The Evil Men Do

by H. Paul Doucette

  He leaned down and inserted the key into the ignition and turned the engine over then shifted into first gear and pulled out from the curb. He hadn’t gone more than thirty feet when a siren wailed behind him. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he saw the flashing lights of a police car. Damn it all to hell, he cursed aloud as he eased the car to the curb. He watched the uniformed cop get out and approach his open window.

  “What’d I do?” he asked when the cop bent down and looked in.

  “Get your registration an’ step outta the car,” the cop said, stepping back a couple of steps.

  Fletcher felt a knot forming in his stomach as he dug out his registration from behind the sun visor. He turned off the motor and got out, passing the document to the cop.

  “What’s this about? I ain’t done nuttin’ wrong.” Fletcher said, trying not to sound anxious.

  The cop took his registration and looked it over, making a mental note of the address.

  “What were you doin’ back there?” he asked, looking up at Fletcher.

  “Huh? Whaddya mean? Standin’ where?”

  “By the church. What were you lookin’ for?”

  Fletcher felt a bit easier, thinking that this was just a routine stop. He decided to tell the truth.

  “I was lookin’ to see if a mate of mine sailed. He’s a seaman on one a the ships, that’s all. Didn’t know it was crime.”

  “Why didn’t ya call ‘im?”

  “Ain’t got a place.”

  “Coulda called the yard an’ asked.”

  “Didn’t think of it, besides, I don’t have a phone at my place,” Fletcher said. “Can I have that back?” He reached out his hand for the registration.

  The cop hesitated a moment before finally passing it back.

  “Okay, but you better not be stoppin’ at places with such open views of them ships again. Next time it might be the military police or worse an’ you won’t get off with a warnin’. Got it?”

  “Yeah, got it.”

  “By the way, how come you’re not at work?”

  “Day off,” Fletcher said.

  “Where do ya work at?”

  “Railyard. Track maintenance. Why’s that matter?”

  “Okay,” the cop said, ignoring his question. “Take off an’ don’t let me catch you down ‘round here again.”

  The cop turned and headed back to his car. Fletcher watched him for moment then got back in his car, started the motor and let out the clutch. He pulled away from the curb and took off. If he hadn’t been so spooked, he might have noticed the cop picking up the microphone from the radio in the car.

  “Car ten callin’, over,” the cop said into the microphone.

  “Go ahead car ten, over,” a metallic voice answered.

  “Car ten. I got that information on the suspect car’s driver, over.”

  “Good. Let’s have it, over.”

  “Name’s Charles Fletcher. Address, 15 Jacob Street, over.”

  “15 Jacob Street. Got it. That all? Over.”

  “That’s it, over.”

  “Okay. Report back to the station an’ see Detective Robichaud. Over and out.”

  “Roger, out.” He returned the microphone to its place on the radio, started the car and eased into the street.

  * * *

  I called Phillpott’s office and told them I was coming over and wanted to talk to the owner or manager. I was putting on my overcoat when my phone rang. I debated ignoring it but decided to answer.

  “Robichaud,” I said when I picked up the receiver.

  “Jus’ got a call from a patrol unit on Brunswick Street. He spotted your car an’ pulled it over. Sez he got the driver’s address. I tole him to come an’ see ya.”

  “When?”

  “Right away. Should be here in ten minutes, I figure. You wanna see him?”

  “Yeah...yeah. Send him back when he gets here,” I said, looking at my watch. I still had a few hours to get over to Dartmouth.

  “Okay.” The line went dead so, I hung up and sat down.

  The patrolman arrived fifteen minutes later and stood in front of my desk.

  “Officer Lewis reportin’, sir,” he said, looking down at me.

  “Okay. Thanks for comin’ in,” I said. “Whaddya got?”

  He gave me a quick rundown on his report. First thing was spotting the car. It fit the description of the one we were looking for. Then he saw a man standing at the stone wall that encircled the small plot of land where the old church stood. He looked like he was checking the ships in the dockyard then after several minutes went back to his car and got in. He called in to the duty officer who instructed him to pull the car over and get a look at the driver’s licence, noting the name and address.

  After pulling the car over, he confronted the driver. According to the man, he was checking to see if his friend’s ship had sailed. Said he was looking for this friend but couldn’t find him, so he thought maybe he sailed. When asked why he didn’t call at his digs he said the friend didn’t have a fixed address. Lewis said he gave him a warning about looking like he was interested in the dockyard. He finished up giving a full description of the driver, noting the half closed eye. He passed me a piece of paper he tore out of his rounds book with a name and address on it.

  “I asked him why he wasn’t at work an’ he said it was his day off. Said he worked for the railway; track maintenance.”

  I took the sheet of paper and asked, “Anythin’ else?”

  “No sir, that’s it.”

  “Thanks. Good work.” Lewis turned and left the squad room.

  I looked at the page: Charles Fletcher. 15 Jacob Street. I reached for the Marchand file and opened it and picked out the sheet of paper with the statements from the two girlfriends and scanned their descriptions of the two men Stella Marchand was last seen with. Aha, I thought, when I saw it almost matched perfectly with the patrolman’s description. It was enough to pick him up and hold him on suspicion until I could get the girls back in for a definite identity check.

