Hangman (27 page)

Red Herring

Vancouver

November 15 (One day ago)

Sunlight beamed in through the sloped glass roof of the great hall of the law courts, but even the sun was no match for the glare of the cameras flashing at the pair of lawyers outside. Zinc witnessed the chaos from the five-story hall, an angry man seething to his core, the pain in his head worsening with every flash of instant fame.

Turning his back on the media circus to leave by the rear exit, the Mountie found himself face to face with the statue of Themis. The blindfolded goddess of justice held balanced scales in one hand, but, befitting a country that had abolished the noose, the sword of justice in her other hand had been replaced with a scroll of paper.

A flurry of paper had freed Ethan Shaw.

For an instant, in Zinc’s mind’s eye, the figure of the goddess was that of Alex Hunt, and in that brief moment, he relived the intimacies the pair had shared. The memories struck home with a pain so sharp he feared his heart would explode, and he grasped how profound a loss he would suffer every day for the rest of his life.

“Alex,” he said to the statue, “this I swear to you: If it takes everything I have, including life itself, you
will
have justice for the injustice done to you.”

From his pocket, Zinc withdrew a Swiss Army knife. Prying open a blade, he nicked the index finger of his left hand.

Blood welled in the cut.

Zinc watched it flow.

Then he touched the cold gown of the statue and let it run red.

“This I swear in blood.”

*    *    *

The inspector was leaving the law courts by the Smithe Street exit when his cellphone rang.

“Chandler,” he said, expecting it to be DeClercq. The chief superintendent, hit by a relapse, was back in bed with immobilizing flu.

“Zinc, it’s Maddy.”

“My favorite detective.”

“Your sarcasm is cutting.”

“I’m angry. Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Ethan walked. All because of you. That was about as stupid a move as I have ever seen—trying to hide where the ship was when Alex was killed so you could allege she was hanged in the States to support your request that we extradite Shaw.”

“You’ve lost me, Inspector.”

“Don’t play games.”

“Be
specific.
Exactly what do you believe we hid from you?”

“Justin’s statement.”

“What about it?”

“He signed an affidavit to scuttle your request to extradite Shaw. Justin swore he was with Alex when the ship entered Canadian waters. A photo of them proved it.”

“That’s not in his statement.”

“No? What is?”

“I’ll fax you a copy.”

“It’s too late for that. The horse is gone. The milk is spilt.”

“It’s never too late. Justin is here. He’s waiting outside. I’ll speak to him.”

“You do that. Meanwhile, now that Ethan is back on the street, let’s hope the Hangman doesn’t strike again.”

“He already has. That’s why I called. Remember George Koulelis? The father of the girl Peter Haddon
didn’t
kill? I’m at the Athens Taverna. The Greek’s restaurant. Last night, he was hanged and butchered in Seattle.”

Seattle

While those who make murder their business went about their grisly work, Maddy stood in the restaurant with her cellphone to her ear, describing the crime scene to the Mountie in Vancouver. The Greek—or what was left of him—hanged from a ceiling beam surrounded by a colorful array of snipped neckties. The ladder used to lynch him lay flat on the floor in a pool of blood that was collecting from the stumps of what were once his arms and legs. The same shocking color had gushed down his chin from a slash across the open mouth of the face, which had turned cyanotic blue by asphyxia. The severed limbs, both arms and legs, were propped against the bar, on one side of which the killer had drawn a hangman game in blood:

“So what do you think?” said Maddy.

“The Hangman isn’t Twist. The doctor was in Canada when the Greek was killed.”

“Where is he now?”

“In custody. Charged with the attempted murder of me. I broke his arm during the arrest.”

“Scratch him,” said Maddy. “So what’s your theory now?”

“Know what a red herring is?”

“Sure. A false clue.”

“And the origin?”

“You got me there, Zinc.”

“According to Alex, the term was in use at least as far back as seventeenth-century England. Those who abhorred the idea of a fox being hunted to death by a pack of hounds and aristocratic horsemen thought up a way to throw the dogs off track. They bought herrings at the fish market and smoked them at home until they took on a reddish color. Dragging the cooked herrings around the countryside left a pungent odor throughout the woods and fields that covered up the scent of the fox and confused the hunting dogs. Since then, a clue meant to distract a sleuth from his or her quarry has been known as a red herring.”

“You smell something fishy?”

“It stinks,” said Zinc.

*    *    *

The usual crowd of onlookers feeding off the drama of violent death had gathered on the street outside the Athens Taverna. In days of old a mob like this might have been treated to the spectacle of a public hanging, but these bland times offered little more than a body on a gurney hidden under a sheet. Maddy’s exit from the building caused a stir, but they would have to wait a while for death to appear.

