A Striking Death (21 page)

sixty-six

Drumm called Lori once he had deplaned and was back in the airport terminal. He found a quiet spot in the corridor, where he stood with his back to the wall and watched the flow of travellers exiting the main Arrivals hall. Many had family and friends anxiously waiting for them. He filled Lori in on the results of his meeting with Sarah Smillie.

“Do you think it was worth the trip then?” she asked.

“Time will tell. But we’ve got another lead, at least.”

“So what’s next?”

“What’s next is I’m going to go into the men’s room and check my blood sugar. Then I’m heading home for a bit. I’ll see you at the station shortly.”

He could hear Lori talking to someone in the background. Then she said, “Sooner rather than later, Nick. Chappell wants a conference as soon as you get here.”

“Shit. Okay, see you soon.”

Drumm ended the call and started walking. It was interesting how his life had changed. Up until a few days ago, he had kept his diabetes secret, even from Emily. Now he was openly discussing it on the phone with a colleague. And he felt good about it, too. Relieved that someone else knew about his little problem.

Will was all over him when he opened the door an hour later. Drumm set his bag down and then he chased Will around the house for a few minutes. Then he fed him and let him out in the back yard.

Drumm made himself a sketchy dinner consisting of a sandwich, some raw carrots, yoghurt and fruit. He knew he had to hurry back to the station but his blood sugar had been on the low side at the airport and he needed to look after himself.

Will yipped at the door to be let in and Drumm obliged, and then sat down in front of the television to enjoy his supper. This was something he was still trying to learn to do: slow down and take care of the important business in his life. A few years ago he would have rushed back to the station from the airport. He liked to think he was smarter now, his recent collapse notwithstanding.

He fed Will some carrots and then gave him the yoghurt container. The dog licked it clean and then looked up at him. “That’s all, buddy. And I have to go again. Sorry.” He reached down and petted Will’s head. “I’ll make it up to you soon.”

sixty-seven

Chappell looked worse, much worse. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked haggard and worn. He was sitting behind his desk and he was tapping rhythmically on his desk pad with a pen as he listened to Sue Oliver speak. Drumm thought he looked old and vulnerable.

Oliver finished and there was silence in the office except for the knocking of the Staff Inspector’s pen. Chappell was staring out the window. The tapping stopped and Chappell looked at them all.

“That one’s cleared, then. At least there’s that.” He looked down at his desk briefly, then back up. “The last I heard, Dick was doing much better. He should be ready for visitors soon. Thank God.”

“How’s Celeste, sir?” Drumm asked.

“What you’d expect. Still shaken but keeping her chin up. She was always a trouper.” Chappell looked at Lori. “What about this Kinsky thing?”

Lori uncrossed her legs. “I just had an update. It doesn’t look good. He has extensive head trauma, swelling and bleeding on the brain and he isn’t expected to survive. We have a guard posted for security and in case he wakes up, but it’s doubtful he will.” She glanced at Drumm. “We thought about telling the media he was dead, to help keep him protected, but decided against it.” She cleared her throat. “Um, we thought another murder wouldn’t be a good thing to announce just at the moment.”

Chappell stared at her, then Drumm. “A good thing? No, it wouldn’t be a good thing. Smart thinking.” His tone was sarcastic. “So, Kinsky isn’t likely to tell us anything at all?”

“No. I’m afraid not,” said Lori.

“But you think he was done by the same man as Billinger and Levine?” Chappell was looking at Lori but Drumm answered.

“We do, yes. It’s just too much of a coincidence. Three gay men, all with ties to the same restaurant.”

Chappell switched his attention to Drumm. “You’re just back from Timmins. Was it worth your time and the department’s money?”

Drumm looked at him steadily. “I believe so, yes.” He outlined his conversation with Sarah Smillie.

“And you think
that
was worthwhile?” Chappell was clearly sceptical. “Rumours and gossip about something that might have happened ten years ago?”

“Unless you tell me differently, sir, I’m going to pursue it.”