  I put everything back in the file and set it aside and stole a quick glanced at the clock on the wall; it was time to head back to Dartmouth and my meeting with Phillpott and Sons.

  The ride over went fairly quick so I arrived at Phillpott’s only fifteen minutes late. I was shown into Phillpott’s office without delay.

  Phillpott was a man of stocky build, in his fifties with grey hair. At the moment, he stood over a work table with a number of drawings on it. He was dressed in workman’s overalls and woolen work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I noted his muscled forearms.

  “Mr. Phillpott,” I said, showing him my ID card when he turned to face me. “I’m Detective Robichaud. Thanks for seein’ me.”

  He took my card and eyed it for a moment; then passed it back.

  “What’s this all about, eh?” He spoke in an even tone without any recognizable accent. I guessed he must have come to the city from away, looking for work.

  “I’m investigatin’ an accident at the shipyards that happened a coupla days ago. It happened in the engine room of a ship and involved a release valve that ruptured. I’ve traced it to the supplier an’ they have directed me to you as the manufacturer.”

  “I see. And why would you think something was wrong with this valve that brings you here?”

  “Accordin’ to the experts I showed the damaged valve to, this particular valve appears to have been made with substandard materials, maybe even improper forgin’. If this is the case, then this becomes a criminal matter.”

  “Are accusing my company of this...this...?” Phillpott stammered.

  “I’m not accusin’ anyone...yet. Right now, I’m lookin’ for answers to why this thing failed an’ a man died,” I said.

  “Well, you won’t find any wrong-doing here. I run an honest operation and use only qualified people in the machining and assembly of these units.”

  “So, your company isn’t involved in the forgin’ of the compon
ents?” I asked.

  “No. We’re not set up for forging. This is a machine shop. We machine and fine tune the parts that make up the final unit.”

  “Then that means it’s possible that someone could’ve messed up at some point an’ maybe didn’t catch it or didn’t bother to report it.”

  “Hardly,” Phillpott said; a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “We have strict examination standards we have to follow laid down by the government.”

  “But it’s possible,” I pressed.

  “Anything’s possible,” Phillpott conceded.

  “How big is your contract with the government and who else do you supply?”

  “That’s privileged information and secret. If you want that information, you’ll have to go to the government and get clearance.”

  “Can you tell me who did the metallurgy for this particular valve?”

  “Again, not without proper clearance. Now if that’s all, I’m busy and need to get back to work.”

  “Alright, but I’ll be back, an’ next time you will tell me what I want to know,” I said, not hiding my annoyance.

  “Until then, good day.” Phillpott turned back to his work table.

  I headed out of his office and back to my car, feeling a bit pissed off. I don’t like being stonewalled, especially by someone who raised my suspicions, and this bastard was definitely pushing all my buttons. The information I was asking for didn’t pose any security threat so, there must be something else going on. I drove away and back to the ferry.

  The first thing I did when I got back to the station was call Mulroney.

  “Mulroney,” he said into my ear.

  “Hi Phil. It’s me,” I said.

  “Hi. What’s up?”

  I quickly filled him in on my visit and interview with Phillpott.

  “Hmm. I think you’re right about him stonewalling you. Far as I know, the information you wanted is not classified so, he should’ve given it to you. I take it you got some concerns or, ah, suspicions?”

  “You could say that, yeah,” I said. “There’s somethin’ that don’t smell right there an’ also with Dartmouth Marine.”

  “Are you ready to say there’s enough to warrant my people stepping in?”

  “Not yet. I don’t think there’s any sabotage or anythin’ like that. I think it’s lookin’ more likely these people are playin’ ‘round with the books.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a strong enough case to shut them down. Maybe at best, they’d get shut out of their contract and be blacklisted.”

  “I got somethin’ better to charge them with,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Manslaughter.”

  “Jesus,” Phil said. “How do figure that?”

  “If I can get the goods showin’ that they deliberately tampered with the materials resultin’ in the production of inferior parts...”

  “Then you can link that directly back to the death of the worker,” he said, finishing my statement.

  “Somethin’ like that,” I said, smiling.

  “You are one devious sonofabitch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Get me somethin’ to force Phillpott to give me what I want.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think this will need any special security clearance. Tell you what. Leave it with me for a bit. I’ll have a talk with Michael and see what we can come up with.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “I’ll call you in an hour or so.”

  “Right,” I said and hung up.

  Pete had arrived back while I was on the phone.

  “How’d your talk go?”

  “Not bad. Once it was clear he was lookin’ at hard time, he opened up. I got a list of names an’ locations of the stills as well as all the local pigs sellin’ the stuff. Figured I’d pass it along to Phil when his guys show up, except for the local information. How’d you make out across the harbour?”

  I filled him in on my meeting and my call to Phil. He was especially pleased when I told him of my plan to lay charges of manslaughter against both companies.

  “Ya know, there’re days when it’s a real treat to be workin’ with you,” he said with a wide grin on his face.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I kinna like the job myself. By the way, back to the Marchand business. We now have a name an’ address on the suspect an’ a possible place where he works. All we need to do now is pick him up an’ get the girls in for a positive ID.”

