing lights and people coming and going, there wasn’t much to look at. Drumm wondered as always what kept them standing out in the cold.

“What keeps them here?” he said aloud.

Lori smiled grimly. “Blood,” she said.