Chappell waved his hand wearily. “Whatever. I have more faith in the tips that are coming in.” He raised his hand to still Drumm’s protest. “Never mind. That’ll do for now. Keep me up to date.”

The three detectives stood up and started to leave. Chappell remained seated. From his desk, he said, “Get me some good news. Soon.”

sixty-eight

Drumm was in his office, trying hard to remain optimistic. On a cold, cloudy Monday morning with rain in the forecast, a badly injured colleague in the hospital and two unsolved homicides, he was having some difficulty. There was hope, that was about all he could say.

Last night had been tiring. Flights always enervated him, and after the meeting with Chappell, he and Lori had sat around the station discussing the case. It was late when he got home and then he’d taken Will for a long ramble in the dark. The dog revelled in the cool weather and frisked along like a puppy. He was obviously enjoying it, so Drumm had lengthened the planned excursion to an hour and a half. And then he was too wired to get to sleep, so he had spent much of his night turning restlessly in bed. Thoughts of Sarah Smillie, Emily and Arthur Billinger whirled around in his head. Eventually he had drifted off and managed to get a few hours of rest.

Drumm looked at the mess that was his desk and started sorting through all the recent paper that had accumulated. He scanned the Coroner’s report on Dick McDonald and set it aside. Nothing surprising there.

“A suit and tie. I don’t see that often.” Lori came into his office and sat down. She took the cup of tea that he offered but declined the other treats.

“Trying to lend a little class to the place.” Drumm picked up his coffee and said, “Seriously, I need a little spark today. Maybe dressing like Chappell will help.”

Lori smiled in commiseration. “We’ll get there. Thank you for the tea.”

Drumm opened another folder. This one contained the transcript of Sue Oliver’s interview with one Matthew James Wilson. “You’re welcome. As always. Have you looked through this?”

Lori nodded. “Yes. Sue did a good job. He cops to everything.” She sipped her tea. “It was such a stupid thing. Should never have happened. And reading that, I could almost feel sorry for Wilson. Almost.”

Drumm snorted and put the transcript down. “That’s something. A detective feeling sorry for someone who attacked a cop.”

“I said ‘almost’. He
was
carrying a knife, and he knew how to use it. But if you read that, you’ll see he’s a few bricks short of a load.” Lori stood up. “I’ll get to work and leave you to it.”

Drumm waved at her and picked up the interview transcript again and read it through. It was engrossing and his coffee grew cold as he absorbed the details. He could see what Lori meant. Wilson clearly didn’t have much of a clue. He set the transcript aside and scanned the other documents in the folder.

Employment records, financial records, driver’s license. Sue had been thorough, as she always was. Something caught his eye. Schools attended: Prince Albert Senior Public School. Drumm sat up straight. Prince Albert! Dick’s attacker had gone to the same school where Arthur Billinger had taught. He looked at the information again. Wilson was just twenty-three, which meant that ten years ago he would have been thirteen and in grade eight. And that meant Arthur Billinger would have most likely been his French teacher. Definitely would have been his French teacher, in fact, because Billinger had done all the intermediate classes on rotary.

Drumm stood up and hurried out to find Lori. “We may have something here.”

She looked at the report. “You think it’s more than coincidence? You think Wilson might have something to do with Billinger’s murder?”

“I don’t know but we have to talk to him. He’s over at Donlands, I assume?”

“He is.” Lori looked at her watch. “We have something to do first, though. Apparently Dick’s woken up and he’s asking for us. We have to go see him.”

“What! That’s great news.” He thought about it. “But it’s bad timing, too. He’s conscious, is he? And he wants to see us? Both of us?”

“Yes, even me, apparently. The nurse said he was asking for the two of us.”

“Okay then, let’s trot over and see Dick, and we’ll talk to Wilson after that.” He looked at her. “This could be it. This little shit might have done all three.”

Lori looked doubtful. “But his motive? He injured Dick accidentally. There’s no proof he hated gays. And he had already been arrested when Kinsky was attacked.”

“I know. I’m just hoping, that’s all.” He checked his watch. “Come on, time to go. Prius or Miata?”

