by J C Paulson
Adam walked into the case room with his mind and stomach churning. But he stopped short when he saw the huge bulletin board, covered in photos, notes, newspaper clippings and arrows pointing in all directions.
Despite his swirling thoughts, he smiled broadly.
“Look at this,” he said approvingly, legs planted wide apart, arms crossed, muscles straining against his sleeves. “I see you’ve made progress. I thought I told you to take Sunday off, James.”
He looked first for the photo of Shawn Hartz, the business school owner, whom he wasn’t sure he had seen before. James had unearthed a newspaper ad with a photo of Hartz, grinning and shaking hands with someone from a hospital foundation. Adam did recognize him. The man gave his share to charity, but never shied from the publicity it offered, either.
“Well done, team,” he said, looking at all of them individually. “Okay, let’s see where we’re at.”
They looked at all the victims’ photos and bios again, now that they were organized on the board in some kind of order.
Deborah Clairmont, raped in the park two years ago but alive; no obvious connections to anyone else.
Alexis Ironstand, missing 18 months, dental clinic patient.
Emily Martin, missing 10 months, business school student. Likely found dead along the river.
Shawn Hartz, business school owner, dental clinic patient.
Don Dunlop, owner of dental clinic, lover to Sherry Hilliard.
Sherry Hilliard. Raped. Dead. Dental clinic employee. Found in her flooding basement during a historic rain storm.
There was also a picture of a black SUV, a Porsche Cayenne. It was not the specific SUV in question, since it had not been found. And a photo of Suzanne Genereux: witness, neighbour, potential victim. Grace’s friend. Thinking of that made Adam’s stomach muscles clench.
“Shawn Hartz has been at the lake, as I mentioned, Adam,” said James. “He’s back in town today. I’ve invited him down for a chat.”
“What time?”
“Two. And Don Dunlop is finally coming in with his lawyer again. At eleven.”
“Has he been in remand this whole time?”
“Yes. Apparently some problem getting in touch with Sealey.”
“That’s bizarre. Big important guy like Dunlop? Can’t reach his lawyer? You’d think Sealey would have a separate cellphone just for him.”
Adam’s phone started vibrating in the middle of his comment. Adam nodded in apology to the assembled officers, looked at his phone and saw it was indeed Jeannette.
“Inspector,” he said, sticking to protocol in front of the others.
“Adam,” said Jeannette, her voice very low. “Della Sinclair and Sherry Hilliard were cousins.”
“Fuck,” said Adam, viciously. Then collected himself. “Sorry, Inspector. You know what this means.”
“Fuck, indeed,” said Jeannette. “Do not apologize for language matching the crime.”
“I’ll be on the first flight tomorrow morning,” said Adam.
*****
Don Dunlop looked quite awful, particularly in contrast with his sharply-dressed, thoroughly-rested, well-groomed lawyer.
“Thank you for coming back in, Dr. Dunlop,” said Adam. “And you, Mr. Sealey.”
Adam did the formalities for the recording, identifying Dunlop, Sealey, James and himself.
“We have a number of questions for you, Doctor. Are you comfortable?”
“Yes,” said Dunlop. “Thank you,” he added, a bit weakly.
“It took a while for you reach Mr. Sealey, as I understand it.”
“Yes . . . Ashley said she had trouble reaching him.”
Adam’s eyebrows lifted.
Sealey cleared his throat. “Miscommunication, I think.”
“I see,” said Adam, but he didn’t. What was that about? “Can you please start by telling us where you were the night Sherry Hilliard was murdered, the night of the rainstorm.”
Dunlop looked a little wildly at Sealey, but the lawyer nodded. “Get on with it, Don.”
“I was with someone. Else,” he added, as if to clarify.
“Another mistress?”
“Yes.”
“Her name?”
“Is that necessary?” Dunlop asked, but the tone of his voice showed he knew the answer.
“Obviously, sir. We will have to check your alibi.” Duh, Adam added mentally.
