The Dead List (25 page)

For five years she had stayed loyal to the rules of their deadly game. This would have been the first time she’d been able to say the words out loud. The realization of what they’d done was finally settling in on her. “We’re all guilty though, aren’t we? We became murderers the day we signed those papers.”

Nobody corrected her. The statement hung in the air. “I don’t know who killed them. I really don’t know.”

Ryberg quietly thanked her.

Drake held her hand for a moment before getting up. She didn’t resist, but she was the first to pull away. By the time he had closed the door and stood in the hallway, Ryberg was already calling for Myron.

Now they knew why two men had been killed.

Someone on the list had become impatient. It was all about the money.

Myron and Ryberg were speaking at the same time – relaying the same information to each other. Ryberg held up his hand, halting the conversation. “Okay, wait. Tell me please – briefly.”

Myron didn’t do briefly. Even Drake knew that by now. But he took a deep breath and seemed to make an effort. “Six insurance policies, payable on death of insured with a sixty-day lag before the funds are active. It’s the names from the list.” He looked at Drake, who was leaning against the wall. “The six people on the list held the policies, and the beneficiaries were the same policy holders. These people insured each other’s lives.”

“This makes me sick. Men and women gambling on who is going to die first.” Ryberg looked at Myron and Drake. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s a tontine.” Myron nodded as he spoke. The man’s expertise spread wider than Drake had imagined, and judging by the joined eyebrows on Ryberg’s forehead he was surprised also. “That’s what they called it. Military personnel had the same agreement hundreds of years ago. This isn’t new. It’s been done before.”

Ryberg touched Myron on the arm and nodded, thanking him. “Good work. Let’s get the crown prosecutor looking into the legality of this.”

The studious young man returned his eyes to his notepad. “I’ll make a call.”

Pringle appeared in the hallway behind them. “Adam called me. They’ve found something. He and the medical examiner are fighting over who’s going to get credit for this. When the doctor lifted Mr. Rochfort’s arm, Adam noticed that his cuff buttons were undone. They rolled up his sleeve and found a penetration on the skin.”

Ryberg was excited. “A needle mark.”

“Yes. Rochfort’s wife confirmed that her husband was not diabetic, and there’s no indication he had a drug problem. So although we don’t want to draw too many conclusions, it looks like he was injected with something.”

Myron spoke up. “I wonder why he would allow someone to do that. Was there any paraphernalia found? Could this be a suicide?”

Drake could almost picture it. “If he was given some food which contained the poison, and the paralysis began to set in, it wouldn’t have taken much effort for the murderer to inject him manually with more.”

Pringle agreed. “And finish him off.”

Even to the seasoned investigators, a man being killed still meant something. Drake could see it in their faces. All of them, including Drake, had dealt with violent death involving a weapon. This was different. Somehow, because this was so premeditated, it made the act seem more sinister – more immoral.

Pringle took a breath and continued. “He’s also lifted a number of prints. He’s working on a match.” Ryberg began to ask, but Pringle cut him off. “He knows how important it is. The minute he finds something else he’ll call me. And Drake, you still have Tony Hempsill waiting for you up front. The watch commander is getting a bit concerned.”

He didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t keep Tony Hempsill waiting any longer.

Ryberg dismissed him. “We’ll interview Trevor Middleton. It’s time for him to tell us his part in this, and then we’ll move back to Frank Wilson – the man whose wife died five years ago.”

Myron looked up from his notebook and nodded, agreeing.

“This was the same time period in which the insurance policy was purchased – at Frank Wilson’s suggestion. I very much look forward to talking to him again. Join us when you can, Drake.”

He wasn’t “John” any longer. Ryberg’s tone was terse. Maybe it was the fact that he’d brought in the car salesman who now seemed to have no connection to the murders, or maybe because he’d had a car bring in Tony Hempsill. He’d done well interviewing the suspects, but he was flailing, losing ground, and it showed. After Monica had filled them in on what the group had been up to, it felt as though things were falling into place, but it was going in a direction that none of them had anticipated.

The old man had his back to the entrance to the lunchroom. Drake watched him from behind. He was sipping from a cup of coffee. He looked innocent, oblivious to the interviews that had been conducted on the other side of the wall.