McDonald was lying in bed looking thin and pale. His head was turned towards the door, and he gave a weak wave of the hand when he saw them appear.

Drumm went up to the bed and grasped McDonald’s hand. Lori stood just inside the door and waited.

“Dick! It’s good to see you. You look like hell, though.”

“And thank you very much for that,” McDonald whispered.

Drumm moved two chairs close to the side of the bed.

“Aren’t you going to say hello, love?” McDonald was trying to smile but it turned into more of a grimace.

Lori walked over to the edge of the bed and put her hand on McDonald’s arm. “Thank God you’re alright,” she said. “You had us worried there.”

“I don’t feel alright,” said McDonald. “Especially with that cold hand of yours on my arm. You’re freezing!” McDonald’s voice was rasping and hoarse.

“Sorry.” Lori took her hand away and sat down.

Drumm looked at his colleague appraisingly. “Hurts a lot, doesn’t it?”

McDonald smiled. “Some,” he said. “But this little gadget on my finger helps with that.”

“You’re damned lucky, you know,” said Drumm. “For two reasons. If Celeste had been a little slower to react, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” whispered McDonald. “Believe me, I know. The doctor filled me in. I don’t remember most of it.” He closed his eyes and rested for a minute. Then he opened them. “What’s the second reason?”

Drumm laughed. “If that little bastard’s aim had been just a bit different, he would have got your johnson. Or worse. And then you’d be talking in a much higher voice, instead of that silly whisper you’re using at the moment.”

McDonald smiled wanly. “Have you ever seen so many machines in your life?” He looked at Drumm. “I’ve put a lot of people to a lot of trouble. I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

Before Drumm could speak, Lori said, “You shot the kid who attacked you and he’s been arrested. You caught the jerk who was stalking Celeste. Mission accomplished, I would say.”

“That’s right, Dick,” said Drumm. “You got the guy.” He waited for a reaction, and when there was none, said, “Did you talk to this Wilson at all?”

McDonald shook his head slightly. “No, didn’t have time.” His voice was much weaker.

Drumm stood up. “We have to go. You need to sleep and recover.”

McDonald raised a hand. “Wait. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For screwing this up. Big-time.” He looked at Lori. “Won’t happen again, love.”

Lori looked at him and smiled. “It better not,” she said.

Drumm turned up the long winding driveway that led to Donlands Correctional Centre. Lined with mature maple trees, the entrance road with its grassy verges was in stark contrast to the bleak facility that awaited the visitor. Even with most of the trees bare and dark in the wet, Drumm always enjoyed the approach to the jail.

Wilson was brought to the interview room in handcuffs and they were left alone with Dick’s attacker. Lori and Drumm faced him across a conference table, surrounded by white-painted walls in a space devoid of any other furnishings.

“Matthew James Wilson,” said Drumm.

“Who the fuck are you?” Wilson said dully.

Drumm introduced himself and Lori. He looked at Wilson carefully. The young man’s face was unmarked, and he thought how in the old days, someone who attacked a police officer would have been a punching bag for everyone in the force. Hell, any cop would have had a go at him. Now, though, with the Special Investigations Unit detectives ready to pounce, the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and prisoner rights groups advocating for criminals, police forces had to be extremely careful. Wilson looked like he hadn’t been touched.

Wilson’s head had been shaved and the whiteness of his scalp contrasted sharply with the tan of his chubby face. He had blue, close-set eyes and a prominent nose. In the blue prison jumpsuit it was hard to tell but Drumm figured he could afford to lose at least twenty pounds.

“Another cop. Don’t wanna talk to you.” Wilson started to get up.

“Sit down!” Drumm banged his fist on the table and Wilson sank back into his seat. Drumm was angry and frustrated because he knew this stupid slug of a kid hadn’t killed Arthur Billinger or Daniel Levine. Too stupid to plan Levine’s murder, too out of shape to lift a body up in a garage. And it was impossible to picture him worked up enough to bash someone thirty times with a baseball bat.

“I didn’t mean to stab him,” Wilson mumbled. “I already said it a hunnerd times. Turned around and seen him there. He scared me. Just poked at him and ran away.”

