A Striking Death (2 page)

three

Drumm had been at his desk in his office for less than half an hour when Staff Inspector Mark Chappell walked in without warning.

“Morning, Nick. Hard at it?” Chappell perched himself on the corner of Drumm’s desk, sliding a pile of files to one side to make room.

Drumm leaned back in his chair and studied his superior, trying to gauge his humour. In his early fifties and with a full head of finely-coiffed grey hair, Chappell was often brusque and short with the detectives in the Violent Crimes Unit. He was in a good mood today, though, Drumm decided. Chappell was sharply dressed as usual in a grey suit and matching silk tie.

“Not really, sir, no. Just reviewing some of these open files. It’s usually a waste of time but occasionally there’ll be something I can look into.”

Chappell glanced at the open file on Drumm’s desk, complete with photos of a battered victim. “The Wallace case again? You won’t give up on that, will you?” Shewanda Wallace had been violently kicked and beaten in an alley and left for dead. She was still recovering from her injuries, but despite months of investigation, no arrest had been made in the case and there were no viable leads. Drumm suspected the attack had been racially motivated. Shewanda Wallace was black.

“Would you expect me to, sir?” Drumm looked from the battered features of Shewanda Wallace to Mark Chappell’s lined face.

“Of course not.” Chappell leaned forward, picked up the file and looked through it briefly; then he frowned and placed it back down on Drumm’s desk. “That was a nasty one.”

He stood up and stretched. “How is Emily?”

Drumm was momentarily startled by the switch of topic, then said, “She’s great, sir, thank you. Excited about the opening of her agency. And busy.” He grinned ruefully. “What with her hours and mine, we have a bit of a long-distance relationship at the moment.” He paused, then said, “And how’s the philanthropy hobby, sir?” Mark Chappell was a stamp collector.

Chappell grimaced briefly. “Philately, Drumm, not philanthropy. Philately is collecting stamps, philanthropy is helping others. I’ve just received a huge box of material which I have to go through. Many happy hours ahead.” Chappell got a little smile on his face, and then hastily rearranged his features into a frown. “Anyway, I hate to take you away from Miss Wallace but I have another case for you. We have a body, a retired teacher named Arthur Billinger, aged sixty-one. He was found in his home, beaten to death.”

Several times before in the past couple of years, Drumm had been assigned cases involving schools or teachers by Chappell. Drumm had been an elementary school teacher before he joined the York Police Services, and the Staff Inspector seemed to think that this experience gave him some kind of edge.

“When, sir? And who found him?”

“Just after nine o’clock this morning. It was another retired teacher who found him.” Chappell looked at his notepad. “Cameron Garmand is the name. They had a meeting arranged for coffee this morning. Garmand showed up at Billinger’s house, rang the doorbell but there was no answer. He thought that was strange, so he went around the side of the house and saw Billinger’s body through the bedroom window. Called 9-1-1 and waited for the police, without going in. The first uniform on the scene found the front door locked; he forced it open and found Mr. Billinger dead on his bed. It was a mess, he said.”

Drumm stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Right. Are the fisties there yet?” The Forensic Investigation Services team, popularly known in the force as the fisties, was routinely called to all violent crimes.

Chappell moved out into the hall. “They are, and the Coroner is on her way.”

Following behind, Drumm asked. “Can I have Lori Singh?”

Chappell smiled briefly. “Thought you might ask that. She’s on her way there. Talk to you later. Keep me up to date.”

Drumm watched him go and then stopped to collect his thoughts. His day had just changed completely and he wanted to make sure he was ready for it. He would have to call Emily but he could do that from his car. He was moving now, thinking as he went. Having Detective Lori Singh would be good. They had worked together before and she knew his methods. She was young and competent, an up and coming detective. He hurried out to his car.

four

Drumm’s Miata was his pride and joy. An ice-blue Limited Edition Mazda MX-5, he’d had it for a year and a half and liked it more every day. He loved the way it handled and he took a secret pride in the way people stopped to look at him as he went by.

Drumm arrived at Billinger’s Gladstone Street address to find the familiar clutter of emergency vehicles, groups of curious bystanders and Lori Singh’s green Toyota Prius. Singh herself was standing on the front step talking to a uniformed officer; yellow crime scene tape surrounded the property. Other uniformed police were handling crowd control and restricting access. Drumm saw a small brown brick backsplit house, with neat gardens in the front and a couple of mature maple trees whose leaves were mostly on the ground already. He lifted up the tape and approached Lori Singh, who saw him coming and turned to meet him, after a final word with the uniformed cop.

“Lori Singh. We meet again on life’s rocky road.”