“Monique. Um. Monique Delacroix.”
That name, thought Adam. Do I know that name? But James placed it right away.
“Related to Nick?” asked James.
“Yes. Sister.”
“How did you meet her?”
“At one of those charity dinners.”
“A hospital foundation dinner, maybe?” asked James.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Was Shawn Hartz there?”
“Probably. He always is.”
“How well do you know Shawn Hartz?”
Dunlop paused, and glanced at his lawyer, who raised his eyebrows.
“Not very. He is a patient. I see him at these endless events. Sometimes we get young women, occasionally a young man, in the office from his school. They do their practicums with us. That kind of thing.”
“Do you know a young woman called Emily Martin?”
Dunlop’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Do you know where your Cayenne is, Dr. Dunlop?” asked Adam.
“No. I don’t. It was stolen from the car lot, I was told. They gave me a loaner until it could be found, or we could get the insurance people on it.”
“Were you the only driver of the vehicle?”
Dunlop gave a barking laugh. “No. My wife would take it at every opportunity. Not that I gave her too many of those.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about the vehicle the first time you were in?”
“It was obvious from your questions that my car was important. Maybe you wouldn’t believe me, that it was stolen.”
“Do you ever visit Winnipeg, Dr. Dunlop?”
“Occasionally.”
“Have you been there recently?”
“Not very, no.”
“Did you know Sherry Hilliard was pregnant, Dr. Dunlop?”
The effect of the question on Dunlop was visceral. He stared at Adam for a moment, then doubled over, holding his gut, making a small gasping noise.
Adam’s eyes would have flown open in surprise if he was not expert at exerting control over his facial features during interviews. What the hell? Dunlop obviously could not hide his emotion. But what was he feeling?
“Are you all right, Doctor?” asked Adam, worrying Dunlop might vomit or something.
“Yes,” said Dunlop, but sweat poured down his face. “And yes. I knew Sherry was pregnant.”
“Was it your baby?”
“She said it was. I don’t know for sure. But I believed her when she told me.”
Light blue eyes, filled with misery, met Adam’s navy gaze.
“The baby died too,” he said. “Not just Sherry. The baby too. Oh, God.”
“You broke up, though.”
“She broke up with me. I told you.”
“Is that why she quit drinking? The baby?”
“Yes, I think so. She intended to keep the baby. But not me. Not me.”
Adam looked at Dunlop sharply, as Dunlop ducked to peer down at his hands, clasped together. His voice was filled with — what was it? Sorrow. It was sorrow, thought Adam. And something else.
“How did you feel about her breaking up with you, Dr. Dunlop? The truth, now. Let’s have it, man.”
“I was . . . oh God. Devastated. I was crazy about her, Sergeant. You’ve seen my wife.” Adam hadn’t, but the description from James and Charlotte was telling. Icy, angry, beautiful Ashley.
“Sherry was . . . quiet. Unassuming. Sweet. Warm. Fucking unbelievable in bed. She made you feel like a . . . a god. But how could I leave my wife for a little hygienist? My empl
oyee? I would have done anything for her, and the baby.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. She wouldn’t have me. She wanted to start over, she said. I didn’t know what the hell to do. And now she’s dead.”
Dunlop slumped on the table, head on his arms, and wept in wracking sobs. It was all Adam could do not to comfort him. He knew despair when he saw it.
But Dunlop was still, despite or perhaps because of his testimony, suspect number one.
Chapter Twenty-two
Dunlop, post-interrogation, had gone to court. He was in the process of making bail, and having his passport removed from his possession. He had agreed to a DNA sample.
Adam printed out the photo of Della Sinclair after the meeting with Dunlop, and tacked it up beside Sherry Hilliard’s picture on the case room’s bulletin board. He considered the two women, side by side. Cousins. No. Not a coincidence.
James followed Adam into the room.
“Jesus Christ,” said James, a Catholic who seldom took his saviour’s name in vain when he chose to swear. “Cousins. Or twins. Did you get the morning flight to Winnipeg?”
