The Dead List (8 page)

Drake leaned against the wall in the hallway. “That’s too bad. I was thinking that maybe Robinson needed money and went to Franco. There might still be a connection there.”

Pringle shook his head. “Sergeant Ryberg called a negative on that one, and I think he’s right. If Franco got his hands dirty, or had somebody do it for him, they wouldn’t leave a body lying around. You’d be investigating a missing person, not a murder. And I wouldn’t have had to drive out here in the middle of the night listening to Myron talk about his new computer.”

A uniformed officer shuffled past the two men and stared at Pringle’s jacket. When he looked up and saw the man’s hard face he quickly moved along.

Pringle smiled and winked at Drake. “I’m off to hit some more of your local bars to figure out where our unfortunate car salesman ate dinner last night. I mean it; let me know if you want me to tag along for your re-interviews.”

“I will. Good luck.” Drake tried to avert his eyes from Pringle’s outfit, and wondered whether any of the patrons in the bars would have the courage to laugh at the large man’s odd choice of clothing.

Ryberg was writing on the whiteboard. He’d added new names to the arrows that branched out from Robinson’s name. Each of the names from the list had its own arrow now – Parker, the sales manager, his two drinker friends Derek Rochfort and Frank Wilson, and Monica, the waitress. There was also an arrow to his mother’s name and a couple that went nowhere, ostensibly waiting for more connections from the man’s life to be discovered.

Ryberg kept staring at the whiteboard and didn’t look up when Drake entered the situation room. “Any leads from your door-to-doors?”

Drake repeated to Ryberg what had happened on the street.

“A bang – we’ll ask the two boys about it when we re-question them. We’ll bring them in this time. But for now, Mr. Frank Wilson awaits us in interview room three. Quickly look at his file. I’ll take the lead and you can follow.”

Drake began to interrupt, but Ryberg cut him off. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on, you’re a smart lad.”

Drake read the notes in the thin file as they made their way to the interview room. Frank Wilson was fifty-five years old. He was a logger who had been paid out in an insurance settlement ten years ago and retired early. In the hallway outside the interview room, Ryberg told Drake in a quiet voice that the officers who brought Wilson in had to endure a testy monologue. He claimed he’d met Robinson in the bar several years previously, and they’d struck up a conversation. After bumping into each other on a consistent basis a friendship was formed, and they’d meet and have a few beers several times a month. “But,” Ryberg leaned close to Drake, “he keeps repeating that he hardly knew him.”

Wilson was a tall, lean man. He was lying back, at an angle, in the chair in the interview room, stretching his whole body out in a relaxed manner. He used his hands when he spoke and answered each question with a question of his own. From the onset he was frustrating to talk to, but the officers persevered.

Ryberg folded his arms in front of him. “Did you ever associate with Mr. Robinson away from the pub? Did you meet him for dinner or go to his home?”

“No, why would I do that? I knew the man to drink with and that was it. I’m retired. I don’t need to hang around with anybody, but he seemed like the kind of a guy who needed a friend, so we had a beer together sometimes.” There was a camera mounted high on the wall close to the ceiling and a spider microphone sitting on the table. The equipment was automatic and silently began recording the room’s activity as soon as the door opened. The normally intimidating environment did not faze Wilson at all. He eyed the camera from time to time between defiantly staring from one policeman to the other. “Like I said, I hardly knew him.”

Ryberg continued. “Did you ever see him drunk? Did you have to see him home or into a taxi at any time?”

“If I saw him drunk I wouldn’t let him drive, would I? I wouldn’t allow that to happen, what would be the point?”

“So you never saw him drink to excess?”

“I didn’t say that. Everybody does from time to time; it’s natural, isn’t it? If Mike Robinson got drunk he got put into a taxi, simple as that.”

The questions and answers, or non-answers, continued for a while until Wilson asked Ryberg whether he should have a lawyer present.

“Mr. Wilson, you can have a lawyer with you any time you like, but you’re not being charged or investigated. We’re just trying to find out what happened to your friend.”

When they asked him questions, the man showed no hesitation at all. He had a strange sort of nervous energy. He sat up straight in his chair from time to time as though he was going to elaborate further, and then he would scratch the grey hair of his crewcut and smile calmly.  

