The Dead List (15 page)

Myron jumped in, anxious to utilize his skills. “Nothing had been erased? There are no emails or names we can pursue? I mean, even my computer might not hold up to scrutiny.”

Ryberg’s eyebrows joined together, and Myron’s head twitched slightly.

Adam seemed to be frustrated by the interruptions. He tapped his pen on the table. “He was downloading music from a piracy site. He emailed other car people, talking about new models and how they were selling. And he had some videos of cars street racing. I looked. Please bear in mind, I am one person. I’ve been given no assistance on this case. I really wanted to find something, but there’s nothing there.” He pulled his glasses off again and rubbed them with a small cloth. “This man was not computer-savvy. And no, he did not erase his cache. The only time space was freed up was during automatic upgrades. There was nothing to find.”

Ryberg looked at his watch and then slapped his hand on the table, getting their attention. “I need to go. I need to get to the city for my appointment. Adam,” he eyed the Ident officer, “Myron will assist you in re-examining your findings.”

The young officer smiled. His mouth was tightly shut, and he resembled a ventriloquist as he mumbled his answer. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“You have your duties for the morning, gentlemen, bright and early. And those of you who are continuing to work this evening,” Ryberg looked around the room at the officers, “I appreciate your efforts.”

Drake had been on duty for twelve hours, and he’d only managed a little sleep as he sat by his window the night before, but strangely he did not feel tired. As usual, Ryberg’s meeting had given him a renewed sense of purpose. His contribution questioning why the dead salesman’s car had been cleaned had led to a new line of inquiry. And although the chance of Frank Wilson being the three boys’ employer was slim, Investigator Ryberg had felt it was sufficient enough to warrant further investigation into what his other business was. He was on a roll. Any initial reluctance he might have had to impose his thoughts during the briefings was long gone. He’d found the body. This was more than just a job. He had a responsibility to find out who killed Michael Robinson.

Ryberg quickly made his way to the door for his mysterious meeting in Vancouver, and Pringle leaned over Drake. “Give me ten minutes, then we’ll head over to Cobalt Street.”

Drake nodded his head slowly. Pringle gave him a medium-hard slap on the back.

Myron was already pounding at the keys on his computer looking up Frank Wilson’s neighbors. The Ident officer was talking into the phone, making excuses about having to work late. Pringle tapped the young man on the shoulder and pointed toward Myron, indicating that he needed to help him. Drake made his way to the watch commander’s desk to sign out a patrol car. He passed Sergeant Thiessen’s empty office. The overhead light was off, and it looked like he’d left for the day. In the middle of his desk pad there was a piece of paper. Drake recognized it immediately. It was a photocopy of the list of names Dave Parker had given them during his interview. It was the same list of names that the sergeant had deemed worthless when he sent Drake out to scare the three young boys.

They were two minutes from the scene when the call came over the radio again – duplicated. Almost. “Rape in progress, victim has cornered assailant, needs immediate assistance, Five, Five, Oh, One Ogilvie Street.”

The address was incorrect.

Drake held his finger on the transmit button. “Unit Two One Three is responding. Check location please. Initial address was Five, Seven, Two, Five Ogilvie. Please confirm.”

“Negative on the incorrect address, Two One Three, these are two separate calls. Proceed to incident at original address on Ogilvie.”

Attempted rape, called in by a woman who had cornered the perpetrator. Then the same call from the same street, several houses away. Pringle, in the passenger seat of the patrol car, turned to Drake. “I thought nothing ever happened out in the sticks. A murder, and two rapes – concurrent rapes, within a couple of days. This should be interesting.”

In Hope, the builders call them box houses, because they all look the same – a large box of a home with a picture window in the living room. The front door to one side, six steps up, and when you enter you can either walk down the inside stairs to the basement or upstairs to the main floor. They lined each side of Ogilvie Street. Lights came on in a couple of the surrounding houses as the police car pulled up. Pringle motioned that he was going around back. With surprising agility, he lifted himself up on a post and swung his body over the fence.

Drake hammered on the front door. “Police, I’m coming in.” There was no sign of forced entry. The key was still in the lock.