“Yes, at great expense to the Saskatoon Police, considering the short notice. I’m on the six a.m. Why is it necessary for hour-long flights to cost well over a thousand bucks in this country?”
“That’s ridiculous. Adam, I came to say Shawn Hartz should be here any minute.”
“Right. Feel ready?”
“Yes. Ready.”
Hartz appeared, lawyer-free, and swaggered into the interview room with outstretched hand. Cocky bastard, thought Adam.
“Thank you for coming down, Mr. Hartz,” said Adam.
“Hey, no prob,” said Hartz. “What’s happening? How can I help?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Sherry Hilliard,” Adam began.
“Heard about it,” Hartz broke in. “Terrible.”
“And we were wondering if you knew anything about that, or about her.”
“Why the hell would I?”
“You’re a patient at Dunlop Dentistry, I believe. Was Ms. Hilliard ever your hygienist?”
“Well, yeah . . . but it doesn’t mean I know shit about her death.”
“I assume you also know Dr. Donald Dunlop.”
“For sure. My dentist, eh? Well, one of them.”
“You also have a business relationship, I understand. You have provided business school students to the clinic, for office-work practicums.”
“Yeah, a few times.”
“Was one of them Emily Martin?”
That got a reaction. Shawn Hartz’s face began to turn an unbecoming, blotchy red, starting at his starched collar and moving inexorably upward.
“No,” was all he said.
Less cocky now, thought Adam.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.” Hartz visibly zipped his lips, pressing them together so hard they turned white.
“Emily Martin is missing, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Hartz.” Adam wasn’t going to share that her body may have been found.
“Yeah. I had nothing to do with that, either.”
“Did you have a relationship with Ms. Martin, Mr. Hartz?”
“No.” But the word fell unconvincingly from his mouth.
“Are you telling the whole truth, Mr. Hartz?”
“Well . . . I . . . yes. I mean, I didn’t have an actual relationship with her. I did . . . um . . . see her a couple of times outside the school.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“A couple of parties. No big deal.”
“What kind of parties?”
“Just parties. Women, men, parties. You know.”
“No, I don’t think I do. Maybe you could explain.”
Hartz sighed.
“I asked some of the girls if they would . . . you know, come to parties, be nice to people, look pretty, serve drinks. No sex, I promise. Just, ah, window dressing. Emily agreed a couple of times. I paid them very well; most of them needed the money.”
“So, this . . . window dressing,” said Adam, choking a little on the term. “It was an act of charity. They needed the money; you came up with a way to give it to them. Is that right?”
“Yeah, exactly,” said Hartz, brightening.
“You’re big on charity, as I understand it.”
“Yeah. Always giving back, that’s me.”
“Very good of you. And how did you guarantee the safety of these young women after the parties, Mr. Hartz? May I remind you, we’re talking about a missing woman. Nineteen years old,” said Adam, mentally adding, asshole.
“Hey! I only invited friends, guys I knew were okay. They’d never do something bad. Okay, okay, maybe one or two of them got lucky. But they’d never hurt a girl.”
“Something, Mr. Hartz, has happened to Emily Martin. Did you have a party the night she went missing? After the business school event?”
“I — I don’t remember,” said Hartz.
“Okay. I’m going to need a full guest list from your parties. As soon as possible.”
“I don’t keep guest lists. I just invite people.”
“Then think hard, Mr. Hartz. Very hard. You have until tomorrow to compile a guest list, as well as the dates of your parties over the last two years, and get the information to Detective Constable Weatherall,” said Adam. “Don’t even think about leaving anyone off the list.”
“What if I do? What if I can’t remember?”
“If I find out, I will have you charged with obstruction of justice. I guarantee it.”
Hartz paled. “Can you really do that?”
“I can, and I will. Tomorrow, Mr. Hartz. Without fail.”
