The Dead List (22 page)

“He wasn’t at the dealership. I spoke to his wife. She was going to tell him to stay put

and wait for me.”

“Good, we’ll grab him on our way back. I want all of them present. If they won’t come in

voluntarily to assist with inquiries, I’ll arrest them.”

This was Pringle’s opportunity to show he could lead a team, and solve a case. Drake suspected that Ryberg’s method would have been different. They didn’t have enough evidence to arrest any of the suspects he was bringing in, but with Derek Rochfort’s lifeless body sitting in his chair, it was difficult to disagree with his plan. The killer was mocking them, killing at will. They couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

Pringle continued. “One of the people from that list knows about this. I guarantee you.”

“Ryberg?”

“He has his thing and then he’ll be here. I had Myron update him on our progress.”

Drake still didn’t know what Ryberg’s thing was. He looked back into the office at the dead man behind the desk. Yesterday he’d smiled as he spoke of his nickname – Buttons. Then he told them of trying financial times, and he’d flaunted his homophobia with no excuses. “You inherit what you can’t outrun,” he’d said. Was that what this was about? Was Trevor Middleton, the seemingly well-adjusted hairdresser, out for revenge? He hadn’t seemed like a killer when they interviewed him. They had a link now though. Michael Robinson’s death had not been random. They didn’t have evidence to prove it yet, but it had to be connected to his drinking friends. Ryberg had been correct to proudly hold the list in the air during their first meeting. There was a connection. And he was right when he said that was where they should focus their efforts. If they included Trevor and the waitress there had been six of them in the group at one time, and now only four remained. Two of them were dead. And there was the red car? If J.J. was correct – if the old man had really seen a red car – it could only mean one thing. There was one more connection to the Ford dealership.

“I almost came out here this morning instead of going to pick up Parker. I was going to come and see him.”

Pringle seemed to read his mind. “Don’t do it. You don’t know what would have happened if you’d walked in on this.”

Adam called for Pringle to come back into the office.

The temporary commander of the investigative unit held his finger in the air as he spoke. “We’ll leave in five minutes, and get started on the interviews. I’m going to leave Adam in charge. He’ll like that. We’ll have all of them in the office.” He repeated his thoughts. “Either one of the people from your list killed this man and killed Robinson too, or the names on the list are being targeted. Either way, we’re going to interrogate them.”

As Drake walked toward the front door he heard Sophie Peterson speaking loudly into her mobile phone. “Yes, the red car, that’s the one I want. Can I come in and drive it?”

He waited for a moment. Sophie’s eyes were on him as she held the phone slightly away from her face. “Yes, Brian, I’d love to talk to you. I can be there in…”

He was right. Drake mouthed the words to her. “Fifteen minutes.”

Brian Stam could easily have been out at Trailco’s office and made it back to the dealership in time for Drake to see him sitting on the edge of the desk. He’d been perched there as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Was he contemplating the life he’d just taken? They’d have one more passenger when they stopped at the dealership. The sooner they picked him up, the more likely Adam would be able to find some forensic evidence linking him to the crime. He thought of asking Pringle to send a patrol car to bring him in, but decided against it. He wanted to look into his eyes and wipe that smug expression off his face when he placed him in handcuffs.

Ryberg’s earlier observation was still true. Everyone seemed guilty. They had five suspects now: Parker, the sales manager, who according to his wife wasn’t at home and hadn’t been in his office when Rochfort was killed; Wilson, the logger; Trevor Middleton, the hairdresser; Monica, the waitress; and now the man whose name kept showing up – Brian Stam, the salesman from the dealership. One of them either killed the two men from the list or they knew who did.

Rempel was part of the other team of paramedics who were attending. He was hovering just outside the office door. When Drake met his gaze he turned away and walked toward the ambulance. Rose and her partner were outside too, waiting for the body to be released. She leaned in to Drake and spoke in a low voice. “He knows his dad – they’re old family friends.”

Pringle was still busy with the Ident investigators – Adam and his new assistant. Drake followed Rempel down the front steps of the office building. The old man was leaning against the ambulance, pouring hot liquid from a thermos into a cup. He didn’t turn around when Drake reached him.