A woman’s voice called from inside. She was loud, and gasping – out of breath. “Come up, I have him here.”

Drake threw the door open and took the stairs two at a time. In the living room the woman was holding a damaged wall clock in her hand. Its pointers were hanging from the center of the clock face, and a spring was sticking out the side. A man was on his knees in front of her, his hands over his head, protecting himself. Even from the top of the stairs Drake could smell the alcohol. The man had a gash on the side of his head, and blood was running down his cheek onto the carpet.

“Move, get on the laminate. I don’t want your filth on my rugs.”

He obeyed the woman. Shuffling sideways on his knees, he moved toward the kitchen. There was one solid, loud bang from the back door. Startled, the man jumped and fell on his side. Pringle held his badge at the screen door. The woman edged into the kitchen. Still watching the man, she lowered the clock and opened the door.

Drake spoke into his shoulder-mounted radio. “Dispatch, one suspect has been apprehended, and is in custody.”

“I did that. I apprehended him.” The woman’s face held firm in an angry scowl as Pringle gently pried the broken clock away from her hand.

“Copy, Two One Three. Victim Services counselor is available too, advise.”

The woman wouldn’t take her glare from the man on her kitchen floor. Her floral-patterned nightdress was straight and perfect. She had pasty, white cream on each of her cheeks and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

“Will advise on counselor, Dispatch.”

After some coaxing, the woman allowed Pringle to shepherd her into the living room. The large man was surprisingly gentle. It should have been him breaking the news to Robinson’s mother the night before instead of Myron. Myron’s talents were better suited to digging up information from a computer or making phone calls.

Drake pulled on some gloves. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to the man to help stem the bleeding. There was no door between the kitchen and the living room, just a partial wall and an opening between them. He could hear the soft murmurings of Pringle, interrupted by the woman – her voice, angry, staccato, saying what she was going to do to the man. “Sneaking in. Scaring me. I was lying here on the couch, waiting for my William to come home. He wanders in and jumps on me. If I’d got my hands on the carving knife I would have killed him. I’d have stuck it right through him.”

Drake didn’t recognize the man. He held his wallet in his hand and looked at his driver’s license. “What are you doing here, Mr. Mutchins?”

When he opened his mouth the smell of liquor was even stronger. It floated in an invisible cloud between them, the odor forcing Drake to back up half a step. “We had an agreement. Stupid, stupid stupid.”

“What agreement? What made you attack her?” He looked around. “And how did you get in here?”

His voice slurred as he struggled to get each word out. “I. Had. The. Key.”

From the living room, the woman called out. “I heard that. He did not have a key. My key is hanging up – right there.” There was a wooden plaque on the wall between the kitchen and living room, shaped like a large key. Hanging from it was a single large door key, the head of it similar to the one in the front door lock. The woman put her hands over her face. It looked like she was about to cry, but then she seemed to remember the man in the kitchen and her voice rose again. “I just want my husband. He’s not answering his phone. He should be here. He’ll fix Mr. Strangehands.”

The man righted himself on his knees, then teetered, almost falling face-first onto the kitchen floor. Drake helped him to his feet and sat him on one of the kitchen chairs. “Where did you get the key, Mr. Mutchins?”

His radio beeped. “Two One Three, I have William Anderson en route to original Ogilvie address.”

The woman from the living room heard the transmission. “You found him, thank you.”

Mutchins, the drunk, sat in the kitchen chair. Spit spewed from his mouth as he excitedly leaned forward, barely able to keep himself upright. “Yes, Bill, get him here. We need to explain.”

Drake peered around the corner into the living room at Pringle. The big man was sitting behind the woman on the couch. He was trying to maintain his professional policeman face, but he had the same little smirk sneaking out the side of his mouth that he’d had when Sergeant Thiessen spoke during their strategy meetings.

There was a bang on the front door and another beep from his radio – Officer Sophie Peterson’s voice. “Two One Three meet me outside front entrance please.”

A young, fresh-faced officer who was senior to Drake by two years waved and smiled from beside the patrol car. He had a man handcuffed, leaning against the vehicle. Sophie Peterson had her hat in her hand and was shaking her head.

