by J C Paulson
Goddamn drugs, Adam thought. What a mess this witness was.
“Okay. You’re going to have to stay here, Tom. And you’re still going to trial for the attack on Grace. And me. But you saved your life today.”
Adam left the room, feeling that progress had been made to the extent that Tom had been eliminated as the killer — and that the killer was Alias Charles Best. He believed him. He also doubted that Al Simpson, a police officer, would be as easy to crack.
Back in his office, he picked up his phone to retrieve voicemails and found that the hospital administrator had called back.
“Sergeant Davis, it’s Kate Deverell from the Saskatchewan Mental Hospital,” she had said. “I see you got your court order. I’ll email you all the information I have this morning. I — I really hope it helps you catch his killer. Let me know if you need anything further. Thanks, and it was nice meeting you. Goodbye.”
He swiveled to his computer to check emails, and there it was — a full biography of Martin Joseph Best, along with a précis of his health problems and conditions.
It took a while to read it all, but when he was finished, he knew what had happened and part of the why. He still had to figure out who the hell was behind these two murders.
Half an hour later, he was back in the interview room, facing a very different man across the small wooden table.
“How are you doing, Al?” he asked.
“Great. Love being on the other side of the bars. Thanks.”
“Are you going to talk to me?”
“Nope.”
Adam pulled out the photo of Martin Best, one more time.
“This is Martin Joseph Best. But you know that, don’t you?”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Because you either killed him in your mother’s house, or you allowed someone else to kill him there.”
Al continued to stare at Adam with a stony expression, arms crossed over his chest.
“And you know this because?”
“Come on, Al. Your little performance at the precinct told me you’re in deep. I’m going to find out how deep. If you’re not in over your head, we might be able to keep your sentence short, and you’ll be less likely to die in prison. I can’t protect you there, you know that better than I do.”
Al barely moved, but he did twitch, his lip jerking upward.
“You served in the forces before you became a cop, didn’t you?”
No answer.
“I can check. It might take a while, but I can check. You know I can. And if someone finds out that I’m nosing through military files trying to find an Al Simpson, or maybe an Alan Robertson, that might not go so well. For you.”
Al’s mouth worked. He shut his eyes, tightly, and finally exhaled heavily.
“Fuck, Adam. Don’t do that.”
“Tell me, then.”
“Yes, damn it. I was in the forces.”
“Canadian Airborne.”
“Yes. For two years.”
“And you were in Somalia? Same time as Elias Crow?”
Al nodded.
“Say it out loud,” Adam reminded him.
“Fuck. Yes.”
“And Martin Joseph Best?”
“Yes.”
“Tom Allbright?”
“No.”
Adam breathed. It was more validation that Tom had been telling the truth. Not that Adam was surprised; he couldn’t see Allbright as an elite soldier, even when he was in good shape.
“How well did you know Martin Best? He wasn’t from Saskatchewan, was he?”
Al shook his head.
“No, he was from Manitoba.”
“And?”
“Yeah, I knew him pretty well. We were in the same company, got sent over together.”
“I assume you were on the ground when a village near Belet Huen was shot up and a kid was beaten. Nothing else makes sense. Were you?”
Al’s eyes widened.
“How the hell do you know about that?”
No way Adam was going to tell him. Even with Al in jail, God knew if the information would be traced back to Elijah Starblanket, putting him in even graver danger.
“That doesn’t matter,” Adam said. “You were there. What the hell happened that night, Al? You might as well tell me. I know most of it, anyway.”
The former soldier slumped forward, his forehead almost meeting the table. Adam left him to think in silence, for a moment, and finally Al raised his head.
“Okay, Adam. God damn it. I guess I always knew this would go to shit, anyway.
“One night, Elias was on patrol. He discovered a bunch of little kids trying to sneak into the supply tent. I saw him grab the biggest one, probably the leader, by the collar and speak to him; I couldn’t hear what he was saying. But he let the little bugger go, and all the others had already run away. I had to report him to the major. It was strictly against policy to let them go. Stealing was a capital offence.”
“They were little kids, for fuck’s sake, Al.”
Al threw his head back and glared at the ceiling.
“You think I don’t know that? I mean, I get it now, but then we were all seriously fucked up on the malaria drug and the codeine. The culture in that place was bizarre. Violent, weird, insomniac. Everyone saw things that weren’t there.”
“So you guys went to the village to round up the kids, scared hell out of everyone, and fired your weapons? Really? Because children stealing from the tent deserved beatings? Or worse?”
“Short form. Yeah.”
Adam glared at Al like he’d never seen him before. Perhaps he hadn’t, not really.
“Then what happened?’
Al shut his mouth with a snap, and Adam stood up to roam the tiny room as he fought to swallow his temper.
“Two men are dead, Al. Both of them had PTSD. Both were in Somalia with you. Something beyond scaring the villagers and shooting up the sky happened, and I know you beat the kid.” Adam paused. “He died, didn’t he? Your buddies, and maybe you, killed him.”
Moments passed. Adam waited. His witness sat still as stone. And then . . .
“Yes,” he whispered, so quietly Adam had to strain to hear him. “But I did not kill him.”