A street cart was approaching to sell the mob hot dogs.

The familiar features of Justin Whitfield were in the thick of the throng. With a nod of her head, Maddy signaled him to meet her at the Starbucks a block away. By the time he arrived to sit with her at a corner table, the cop had a steaming mocha java waiting for the reporter.

“An affidavit, huh?”

“You heard,” he said.

“The Mountie told me. It sank our extradition.”

“Good,” he said, stirring a packet of sugar into his cup. “I lost one brother to a noose. I won’t lose another.”

“A scoop like that? Why aren’t you in Vancouver?”

Justin blew the steam away and took a sip.

“Kline’s suggestion. Tactics, Maddy. He didn’t want me available for cross-examination. And I don’t want to be the focus of media attention. Besides, I’d have missed
this.
”

Maddy nodded. “So it’s a tie. Sue Frye scoops you in Vancouver. You scoop her here.”

“No,” said Justin. “I get
both
scoops. The
Star
’s doing a special edition that will hit the street today. Guess who got to interview Ethan and his lawyer last night? A super-scoop, since I was promised
exclusive
access until we publish.”

“Quite a coup.”

“With more to come. Assuming you have something for me?”

The cop slapped a Polaroid face down on the table. She kept her hand on it. “To add to your thirty pieces of silver,” she said.

Justin glared. “I’m no Judas, Maddy. My affidavit did nothing more than tell the truth.”

“How’d that come about? You teaming up with Kline to spring Ethan?”

“He approached me yesterday after court adjourned and asked if I’d swear an affidavit about what went on in the bar.”

“To prove the ship was in Canada?”

“Yes,” said the reporter.

“That’s not in your statement to us.”

“Because I didn’t know. I had assumed we were sailing south of the line when I was questioned by police. Did you know about the rule of separation in the strait? A westbound ship sails in Canada, an eastbound one sails in the States?”

“No,” said Maddy.

“Crafty lawyer, huh?”

“Not only did he stop our extradition, but he also killed the charge in Canada.”

“Good,” said Justin. “Ethan’s innocent.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I am,” said the reporter.

Maddy took out her notebook. “Why?” she asked.

“Remember the piece I wrote for the
Star
the night Peter hanged? To make the deadline for the edition next morning, I had to phone the copy in to Seattle from the state prison. The editor who took it down spelled Bryce with an
I
, and that’s how it appeared in print the next day.”

“You were angry, as I recall.”

“My brother had been
hanged
, and my paper couldn’t spell his name right. Nor, it seems, can the killer, who added an
I
to the hangman game scrawled in Alex’s blood on the wall of Ethan’s cabin.”

“Because he knew how to spell Peter’s name, Ethan is innocent?”

“Yes,” said Justin. “If not because we’re family—he
did
leave as a baby—then because he proofread the galleys of my book. Bryce is spelled correctly throughout
Perverse Verdict.
”

“Do you think the killer got the mistake from your
Star
story?”

“I don’t know. Kline used my article to raise that question with the judge. However, I do know that Ethan knows how to spell Peter’s name, so he wouldn’t add an
I
instead of a
Y
to the middle word of the puzzle. Nor did he lynch George Koulelis in his restaurant last night. Ethan was jailed in Vancouver.”

“Answer a question?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t take offense.”

“Come on, Maddy. How many years have we been doing this?”

“What were you doing on board the ship at the time Alex was hanged?”

“Were you looking for me?”

“No,” said the cop. “Zinc and I were in a lounge going over the case.”

“You want my alibi?”

“Ease my mind.”

“I was in my cabin.”

“Doing what?”

“Sharing my bed with our server from the Captain Ahab bar. After Ethan and Alex left to get some air, I stayed in the bar talking with Kline for a short while. The woman gave me the eye over his shoulder, so I left to meet her outside.”

“That’s not in your statement.”

“And it’s not in hers. We didn’t volunteer what we weren’t asked. Ethan was in custody. The questions were about Alex.”

“Why the grin, Justin?”

“I find it funny. Your suspecting the Hangman might be me. I can assure you I know how to spell my twin brother’s name.”

“So what do you make of this?”

The detective turned over the Polaroid lying face down between them. The snapshot was of the hangman game on the bar in the restaurant. The reporter studied the print beneath the gallows:

_E_E_  _ _ _ _E  _A_ _ _ _

No I. Guess in tomorrow’s papers. Hangman.

 

“Hmmph,” said Justin. “The game has gone back a step.”

“To correct the misspelling.”