“We’re not here to talk to you about that,” said Drumm.

Wilson stared at him dully. “What?”

“It’s something else,” said Lori. “And if you help us out, we can maybe make things a little easier for you.”

“What?”

Drumm sighed. “We want to talk to you about Arthur Billinger. He was your French teacher in grade eight.” Wilson was staring at him uncomprehendingly. “Mr. Billinger. Your French teacher at Prince Albert Senior Public School. Do you remember?”

“Oh, Mr. Billinger! Yeah, I remember him.” Wilson’s face changed. “He was kilt. I seen it on TV.”

“That’s him,” said Lori. “So you remember him?”

“Sure.” Wilson frowned. “But he’s dead. I didn’t kill him!”

“We know you didn’t, Matt,” said Drumm and he rolled his eyes at Lori. “But we’re trying to find out who did. Do you remember grade eight French?”

“What? Yeah, I guess.”

“What do you remember?” asked Lori.

Wilson thought. Then he smiled with a lopsided grin. “Wrestling! Me and Tiny Tim would wrestle some after school.”

“Wrestling?” Lori asked. “You were on a wrestling team?”

“Nah, not a team. Me and Tim, we’d just horse around in the classroom after school. Mr. Billinger let us. Sometimes he’d do it too.”

Drumm looked at Lori, then at Wilson. “Let me get this straight: you’d get down on the floor and wrestle? In the classroom?”

Wilson stared at him. “Not on the floor. On the desk. With our arms.”

Drumm sat back. “You arm wrestled. That’s what you remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s Tiny Tim?” asked Lori.

“Tim. He was big.” Wilson looked at Drumm. “Bigger than you. He could beat everybody in the class. ‘Cept Mr. Billinger.”

“So Mr. Billinger wrestled with some of the kids. Is that right?” asked Drumm.

“Yeah, like I told you.”

Drumm paused. “Matt, did you like Mr. Billinger?”

Wilson shrugged. “He was okay, I guess.”

“We hear he had a homework club that he ran,” said Drumm. “You know, like after school or before school. Where he helped kids out.”

Wilson looked doubtful, and then he nodded. “Yeah, I remember that. A few of us went.”

“You went to Mr. Billinger for homework help?” Lori was surprised.

“Yeah, couple of times. But I quit.”

“Why did you quit?” she asked.

“Too hard.” Wilson shrugged. “I wasn’t so good at school. But I liked wrestling.” He grinned.

“Who else was in the homework club, Matt?” asked Drumm. “Was Tim?”

“Nah, not Tim. Least, I don’t think so.” Wilson’s brow furrowed and he blew air into his cheeks making his cheeks even fatter. “This is hard!”

Lori said, “Close your eyes and try to see the classroom. In the homework club. You were there. Who sat beside you?”

Wilson snapped his fingers. “Johnnie!”

“Johnnie who?” asked Lori.

Wilson stared at her and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know.”

“Anybody else?” asked Drumm.

“Huh?”

“Anybody else in the homework club you remember?” Drumm had a powerful urge to reach across the table to try to shake some sense into Wilson but he restrained himself.

Wilson looked doubtful.

“Close your eyes, Matt. Try to remember,” said Lori. “Who do you see?”

“Ken? No, that’s not right. Started with a ‘k’ though. Kevin? Something like that.” Wilson opened his eyes. “And Dave. I remember Dave.”

“Any girls?” asked Lori.

“Girls?” Wilson grinned again, the lopsidedness of it startling the two detectives. “Yeah! Sara! I liked her.” He looked at Lori. “This is fun, remembering stuff.”

“So you remember Sara,” said Lori. “And you liked her, right?”

“Yeah.”

Drumm asked, “Can you get her last name? Or Dave’s?”

Wilson’s face clouded over. “I don’t remember things so good.”

“You’re doing fine,” said Lori. “You’ve helped us a lot.”

“Last names?” prompted Drumm.

“Can’t remember.” Wilson was sullen again.

Drumm and Singh questioned Wilson for another ten minutes but they learned nothing further of any interest.