“It comes earlier every year, you’re going to have to learn how to drive in the snow, rookie.”

Drake ignored the comment. “You knew Derek Rochfort? Or, you know his dad?”

For a moment it seemed as though Rempel forgot whom he was talking to. He stared at the open wooded area to the side of the Trailco building as he spoke. “Tragic, absolutely tragic. This will finish old Percy off. He might be able to process it, maybe, but he won’t be able to handle it.” He took a drink of the liquid and spat it on the ground. “And another local business will go under. There’ll be nobody here to pick up the pieces.”

“They called him Buttons; it was his nickname. Did you know that?”

Rempel gave him a blank look. The snow had picked up pace and was falling all around them. “No, I did not know that. He was young Derek, and then teenage Derek, and then Derek who was taking over from Percy. And now he’s dead.”

The old paramedic’s face was very different from when he stood over Michael Robinson’s body. This one was personal. Drake was about to ask him another question when he saw the doctor marching toward the main door. Rempel walked off to the side of his ambulance and did not look back. Their moment of reflection was over.

Drake stood at the open door. The doctor was leaning over the body already. He called into the air, addressing no one in particular. “Can we clear some people out of here please? I delivered two babies this morning and didn’t have this much of an audience.”

The secretary yelped from the other room and began to sob as though she suddenly remembered what had happened. Fifteen seconds later the doctor turned toward Pringle and Adam. “You have confirmation, gentlemen, this man is indeed dead. Now, if I can have some space I will conduct my preliminary examination.” The doctor was enjoying his job as part-time medical examiner.

Pringle poked Drake on the shoulder. “Let’s go. We don’t need to be here.” He motioned to Myron that they were leaving.

As they drove out of the industrial park, Drake explained to Pringle that he wanted to pick up Brian Stam as well as Dave Parker at the dealership. He told him about the red car being at Tony Hempsill’s the night before and an anonymous tip he’d received that claimed a driver in a red car had thrown the body out on Cobalt Street.

“Anonymous?” He turned in his seat toward Drake.

“Yes, anonymous. And I think we should pick up Tony Hempsill, the old man who lives across the street from the murder scene.” Leave no stone unturned. He was overstepping his mark, but he didn’t care. No one else would be killed on his watch. If they were bringing in every potential suspect, then why not bring in everyone on the periphery too. No one else was going to die.

Pringle spoke quickly. “Okay, I’ll have him picked up.” He considered for a moment, probably thinking about all the citizens he was pulling in. “You realize…”

Drake beat him to it. “I know – we have no evidence – just the list.”

Pringle was the senior officer, an experienced senior officer, and he’d been supportive of Drake’s involvement in the case. No one from the Major Crime Unit had pulled rank on Drake; no one had even questioned why he was so involved. He had one last chance to dig through the rubble and figure out what was going on. They had different reasons for wanting to find the killer. Pringle felt this was his opportunity to put his stamp on an investigation and lead a team. Drake was tired of ghosts haunting him. It had to end.

Pringle nodded and spoke as though he was talking to himself. “Just the two of them – Tony Hempsill and Brian Stam.”

Drake spotted the other cruiser behind them. Myron was driving and he could see Sophie Peterson sitting in the back seat. She was close to the other woman, Brenda, the office manager.

He drove along the old highway and thought about the salesman, the driver of the red car. Did he drive out to Trailco, poison Derek Rochfort, and then blatantly sit on the edge of the desk while Drake watched him from the police cruiser? He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. His hangover was still there, somewhere, unimportant now.

The radio squawked that Frank Wilson and Monica Brown were in custody and sequestered in interview rooms, and Sergeant Ryberg’s estimated time of arrival was less than thirty minutes.