Drake asked. “Who’s that?”

“That’s your victim’s husband – one William Anderson.”

“Why is he in cuffs?”

“We have a complaint against him. Attempted rape. Complainant is a Wanda Mutchins.”

The other call – the duplicate call that was the same, but at a different address.

The man staggered and fell forward. The officer caught him and leaned him back against the car, still smiling to himself.

Drake looked upstairs at the Anderson’s house. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Guess how these two Einsteins decided to surprise their wives this evening after sitting in the pub drinking all afternoon?”

Mrs. Anderson saw her husband from the front window and ran down the stairs. “Let him go, what’s the matter with you people? That’s my husband.”

Three minutes later, after Sophie Peterson explained the situation, Mrs. Anderson ran to the police car, drew back her fist and connected cleanly with her husband’s chin. This time the officer was too slow, and the handcuffed man fell to the ground immediately. The woman marched back toward her front door. The pasty white lotion on her face was soggy and covered in tears. As she passed, holding on to her flapping housecoat, Drake asked if she wanted to press charges.

“Yes, on both of them.”

Sophie whispered to Drake as the woman walked upstairs. “I don’t think you can be charged with stupidity.”

“Cells would be full,” Drake agreed.

Sophie smiled. “Overflowing.”

The woman’s voice trailed toward them from upstairs as she yelled at Pringle. “And get that piece of crap out of my house. I want him locked up.”

Sophie Peterson was the senior officer. “It looks like we’re proceeding, and taking statements.”

Ten minutes later Pringle and Drake drove toward the station while Mutchins, Mrs. Anderson’s would-be rapist, sat in the back seat.

Pringle rubbed his chin and looked at the man in the back. “So you two studs decided to surprise your wives by swapping house keys? You didn’t think they’d notice when you climbed into bed with the wrong wife?”

His head was down, and he spoke to his lap as he answered. “The fishermen did it. That’s why their doors were all different colors, so they’d know which house was theirs.”

Drake parked the car at the back of the station beside the prisoner entrance. Neither man in the front moved. Drake turned and poked Mutchins hard on the top of his head. “Keep going. I want to hear this.”

Still staring at his lap, the man sighed in exasperation as he tried to explain. “After a night of drinking the fishermen would go home. All the houses looked the same except for the doors.” He glanced up at the two large men in the front seat, then immediately put his head back down. “They painted their front doors different colors – bright, beautiful colors. That way they knew which house to come home to.”

The man took in a deep breath and stopped. Drake tapped on his head again. “We’re waiting, keep talking.”

His shoulders went up and down, and he winced in pain. “Sometimes they still got confused, and went home to the wrong house – the wrong wife.” He looked up, his face alight, trying to get his point across. “See, the wives didn’t complain. They liked the change.”

Drake’s radio beeped. “Two One Three, Officer Peterson requests consult back at scene. Do not, repeat, do not process prisoner. Return him to Ogilvie stat.”

Pringle turned forward in his seat and smiled at Drake. “I’m moving here. This is a happening little town.”

Drake backed the car out of the parking stall and pulled out of the station’s lot. “I know; it’s like something out of a movie.” He looked into his rearview mirror at Mutchins in the back. “A very, very bad movie.”

Sophie Peterson was standing on the sidewalk. Her prisoner, William Anderson, was sitting on the steps in front of his house. His wife stood at the front window. Her arms were at her sides and she looked lost. As she stared down at her husband it was as though she was looking at someone she’d never seen before. The living room lights on almost all of the houses on both sides of the street, all the way up and down, were lit up. Pringle and Drake left the man in the back seat and closed the doors.

“Charges dropped, neither woman wishes to lodge a complaint.”

Pringle leaned down, his head still towering above Sophie. “Where’s the other wife? Do the two of them know each other? Did they make a deal?”

“Mrs. Mutchins is at her home, waiting for her husband. Their husbands know each other – they drink together – but the women have never met. And yes, a deal has been made, and they don’t want to press charges. If it was my husband, I’d let him sit and stew, but they know if one goes down the other does too. So they decided to withdraw their complaints.”