*****
At day’s end, Adam was in Chief Dan McIvor’s office, giving him updates and telling him how much of the police budget he was spending on a trip to Winnipeg.
“Well, it’s still cheaper than taking our plane,” said McIvor. “How in hell did you connect the woman in Winnipeg with our victim?”
“I asked Jeannette Villeneuve what was going on in Winnipeg. She said, the usual: gangs, drugs, missing and murdered women. She volunteered they had had another death — top of mind for her — and it went from there. I’ve been thinking, Chief, we need to connect with other police services about this kind of case more often. This is a huge break. That’s five women at least who we think are connected, not to mention Suzanne Genereux.”
“Any theories on the killer?”
“I’m working on one,” said Adam. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Let me have it.”
“I’m starting to think this guy is pretty high profile, possibly a businessman or professional. Smart. Rich. The stolen Porsche Cayenne could, of course, have been taken by anyone, but that doesn’t feel right. I think it was a customer of the dealership. Your average car thief, even if he’s also a killer, is more likely to peel something off the street. Of course, it could also have been Dunlop.”
“Point taken. Anything else?”
“It could also be someone who works for that rich business owner or professional. Someone close to them. And we can’t discount family members, now we know Ms. Hilliard and Ms. Sinclair were cousins.”
“Right. Any more ideas?”
“He has a thing about water.”
“Water?” McIvor’s eyes widened.
“Water. I’m sure it comes into this somehow. Sherry Hilliard was found in her flooding basement. Why didn’t he remove her body? Maybe he’s increasingly cocksure, since he’s getting away with attacking and murdering women. He may simply have killed her during the lightning storm because of the noise, but again, why did he leave her there? It has something to do with the fact her basement was going under water.
“Ms. Sinclair was found by the river in Winnipeg. She’d been dead about two days and washed up on the bank of the Assiniboine. The first victim, if we’re right about this being the same guy, was Deborah Clairmont; like Sherry Hillia
rd, she was also attacked during a rainstorm. The attacker pushed her face into a puddle while he was raping her from behind. And now we’ve found another body by the river.
“We’re almost certainly going to find the other missing woman somewhere near water. But she won’t have been drowned. Ms. Sinclair was strangled. As you know, Ms. Hilliard was stabbed, and possibly hit on the head.
“He’s killing a particular type, too, but they are all especially vulnerable somehow. Three of them were not from Saskatoon. And two are part-Indigenous; one is First Nations.”
“God Almighty, Adam,” said McIvor. “Well done. And Adam, thanks for coming back early. I’ll find a way to pay you back.”
“Yes, sir,” said Adam, vaguely. “Thank you, sir.”
Dan McIvor, who was not chosen to serve as chief of police because he was an idiot, saw the tiny glint in Adam’s eyes and understood his sacrifice. He smiled sympathetically.
Adam walked out of the chief’s office and down the hall to his own, where he almost ran into Terry Pearson. The inspector was waiting for him.
“Terry,” said Adam, holding back a sigh. “Have a seat.”
“Adam. Got a question for you. Where the hell has Fisher been?”
“What do you mean?”
“I tried to reach him the other day. Weatherall said he was out of town, following some woman. Did you sanction that?”
“Yes,” Adam said.
“In a police vehicle?”
“As far as I know.”
Pearson was turning red in the face, and Adam knew something was coming. Something he didn’t want to hear. He recognized the signs. The man regularly went apoplectic when things weren’t going his way.
“What is she, his fucking squaw?”
Adam was on his feet and around his desk in a second; Pearson rose to face him, defiance in his expression. Adam was immediately nose to nose with his superior, his eyes flashing, nostrils flaring.
“What did you say? Are you fucking kidding me, Pearson?”
Pearson made a guttural sound.
“What’s your problem, Davis?”
“Don’t ever use that language in front of me again,” said Adam. “Or in front of anyone. On second thought, try it on Fisher. Please. Maybe he’d have the guts to kick your ass. Get the hell out of my office, Pearson.”