“Okay, we better go directly back to the station. I’ll have a couple of uniforms pick up the men from the car lot.” Pringle paused, a definite pause. “And your potential witness too.” He spoke into the radio and arranged for a patrol car with two officers to collect Dave Parker and Brian Stam. Drake would be denied seeing the man’s expression when he was placed in handcuffs. Then he radioed for another car to pick up Tony Hempsill. He gave instructions to keep it as low-key as possible. “Stress to him that he’s not in any trouble. We just want him to help with our inquiries.” It seemed as though Pringle was checking off the boxes and saying things out loud to make sure he was doing everything correctly. The two of them were in deep, very, very deep.

Manpower would be stretched thin. Drake could imagine the frustration on the watch commander’s face as he sat in front of a pile of time cards and duty rosters. Officers would have to be brought in from their regular time off. They were bringing in a busload of suspects with no evidence.

They drove in silence. Nothing else needed to be said. They knew what they had to do. Either someone had to trip over themself or they needed to find a link between one of the suspects and the two dead men. When they reached the entrance to the town, the sign was partially covered in snow but could still be read. “Welcome to Hope.” Both men continued to look forward out the windshield. Neither of them acknowledged the irony; they just kept staring ahead, driving toward the detachment.

It all happened so fast.

A chair was knocked over as a uniformed officer led Brian Stam, in handcuffs, through the situation room toward the cells. He glanced over at Drake, but did not speak. He had a curious look on his face as though he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. The little police station vibrated with noise and commotion. Veronica was talking to two men dressed in suits. Briefly, everything stopped as the sound of a woman shrieking pierced through the building. The watch commander pointed down the hallway in the direction of the noise, and an officer marched toward the disturbance.

On the whiteboard, someone had taped the original list over the arrows under Michael Robinson’s name. Trevor Middleton’s name had been added to the bottom, and the men who had been killed had a line through their names.

Frank Wilson

Derek Rochfort

Monica Brown

Dave Parker

Michael Robinson

Trevor Middleton

Two men from the list were dead.

The newspaper that the normally docile watch commander usually read was nowhere to be seen. He stood tall and valiant behind his counter – speaking loudly to a man and woman who kept trying to interrupt him. “Your clients will be available once they’ve been processed and not before.”

The doors to all four interview rooms were closed. Frank Wilson’s name was on the whiteboard outside interview room one, two had Monica Brown, the waitress’ name, and three had Trevor Middleton’s name. Dave Parker was sequestered in the remaining interview room, while a burly officer stood at the end of the hall, his eyes on the doors. Whether they wanted to or not, the drinking group had been reassembled to its original state – minus the two dead men. The other potential suspect, Brian Stam, was being held downstairs in a nine by nine cell until they were ready to interview him.

Through the middle of the room, moving slower than usual, strode Sergeant Matt Ryberg. His face was stress red and his hair seemed to be thinner than when Drake had seen him the day before. He ignored the outstretched, curled finger of Sergeant Thiessen and walked toward Pringle and Drake.

“Who’s talked to who, and what do we know?”

Pringle spoke quickly. “Wilson has asked for protective custody. He thinks he’s in danger. Four of the five have lawyers either with them or awaiting access. Trevor Middleton’s is a tax attorney – his brother apparently; I said I’d be willing to play along.”

Ryberg tossed his jacket over a chair and rolled up his sleeves. The outline of large sweat stains was visible on his underarms. “Yes, good call on the lawyer. What do you mean five? There are four more names on the list.”

Drake began to speak, but Pringle cut him off. “We had a tip that a red car was seen on Cobalt Street on the night of the murder, and the occupant threw the body out. We believe we have traced the vehicle back to Brian Stam, one of the salesmen at the dealership.”

There was a long pause while the noise and commotion continued all around them. Drake wanted to explain, but he sensed there was a protocol for the situation because Ryberg continued staring at Pringle and dealing solely with him. The lack of evidence, and the fact that Pringle and Drake had picked up all of the potential suspects, hung in the air between the three men.

Sergeant Thiessen yelled across the open room, “Ser. Geant. Ry. Berg. May I see you?”

Ryberg put his hand up in the air but did not look at the sergeant. “I want Wilson first, and then Parker, and then the woman.” The invisible note-taking man, Myron, had somehow made it back from the scene and was standing on the outside of their small scrum. “Myron, I want you observing. Pringle, play the heavy and John can assist.”