“What was his name? Did you know it?”
“Yes. I knew it, and I’ll never forget it. His name was Abukar Dualeh.”
“If you didn’t kill him, why are you in this mess, Al?”
“Because I buried him.”
“You what?”
“I buried him, on the major’s orders. With Martin Best. We buried him.”
“Holy hell, man. Where?”
“In the desert, not far from the village, near a rare hill to protect the grave.”
“Did anyone go to trial for this?”
“Not that I know of, no.”
“Why the hell is all this happening, fourteen years later? Why didn’t someone just eliminate Elias and Martin long since?”
“Elias didn’t know the kid died. He let him go, remember? We weren’t going to tell him or let him see. He just thought we’d taught him a sharp lesson. It doesn’t do, Adam, to murder your fellow soldiers. People find out about that. Then he went off the grid, but it wasn’t all that important back then. The guy was seriously fucked up; no one was going to listen to him, and he didn’t know anything much, anyway. And Martin went AWOL.”
“Why is this happening now?” Adam repeated.
And then, a bolt of bright light seared his brain, so intense it stunned him, in the moment his prisoner opened his mouth to speak.
“They found him,” Al said. “The boy. After all these years, they found his bones. The desert wind blew away our secret, and our future.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Once Adam fought down the urge to vomit, he returned to his office, pale and shaky, to put the pieces together.
Martin Best had, more than likely, gone AWOL because he couldn’t live with what he’d done — nor what his fellow soldiers had done �
�� and the major knew it.
Elias Crow was less of a threat, since he hadn’t known Abukar Dualeh, the child he’d tried to save, had died that night. If they had found Abukar’s remains, however, he suddenly became a powerful witness, since he’d seen the beating and the attack on the village.
The search was on, then, for both men. Someone wanted them out of the way, permanently, to avoid the kind of scandal and courts martial that had erupted after the Shidane Arone killing. They’d kept it quiet for so long. Now the secret of Abukar’s death was out — somewhere — and it was only a matter of time before the news hit Canada.
But, Adam thought, it wasn’t just the child’s death. There was something else, something to do with the mefloquine. Someone knew the drug was blowing the brains of tough soldiers trained for battle but performing a peacekeeping role they weren’t appropriate to serve in.
How high did it go?
Before leaving the interview room, Adam had turned back to Al and asked, “Who was the major, Al?”
“You know who it was.”
“Maybe I do. Why don’t you tell me, anyway?”
“George. George Best.”
Adam nodded.
“And the killer. You don’t know his name.”
“No.”
“You let him kill Martin Best in your mother’s home, for God’s sake. How do you not know him? And why did you agree?”
“He threatened my mother. Do you know how easy it is to slip into a nursing home, and whack a defenseless old woman?”
“He could pose as a relative, or even just slip in the back door. Yeah, I get it. So how did that work?”
“He called me. He knows who I am and where I am. He knows all of us. Said he needed a quiet, safe place to take Martin. I said, why not in the middle of nowhere? There’s plenty of nowhere in Saskatchewan.
“But no. He wanted me to be involved, right? So that I wouldn’t talk. And so I would maybe take the fall if and when Martin’s body was discovered. I wasn’t clear on whether he would bury Martin on the property, or just leave him there in the house, in case the Saskatoon cops made the connection to me. And of course, you did. How did you find him so fast?”
“Nosy neighbour, I gather. He was out in his garden, heard the shot and called the police. I wasn’t here, but apparently, we asked if it wasn’t just a car backfiring. He got his back up and said he knew a fucking gunshot when he heard one.” Adam permitted himself a small grin. That neighbour was quite the guy. “Do you know why Martin would agree to go with him?”
“Not really. He probably did some fast talking, and Martin was so fucking confused, I don’t know if he’d object. He’d just take his word that the guy was a relative or a friend.”
“Was Martin related to George?”
“Yes. Martin was George’s nephew. They’re both originally from Manitoba.”
“And they allowed them to serve together?”
“George must have made a case for having him there, someone he could easily manage. I’m thinking the top dog bought the argument. Whoever he was.”
“Have you ever heard of a Charles Best?”
“No, I don’t think so. Who is that?”
“George Best’s dead son. Dead infant son.”
Adam let that information work its way through Al’s brain cells.
“Holy shit,” he said, suddenly. “Charles Best, whoever he really is, took Martin out of the hospital, posing as a relative. Didn’t he?”
Adam raised his eyebrows. Al’s backbone left something to be desired, but there was nothing wrong with his intelligence.
“Did you recognize the man’s voice, when he called you about your mother’s house?” Adam asked.
“No. It was disguised; he was using an electronic device to speak through. But he did say he was calling on behalf of someone higher up, and I’d better fall in line. Or else.”
“Can you think of anyone it might be?
“I can think of lots of anyones it might be.”
“You don’t have a list, by any chance, of the men you served with in Somalia? And the officers?”
Al gave a hollow laugh.
“No.”
“Will you write them down for me?”
“Is there any other way? I’m a sitting duck, Adam. And what about my mother?”
“Well, it’s that or I try getting a list from the army. I admit that’s going to take some time.”