“Good morning, Nick.” She looked up at him carefully, noting the weary eyes and brown hair, greying at the temples. She was at a height disadvantage, being much shorter. “You look tired.”

“Oh, I’m alright. It was trying to go for a run this morning that did me in. You’d think at forty-nine I’d know better.” Drumm ran his hand back over his hair and stared around at the scene. “What have we got?”

Singh was wearing a leather jacket over a turtleneck sweater; she pulled a notebook out of the jacket pocket now and consulted it. Drumm knew it would already be filled with neat and detailed notes; Lori Singh was rapidly earning a reputation for being meticulous. “Constable Davidson was the first officer on the scene.” She indicated the uniform to whom she had been speaking. “He met Cameron Garmand here on the walkway, got his story, went around to the side window with him and saw the body on the bed. He tried the front door and found it locked, used his pry bar to break it open, went into the bedroom and verified that the victim was dead. He said he didn’t touch anything, said in fact that he could tell Billinger was dead, even from the doorway. He came back out and called for help.”

Drumm was looking at Officer Davidson. “Thank God, a uniform who knew what to do.” Drumm looked around. “Where’s Garmand?”

Singh indicated an older man leaning against a car, watching them. “That’s him there. I haven’t interviewed him yet, just told him to wait.”

Drumm thought for a second, and then said, “Right, let’s ask Davidson to keep an eye on Garmand while we take a look at the scene.”

Arthur Billinger’s home was typical of those built in the sixties. From the front entrance, there were stairs down to a basement, and more stairs up to the main level, where the bedrooms, living room, kitchen, bathroom and dining room were. Putting their gloves on, Drumm and Singh mounted the short flight of steps and entered the house. There was considerable activity in the kitchen where the FIS team was getting organized. The two detectives turned right to go down the hallway. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom along this way. The last room on the left was Billinger’s bedroom.

The FIS photographer and a technician were busy in the room, but the latter waved them in. “Just getting started,” she said.

Drumm and Singh entered carefully. The victim was lying flat on the bed with his upper torso, arms and hands exposed. He was wearing a blue pajama top. The rest of him was under a bedcover and sheets. Where his head had been was a mess of blood, bone, gristle and brain. Someone had brutally smashed in his head, that was clear. There was a lot of blood spatter on the headboard and the wall behind the bed, the pillows and the bedcover, and a huge pool of coagulated blood under and around the head. Arthur Billinger had ceased breathing some time ago, it was obvious. And it was apparent why Officer Davidson had been able to tell from the doorway that the victim was dead.

“It’s a bad one, Nick.” Ken McIntee, the FIS team leader, had come down the hallway behind them. He nodded to Lori Singh whom he had also met before.

“So I see. Somebody was extremely angry with our Mr. Billinger. I assume it
is
Arthur Billinger in there.”

McIntee grimaced. He was an experienced forensic investigator, forty-nine years old, approaching retirement, and in his long career he had seen a good deal of violence. “Nick, this is one of the worst things I have ever come across. It looks like he was asleep and the attacker just bashed him, and then did it again, and again….. Sigrid will be able to give you a better idea of the number of times he was hit, but it was a bunch, that’s for sure. And you can see he didn’t defend himself at all.” McIntee rubbed his nose with one sleeve. “As for whether it’s Billinger or not, time will tell. We’ll have to use dental records and fingerprints, because I don’t think anybody will be able to recognize him now.”

Looking at the bloody mess that had been the victim’s head, Drumm could only agree. “That the murder weapon?” He indicated a baseball bat leaning up against the wall in the corner.

McIntee nodded. “That’s it alright.”

They all looked at the bat which was standing with its handle up. The business end was matted with dried blood and bits of bone and brain, and there was a small pool of the same stuff on the carpet around it.

Lori Singh looked around the room. “How’d he get in, do we know yet? That window there looks like it’s locked. Did he come in the front door? Officer Davidson said it was locked when he checked it and he broke it open.”

McIntee was shaking his head. “That window
is
locked. But, if your eager Officer Davidson had checked around the back, he would have found that the door in the kitchen was smashed and the door was unlocked. No need to break open the front door at all. Still, I don’t think Mr. Billinger will be complaining. It looks like the killer came up onto the back deck, gained entry through the kitchen door and also exited that way.”

Drumm said, “Breaking in would have made some noise. You’d think Billinger would have heard it.”

The bedroom contained a chair with clothing, presumably the victim’s, on it, a bedside table with a clock radio and paperback book on it and a dresser with an attached mirror. On the dresser was a small oscillating fan, pointed at the wall. Singh asked, “Was the fan on when you got here, Ken?”