He didn’t move when Drake walked in.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been quite a morning.”

He was every bit as sharp as the last time they’d spoken. “I know you’re busy. I overheard one of your colleagues talking about a homicide. It did not sound like he was talking about the man who died on my street.”

There was no reason not to tell him. “There’s been another murder, Tony. I can’t give you details, but it looks like the two deaths are related.”

He nodded as though it made sense to him.

Drake pulled a chair away from the wall and sat close to the man. “Tony, there was a vehicle outside your residence last night – a newer, red sedan. Who was visiting you?”

Nothing moved. Very carefully, he picked up his cup of coffee and took another drink. Then he looked at Drake. “I don’t know why that is any of your business.”

Drake moved even closer, his knees touching the other man’s. “Listen to me, Tony, two men have been killed within a couple of days, and one way or another I’m going to find out who the killer is.” He didn’t let up. He continued trying to stare him down. “If I feel you’re withholding evidence that may help the killer escape justice I will take action. I ask you again – who was your visitor?”

It didn’t work. Tony leaned back in his seat, evading Drake’s proximity. “You know, I was going to call you. I wanted to come and tell you that I did see a vehicle the other night – the night the man was killed.”

Drake didn’t move. “Did you get a license number?”

“No, unfortunately I did not. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m an old man, and sometimes…”

Drake cut him off. “What color was the car you saw, Tony?”

“It wasn’t a car. It was a truck, and I saw a large man. It was difficult to see, but I think he may have pushed the body from the passenger side door.”

It didn’t make sense. Could J.J. have been wrong?

“Do you remember anything else?”

Tony looked at the cup of coffee. “No, a truck and a large man, that’s all.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Drake knew what the response would be. He’d heard it many times.

“I didn’t want to get involved.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“And I will not.”

Drake continued sitting, thinking. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Maybe the questions were being answered down the hall in the interview rooms. He stood up. “I need to type up your statement and then get you to sign it.” He wanted to get back to Ryberg and see what was happening with their suspects. He didn’t want to miss the re-interview with Frank Wilson. “Will you wait for a few more minutes?”

“Of course. And I’m sorry; I should have given you the information about the truck the other day.”

Drake nodded, and closed the door. He stood on the other side and looked down the hallway. The expectant face of the watch commander peered at him from his desk, wondering what was happening. Drake wondered too. Tony Hempsill had lied to him. He totally fabricated a situation, and Drake wasn’t sure why.

The interview room door was still closed. The watch commander marched heavily down the hallway. He cocked his head to one side and asked, “What am I doing with Tony?”

Drake sighed and looked back toward the lunchroom. “Kick him. Let him go. He’s got nothing that will help us. Tell him I’ll be in touch if I need him to sign a statement.”

He quietly opened the door to the observation room and slipped inside. Myron looked around and then fixed his eyes back on the viewing window. Unlike earlier when Drake had been unable to hear Brandon Van Dyke’s conversation with his brother, this time the system was turned on and working perfectly. The voices sounded crystal-clear through the speakers. Ryberg had finished asking Trevor Middleton a question, but before the man could answer, he bent over and was coughing – hacking hard into a handkerchief.

Myron whispered, still watching the window. “It’s the chemo. If that doesn’t kill him, the cancer will. Not many options, are there?”

The visits to the city, the stress on the man’s face – it was more than just the homicide investigation. It made sense now.

Drake swore. He continued watching Ryberg as he tried to bring his coughing under control. He saw him differently now. In spite of the challenges he was facing with his health, he was still doing what he could to find the killer.

Trevor Middleton’s brother, the tax attorney, had the same soft-featured face as the nervous-looking man he sat beside. But instead of the modern blond coif that his brother sported, he had a conservative haircut, an earring in each ear, and he wore a T-shirt advertising a long-ago rock concert. He did not look like a lawyer, but he was trying to sound like one. “Charge my client or release him.”