“That threat again.”
“Yeah, that threat again. But what do you want me to do, Al? I have to find this killer. And his superiors, if possible.”
“I’ll think it over.”
“Think fast.”
*****
Martin Joseph Best had been born in Winnipeg. His biography did not mention his uncle George. He had joined the military in his late teens, and had scrabbled his way into the Canadian Airborne, due to a remarkable aptitude for anything mathematic. His talent may have partly explained why he was allowed to serve in the same regiment as his uncle.
The hospital’s email revealed that Best had indeed suffered from PTSD, severe depression and some psychosis. The resident psychiatrist theorized that Best’s experiences overseas, mixed with a brain-bending cocktail of mefloquine and other drugs, had caused his disorders.
Adam had wondered how a Manitoban ended up in the Saskatchewan Mental Hospital, and finally got his answer. After going AWOL, Best eventually landed in a small southern Saskatchewan town. His PTSD, however, became more and more troublesome, and one night, Best had gone apeshit at the local gas station, screaming and toppling shelves of merchandise. Authorities were called, and after spending some time in the psychiatric unit at a Regina hospital, he was transferred to the facility at North Battleford.
He was no longer off the radar.
Although Adam had interviewed Tom and Al alone, Charlotte and James had watched the proceedings from behind the one-way mirror. In Adam’s office at the end of the workday, both of his constables noted his pallor.
“Are you okay, Adam?” Charlotte asked. “It can’t be easy on you dealing with this.” She didn’t specify the PTSD problem central to the case, but Adam knew what she meant.
“I’m getting there. I’ll be fine. The next two items will be finding George Best, and getting that list of the Airborne soldiers. I’d rather get it from Al, for now. It will take forever to get it from the army, if we get it at all. And as he says, he might be at risk if we ring the wrong bell in Ottawa. We still need him as a witness. We’ll get at it tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. See you then, Adam.”
“Bye, Adam.”
Adam had so much to tell Grace, he wasn’t sure that the few hours before bed would give him enough time. He also had to ask her a favour. Grace’s language skills far outstripped his, as did her Internet abilities. It made him wonder all over again how she could possibly feel less intelligent than he. Or less beautiful, for that matter.
He found Grace bustling in the kitchen, thankfully alone and not fending off an attacker or a former boyfriend.
“Hey, Babe,” he greeted her, encircling her waist with his big arms.
“Hey yourself,” she said, turning. “And hey, what’s up? You look a little tired or something. Is it your hand? Is it infected?”
“No, it’s fine. It was just a very long day. Grace, I have a lot to tell you. It’s going to take a while.”
“Start now,” she said. “I can cook and listen.”
“I can help and talk. But first, I need to hold you and explain something.”
A shadow of wonder crossed Grace’s face, but she stilled and nodded.
“Tom Allbright,” he began. “It turns out he was peripheral to this case. He’s definitely to blame for pointing the killer to Elias, but his motivation appears to have been simply financial. He needed more money to buy drugs. The man who approached him said he needed to find Elias for an important operation, and Tom either bought that line, or just decided to ignore the possibilities, or didn’t
care.”
Adam stopped speaking for a moment, and Grace prodded him.
“Okay . . . so . . . what does that mean?”
“He didn’t grab you off his parents’ porch to silence you or attempt to silence me.”
“Was he just confused, then? Or having some kind of meth-related event?”
“No, Babe. He’s . . . well, he’s in love with you. Or at least he thinks he is. He certainly was when you two were growing up at the lake.”
“Oh,” Grace said, in a small, shocked voice.
“He heard us that night we made love in the lake, from the greenway. He didn’t see us, but it was obvious to him what was going on. He was jealous and angry, Grace. Like I was yesterday.”
“I have to sit down.”
She moved to the table and sank into a chair.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t even suspect. I thought we were just old friends. He never said anything, and in all these years he’s never looked me up.”
“He must have thought you wouldn’t have him. Would that be true?”
“Oh, yes. I mean, I was very fond of him, but more like a brother. I was never attracted to him, not even back then. I wonder if I ever said anything, though, that made him realize there was nothing between us, and couldn’t ever be.” She shook her curls, trying to remember.
“It doesn’t matter, love. He’s very messed up and acting on anger is a classic symptom of meth addiction. He was as angry as he was jealous that night. And then he tried to hide, because by then, he knew he was culpable in Elias’s death. He didn’t want the police to find him, but not just because he’d attacked you.”
“No, right, I see that.” Grace did not want to talk about Tom Allbright anymore. “Okay, so what else happened today?”
“I found out why all of this is happening now.” Adam leaned over and took Grace’s hands in his. “It’s because that child’s remains have been found. The child Elias found trying to steal from the supply tent and sent away.”
“Oh, God.” Grace’s face furrowed, in an effort not to cry. “So, he was murdered, then,” she said, very quietly. “How did you find out?”
“Al Simpson told me in an interview. He was one of two men who buried the child. The other was Martin Best. The killer called Al and threatened him, both with exposure of the crime and with hurting his mother. That’s how Al knew the child had been found. His name was Abukar Dualeh.”