“No.”

“But maybe that’s why Billinger didn’t hear anything,” she went on. “If he had the fan running, he probably wouldn’t have heard the glass breaking at all. And the killer might have turned it off. I wonder if Billinger is wearing earplugs?”

Both Drumm and McIntee looked at her, then at the body on the bed. They had identical expressions of dismay on their faces.

“I’m not checking,” said Drumm hastily.

“Let’s leave that little task for Sigrid,” agreed McIntee.

“But it’s October,” said Drumm. “Why use a fan at all? It’s not hot at night anymore.”

“Some people use them for background noise,” said Singh. “Helps them sleep.”

“You could be right,” said McIntee. “If you’ll excuse me, time to get back to work.” And he headed back towards the kitchen.

The technician continued collecting samples from the body and the bed. Drumm and Singh did a quick inspection of the room. The contents of the dresser showed Arthur Billinger to be a tidy, organized man. Socks, underwear, shorts, tee shirts were folded neatly in the drawers. The closet contained dress shirts, pants and suits all hanging neatly, shoes arranged carefully on the carpet below. Drumm took down a wicker basket from the closet shelf; in it were a wallet, keys, a band-aid and some coins.

“Well, robbery wasn’t the motive,” said Drumm. “Billinger had over two hundred dollars here. Driver’s license in the name of Arthur Billinger. Also, he’s got a card in there naming a Louisa Billinger as next of kin. I don’t recognize that area code, though.” Drumm wrote the phone number in his notebook, bagged the wallet and returned the basket to the shelf.

Lori looked up from the bedside table where she was noting the contents of the drawer. “And there’s more in here, a hundred and fifty in American money.” She showed Drumm a white envelope fat with bills.

“Bring it along, Lori. Anything else interesting in there?”

“The usual junk. And a couple of prescription pill bottles. Looks like Billinger had trouble sleeping. One’s a sedative, the other’s an antibiotic.”

“We’ll leave those for the fisties. And we’d better get out of here and let them do their jobs. Let’s look at the other rooms.”

One of these was a second bedroom which appeared not to have been used much. Its door was closed and it smelled musty inside. There was a neatly made-up bed, closed curtains, a bedside table and an upright dresser.

The third bedroom had been turned into an office. Behind its closed door was a desk with a laptop computer, a couch and a filing cabinet. Drumm moved to the laptop and switched it on while Singh started looking through the filing cabinet.

“An organized man, our Mr. Billinger,” said Lori.

“What’s in there?”

“He’s got everything filed away nice and neatly. Utility bills, income tax, travel information. Let’s see, pension statements…” Lori whistled. “Wow, he was doing okay. His pension is more than I make!”

“You deserve a raise. Is there anything about family in there? Or friends?”

Lori shook her head. “I can’t see anything.” She looked up. “What’s on the laptop?”

“Not a whole lot of anything. It looks like he didn’t use it much. Maybe he did at one time but not now. There’s some school stuff on here that must go back years. But there’s no recent internet history; looks like he doesn’t have a connection.” Drumm looked carefully at the computer. “This is an old machine, too. And it’s running Windows XP. This computer wasn’t an important part of his life, I don’t think.” He shut the laptop down. “We’ll leave it for the fisties to do a thorough inspection, but I don’t think they’ll find much.”

The two detectives walked back down the hallway and had a quick look in the kitchen. Drumm noted the broken glass in the window pane of the door and said, “Ken’s probably right about this being the entrance and exit route. Around the back of the house, out of sight of the street – makes sense. The killer likely waited out in the yard until he was sure Billinger was asleep. We’ll check that later. Let’s get out of the fisties’ way for now and have a chat with Mr. Garmand.” The two detectives went back out the front door. Outside on the sidewalk they met the Coroner who had just arrived.

“Good morning, Sigrid,” said Drumm.

“And a fine one it is.” The Coroner put down her bag and pointed at a V of geese flying overhead, their honking clearly audible. “I love that sound. Even though it means we’ll all be freezing soon.” Sigrid Brandt had been Coroner for the York Police Services for more than a decade. She and Drumm had worked together a number of times. She looked now at Drumm and Lori Singh. “What awaits me inside?”

“It’s a bad one, Sigrid. Elderly male beaten to death with a baseball bat. At least, that’s the way it seems. And when I say beaten, I mean really beaten. A very angry person committed this crime.”

“I’ll get right to it, Nicholas.” Brandt picked up her bag, nodded to Lori Singh, and entered the house.

Drumm sighed. “Right, let’s talk to Mr. Garmand. I wonder if he’s French Canadian?”