Pringle stood behind him and looked as though he was ready to lift him up out of the chair – perhaps even by his earrings. Ryberg regained his breath and apologized for coughing. He smiled at Trevor Middleton. “What are you going to do with your share? Or, I should say shares. Two of your friends are dead now.” Trevor gave him a quick, wary glance, but there was no reaction. He sat like a statue. Then Ryberg hit him with it. “Have you begun building your cabin? How does it feel constructing it with blood money?”

Trevor convulsed. The middle of his body lurched forward, and he held on to the desk as though he’d been pushed from behind. His brother placed his arm around his back. “We need medical assistance here. I demand that you get us a doctor. This is an emergency.”

He might be right. Trevor sucked in mouthfuls of air and held his stomach. His brother pulled Trevor’s chair away and made him bend forward. His face was bone white; he did not look like a killer.

A uniformed officer who was the on-duty first aid attendant was quickly ushered into the interview room. Ryberg and Pringle exited the area and stood inside the observation room next door. The four officers watched the window as Trevor was told to breathe slowly – in and out. Gradually he began to come back to normal.

Ryberg kept watching Trevor and his brother but spoke to the three officers. “Let’s deal with what we know. The six people from the list took policies out on each other. Whenever one of them dies the pot is split between the remaining members of the group.”

Myron began to speak but then seemed to change his mind and wisely kept quiet.

“There’s a dispute in the group – a hiccup. One of the men tells the others that he’s gay, and there is some friction. They don’t want to drink with him, but they have to keep him as part of the scheme. He’s paid his premiums, and knows too much. They have no choice.”

The three officers continued listening. No one disagreed.

“Now we’re venturing into what we don’t know, so we have to make some assumptions. A couple of years pass and someone is getting greedy. This person does not want to wait for the inevitable, and certainly does not want to be the first one who dies. So a member of the group takes matters into their own hands. Do they pick the ostracized man – Trevor Middleton? No, they pick the weakest member of the team, the one who will leave very little behind – only an aging mother. One of them kills Michael Robinson. He was an unlikely target. The more likely target should have been,” Ryberg pointed at the viewing window, “this man. Does that mean that we’re looking at our killer?”

Trevor Middleton’s brother was speaking to him, telling him to stay silent. Trevor cocked his head into the air and ran the tip of his finger along his lips as though he were zipping them, indicating that he was not going to talk.

Ryberg smiled as he watched him. “My guess is that no, the hairdresser is not a killer. But I do not know that for sure.”

Pringle interrupted. “His initials were in the ledger book at Derek Rochfort’s office remember. ‘T.M.’ had an appointment with him yesterday.”

“That’s true, but anyone could have written that in the ledger.”

Pringle spoke up. “None of them fit though. None of these men fits any type of profile of a killer that I’ve come across.”

Drake didn’t know what to think. He’d been trying to find the driver of a red car when the original list that he’d unearthed was where the answer lay. “When we spoke to Derek Rochfort he made no apologies for his prejudices. He was almost proud of them. I’m sure Trevor was aware of that.”

Ryberg looked tired. “That again, is true. And the second killing was not for money. None of them need it that badly, and there was already one payout coming. The second murder was because the killer is either enjoying killing his friends, or there’s perhaps another reason we’ve overlooked.”

A sharp knock on the door jolted all four men. Sergeant Thiessen stood in the doorway. He ignored the others and stared at Ryberg. “You can conclude your interviews with half of our town, Sergeant. Dave Parker’s lawyer has requested a meeting with you.”

Ryberg didn’t flinch. “Oh.”

Thiessen was cocky – enjoying the moment. “A conversation was overheard. It appears Dave Parker is ready to confess to both murders.”

Sergeant Ryberg chose Myron and his meticulous habits to assist him with interviewing the man who had confessed – Dave Parker. All of the suspects were released. Trevor Middleton was taken to the hospital by ambulance, while his brother spouted in an exaggerated, loud voice that he intended to sue the police department. Frank Wilson didn’t seem to understand that it was over, and continued asking for protective custody as he was ushered into a patrol car and given a ride back to his cabin. Brian Stam’s wife collected him; they quickly left the station without looking back. And Monica met the social worker at the reception area and collected her young son. She held him tight to her waist and awkwardly walked with him out the front door of the police station. She had been the one member of the group who finally told the truth.