Ryberg’s tone changed slightly as he asked his next question. It was faint, but Drake noticed it. “Mr. Wilson, we have yourself, Mr. Robinson, his sales manager – Dave Parker, Mr. Rochfort, Monica, the waitress who sometimes spent time with you…”

Wilson’s eyes lit up and he licked his lips at the sound of her name. “Not enough time for my liking.” He grinned, showing off a set of shiny, white dentures.

Ryberg was fishing. Drake recognized the tone from when he interviewed the two boys. “And the other person, what was the name?”

Wilson didn’t hesitate. “Trevor, but he became gay, so he didn’t come around no more. Nobody wanted to see him, other than maybe Mikey, but we straightened that out.”

They had something, but Ryberg didn’t stir.

“Right, Trevor. And who objected to Trevor being there?”

Wilson didn’t sense what had happened. He continued leaning back in his chair. “We all did. I said what we were all thinking. I told him he wasn’t welcome. Buttons agreed and so did Parker.”

Ryberg and Drake looked at each other. Drake asked the question. “Who’s Buttons?”

Wilson’s smile widened. “Rochfort. That’s his nickname. He got his old man’s factory.”

Ryberg pulled open a file and read. “Derek Rochfort’s factory manufactures portable office trailers and mobile buildings. What’s the connection to buttons?”

Wilson grinned. “You don’t have kids, do you, or grandkids? It’s from a kids’ nursery rhyme about the button factory. Monica’s kid was around one day, and he called Rochfort the buttons factory man, and it stuck.” He spread his hands apart in front of him and his eyes widened. “That’s how ‘Buttons’ was christened.”

Drake spoke up. “She had her kid in a bar?”

Wilson straightened up in his seat. “I didn’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth. All I’m trying to explain is how Buttons got his name. What the hell does that have to do with Mikey covered in blood and praying out on Cobalt Street?”

Drake heard it, and he knew that Ryberg had too. Neither of them reacted as they stored the information away for later.

“You’re right; it has nothing to do with it.” Ryberg’s voice became serious again. “Do you know if Mr. Robinson had any enemies? Is there anyone who might not want him around?”

Wilson reverted back to answering questions with his own questions. “No. Why would anybody want him killed?”

Ryberg didn’t hesitate as he switched tact once again. “How did Trevor take it when you told him he couldn’t drink with you anymore?”

“We all told him, it wasn’t just me. It was a group decision. He was a good guy, a little off, but when he became gay that changed the deal.”

“The deal, what deal?” Ryberg pressed.

Wilson quickly sat up straight in his chair. “No deal, it just changed the group. He had all the boxes ticked – hairdresser, living with his mother, never talked about women, hot little Monica fawning over him and he couldn’t have cared less. We should have known. Then when he told us he was going to be living with a guy, it was game over. He could drink someplace else, couldn’t he?”

Drake asked, “So he never came back to the Legacy?”

“Not while we were there. Why would he? He wasn’t wanted.”

After spending an hour getting vague answers and little information they had hit on something. Ryberg asked the old logger to excuse them for a moment and enquired whether he wanted a cup of coffee or a glass of water.

“Gentlemen, you can have five more minutes of my time, and if you don’t give me a reason to stay I will be leaving you. As I told you, I hardly knew the man. So no, I do not have time for a coffee or water.”

Ryberg closed the door and pulled Drake down the hallway. “We have something here; I just don’t know what it is. Before he leaves get Trevor’s last name. I don’t want to spook him. Make it sound like you have it already, and you’re just confirming.”

“Right.”

“And what’s your take? Did it seem like he knew more about the body than he should have, or am I stretching? Sergeant Thiessen and I released a statement to the media, but we were vague with the details. We didn’t say anything about praying.”

Drake thought of Rempel, and his comments at the crime scene. “This is a small town. Somebody could have mentioned something in a bar or a grocery store. You know how it goes, it starts with a puddle of blood, it gets turned into a halo, and then the rumors begin.”

A few minutes later they concluded the interview. When Ryberg asked Wilson to keep them abreast of his activities and let them know if he was leaving town, he answered immediately.