“And it’s back to ‘papers.’”

“Sue Frye must have pissed off the Hangman.”

“It reads as if the killer takes exception to the misspelling of Peter’s name.”

“It’s a demand that we get the spelling right.”

“So why the game on the ship?”

“It was a red herring.”

“How does that make sense?”

“Damned if I know,” said Maddy. “But what we have to do in your special edition is publish, big and bold, the answer to the puzzle. Hopefully,
Peter Bryce Haddon
will end the hangings.”

“A red herring?” mused Justin.

“A red herring,” she said.

And suddenly, the detective solved what was going on.

Special Eye

Vancouver

November 15

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police has four letter sections: Special E, Special I, Special O, and Special X. Special E, the outlaw biker-gang squad, is now disbanded. It was crucial at a time when bikers were rife in this city. Special I is the ears of the force. Some say the I stands for “Intercept,” but that’s not so. I stands for I, and no one knows why. Special O is the eyes of the force. Some say the O stands for “Observation,” and that
is
true. Because they are the cops who surreptitiously trail the bad guys, the blandest-looking Mounties get posted to O. Special X is the Special External Section of the force, and its X derives from the fact it looks cool.

Image is everything.

Especially with the Mounties.

Special Eye was a play on Special I. The man who owned the security store was a tailing specialist with O back in those halcyon days when he and Zinc had gone after the Ghoul. The exodus from Hong Kong for fear of what would happen when China took over saw hundreds of thousands of wealthy Asians fly to Canada, and most of them had settled in Vancouver. What everyone knew (but was afraid to say, for fear of seeming racist) was that among those immigrants hid a horde of Triad thugs. Well, the thugs were here. And they were vicious. And their prey was other Chinese. And their favorite pastime was home invasion.

Home invasion was a nasty art. The psychology was to shatter forever your sense of security, so it would thenceforth be your
home
that you dreaded most. A gang of thugs would overpower you at the door or be waiting inside for you to return. A nifty trick was to tie you up and gag your mouth, then pistol-whip your aged parents before one eye and rape your wife and daughter before the other. Once you knew your guests meant business, you had the choice of turning over your material possessions or sitting back and watching as the thousand cuts of Chinese tradition were performed on your family for your viewing pleasure.

In this city, home invasions were a dime a dozen, and if you wanted the best there was in security, you went to see the specialist at Special Eye. The greeting above the door read “Let Special Eye watch over you.”

Bill Caradon was graciously accepting a platinum credit card from an elderly Chinese couple when Zinc walked in. A lot of wealthy Asians lived in Kerrisdale, so Special Eye was on 41st, in the heart of the West Side. The amount Bill rang in had four zeros tacked on. Business was good.

Back when Bill was an operative with O, he was a scruffy cop with long reddish hair and a pirate beard, and his muscular frame was softening to fat from too much junk food on round-the-clock stakeouts. A transformation had turned him into the Rock of Gibraltar, his buffed body fighting trim from working out, his hair cut and his chin shaved commando-style. The store surrounding him was an extension of the can-do man, with hardware for every security problem on display. If you had the money, Bill would barricade you, with anti-pry guards and Lexan shields, with bulletproof glass and countersurveillance equipment, with transmitters, monitors, phone recorders, scramblers, scanners, and pinhole mikes and cameras. “Spy vs. Spy” from
Mad
magazine would love the gizmos Bill sold here.

Zinc poked around until the Chinese couple left. Finally, the cop and ex-cop were alone.

“Long time, no see.”

“How ya doing, Bill?”

“Can’t complain. Fear grips the city.”

“You always were the best. Now everybody knows.”

“A rough go, eh? Sorry to hear about your girl and what went down in court.”

“You have thirsty ears.”

“It’s my business to hear.”

“I need a favor, Bill. Lend me your ears.”

“You have Special I.”

“I requires warrants.”

“Warrants make things legal.”

“Legal be damned. I’ve had enough legalities for one day.”

“A bug without a warrant is illegal, Zinc. Break the law, and I could be in trouble. Anything overheard is inadmissible if the person bugged had a reasonable expectation of privacy. That means the only voice caught that might end up in court is that of a burglar who mumbles while he works.”

“I know the law, Bill.”

“Mine’s the voice of reason.”

“The love of my life was killed and her killer is free on the street. I think he and his brother lynched five people in tandem. They took turns hanging victims while the other had an alibi. I know it’s illegal, and I’m asking a lot, but I promise no finger will point at you if you help me out.”

The ex-cop stroked his chin.

The pirate beard was back.

“How far do you want me to shove the wire up his ass, Zinc?”