  “So, we got him?”

  “Well, let’s say we got enough evidence to bring him in for questionin’, but I think a good lawyer will say what we got is circumstantial. Good, but circumstantial. To bury the bastard, we’ll need the Marchand girl to identify him.”

  “Shit. Think she’ll do it?”

  I shrugged. “Depends on how strong she is an’ if her mother will agree. She’s still under twenty-one.”

  “When do we pick him up?”

  “Now’s as good a time as any,” I said.

  “Good. I really want this prick,” Pete said, heading for the door.

  Jacob Street is a short side street down near the Naval Depot. Old wooden two and three story cold water tenements lined both sides of the street. Cars were parked against the sidewalks, probably owned by people working in nearby chandleries, shops and the Depot. We arrived at 15 Jacob Street. Fletcher’s car was nowhere in sight. Maybe he parked it somewhere else, I thought, looking up and down the street; there was lots of space for cars. The building was a rundown two-story wooden structure with a sloping roof and two dormers, probably a left over from the last war. Like a lot of owners these days, they probably rented out the upper level.

  I reached the door first and lifted the latch and opening it, exposing an inner door. I banged on it.

  “Open up. Police,” I yelled.

  After several moments, the door opened and a stocky woman wearing a frock and apron stood in front of me. She was in her fifties with greying hair tied up in a bun on the crown of her head. She had a tired look about her like so many at the lower end of the social ladder. I flashed her my badge.

  “Is Charles Fletcher here?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Watcha want with him?”

  “When will he be back?” I pressed, ignoring her question.

  “Dunno. I don’t keep tabs on his comin’ an’ goin’.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “Railroad.”

  “He at work right now?” Pete asked.

  “Could be. I dunno, like I said. I think he works different shifts.”

  “When did you see him last?” I asked.

  “A coupla days ago when he paid ‘is rent,” she said.

  “Right,” I said. “If he comes back tell him we wanna have a talk with him, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said.

  When we got back in the car I reached for the microphone.

  “Car 2 callin’,” I said into it.

  “Car 2,” a metallic voice answered.

  “Robichaud here. Have a two-man unit sent down to 15 Jacob an’ stakeout the place for one Charles Fletcher.” I gave the dispatcher a quick description of Fletcher and his car. “If he shows up, instruct them to pick him up an’ bring him in. Over.”

  “Will do. Over an’ out.”

  “Now what?” Pete asked as I put the microphone back on the dash hook.

  “Now we go to the rail depot. See if he’s on the job.”

  Pete started the car and headed for Hollis Street. It was a fairly quick drive to Union Station. We entered the main building and headed for the offices. When we entered the reception area and reached the front desk leading to the rooms in the back, we showed our IDs and asked to see the manager or foreman for the track maintenance crews. The clerk picked up a phone and dialed three numbers. A few minutes later, a man wearing a jacket over workman’s clothes came in from a side door. His name was Mr. Claude Mitchell.

&
nbsp; “I’m Robichaud. This is Sergeant Duncan,” I said, holding up my ID when Mitchell approached us.

  “Mitchell,” he said. “What can I do for ya fellas?”

  “We’re lookin’ for Charles Fletcher. We understand he works here,” I said, putting my card away.

  “Fletcher? Fletcher?” he said, looking like he was trying to place the name. He turned to the clerk. “Hey Willie, we got a Charles Fletcher in any of the crews?”

  “Jus’ a sec. I’ll check.” The clerk went to tall open shelved cabinet laden with files. He pulled one out and brought it back, laying it on the counter and opening it. He flipped through several pages before stopping at one. He slid a finger down a list of names.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Fletcher, first name Charles. Works on track maintenance. Part of Philby’s gang. Been on the job ‘bout six months, it sez.”

  “Is he workin’ now?” I asked.

  Joe went another ledger and checked a page dated today.

  “Nope. Don’t look like he’s signed in. Don’t mean he ain’t on. Could be a late shift,” he said looking from me to Mitchell. “Track four’s s’pose ta have a new rail put in by end of the today.”

  “Okay, thanks, Joe,” Mitchell said as Joe closed up the books and set about putting them back where they came from.

  “Sorry,” Mitchell said, looking back at us. “What’s he done?”

  I ignored his question and was about to leave when a workman came into the office. He wore soiled overalls , work boots and a heavy jacket.

  Joe called out to us. “Jus’ a sec fellas.”

  We stopped and turned back.

  “This ‘ere is one a the men from Fletcher’s gang.”

  Pete and I stepped back to the two men.

  “So, you work with Fletcher, is that right?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “Yeah...who’re you?”

  “They’re the police,” Mitchell said.

  “Yeah? Okay then. Fletcher huh? Yeah, he works on our gang.”

  “Do you know where we can find him? Where he hangs out when he’s not workin’?”

  He shook his head.

  “Naw. He keeps to himself, he does. Not much on socializin’ iff’n ya get what I’m sayin’”

  “So, you don’t know any of his mates?” Pete asked.