“Oh, I am leaving town. I’m off to my cabin tomorrow. I’m retired; I don’t need money, and I don’t need to hang around. There’s a murderer in this town, and I don’t want to be here. I’ll be camped out in my cabin with my thirty aught six – hunting of course.” He smiled at the two officers, once again showing off his teeth. “And before you ask, it’s out by Chilliwack Lake. You can find me there if you need me, but lay on the siren when you’re coming up the road, because if I don’t know who’s coming I’ll set the dog on you.”

Drake opened the door for him. “Can you confirm Trevor’s last name for us, Mr. Wilson?”

“Mid…dle…ton,” he pronounced every syllable. “Why, are you thinking about getting a cut and a blow-dry?”

He laughed to himself as he walked away from the men, then began to hobble on one leg and looked back, grinning.

Ryberg waited until he heard the door closing at the end of the hall before turning to Drake. “I imagine the limp is related to his insurance payout. He’s a very strange man, isn’t he?”

Drake nodded. “Yes, he is, and he isn’t even a little bit remorseful.”

“No, he is not. Even if what he’s saying is true, and he did just casually drink with Robinson, it should still be a loss. He didn’t show any emotion at all.”

The door was ajar. There was a soft whirring noise from the small, wall-mounted camera. “Nice equipment you have in this station. That didn’t bother him either, did it?”

Drake agreed. “Nope. He glanced at the camera a couple of times, but nothing seemed to bother him.”

Ryberg smiled at him. “I think we need to find out a bit more about Mr. Wilson. He’s unmarried, isn’t he?”

Drake opened the file in front of him. “Yes, his wife passed away five years ago, no children. He keeps to himself. No complaints about him, but he made a couple of calls about kids tearing up his yard on their snowmobiles two winters ago.” Drake shook his head and closed the file. He looked at the investigator. “I just don’t get it. He’s far too happy for someone who just lost his friend.”

“Make a point in your report that he was worried about the murderer, but he didn’t have any theories. In interviews like this, everybody has theories when someone gets killed, but he didn’t offer a thing. And neither did Parker, the sales manager.”

Drake nodded, quickly scribbling down notes. “That makes sense. And I don’t believe their friendship was random. You don’t meet with someone on a regular basis for three or four years unless there’s something else holding you together, do you? They must have had other interests, or something else they were up to.”

“You might be right, John, but you might be wrong too. Towns like this with long winters have a process to them. It starts with the loggers and rubs off on everyone else. The loggers sit in the bars for months sometimes, waiting to go back to camp when the weather clears. All they do is drink and waste time. Maybe they mess around with the waitress or get into a fight here and there, but the common denominator is the booze and the company. And they don’t care who they’re sitting with. It’s the same lifestyle the fishermen have on the East Coast, isn’t it?”

He didn’t know how to respond. Instead he asked his own question. “I guess we have one more arrow on the whiteboard – Trevor Middleton.”

Ryberg answered. “Yes, another arrow, another name on the list. We better see what we have on Mr. Middleton. Is his name familiar to you?”

Drake shook his head, but before he could respond, Ryberg held up his hand and looked over Drake’s shoulder and down the hallway. “Ah, I see our waitress is here. Hopefully this will be a little more pleasant.”

Brandon Van Dyke led the woman toward the interview room. Drake made a mental reminder to continue their talk about Brandon’s brother, Anton Van Dyke, when they had an opportunity to be alone. Just as he had with Dave Parker, the sales manager, Drake recognized the woman from his walk-throughs at the Legacy. As she sat down and the three of them introduced themselves, Drake opened up her file and noted that she was divorced, and thirty-seven years old. He would have described her as being older – perhaps in her mid-forties. The fluorescent lights of the office weren’t as forgiving as the semi-darkness of the bar. In the world where Drake came from, the tougher lads would have said she had a face that was twenty years too late. She had short, permed hair that was a blond color that did not occur naturally, and she wore a tight red T-shirt with the name of the bar where she worked stamped across the front. A picture of two foaming beer mugs strategically placed below the name accentuated each of her breasts.

Like Wilson, she had a confidence of her own. Instead of firing back arrogant questions at the officers, she smiled and adjusted her shirt from time to time, enticing them to stare at the foaming mugs of beer.