Shadow Suspect

by Patrick Logan

  “A couple of months back Thomas and I went to see a therapist, to try and work out some personal problems. Marriage, problems.”

  Chase nodded, catching her drift.

  “But you stopped seeing him?”

  “We just went for a few sessions, then Thomas said he didn’t like the guy and that we weren’t going to see him anymore.”

  “What was the doctor’s name?”

  “Dr. Mark Kruk,” Clarissa said with a sigh. “Now please, you should leave. No more questions.”

  Chase nodded, thanked the woman and quickly rushed back to her car. Once inside, she pumped the air conditioning and grabbed her cell phone.

  CHAPTER 27

  Dr. Beckett Campbell’s plane touched down roughly at Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport at just before noon, jarring him from a light slumber.

  He rubbed his eyes, then turned to the man next to him.

  “Sorry,” he grumbled, thinking that he must have bumped the man’s arm when he had awakened. The man turned to him, gave him a queer look, then turned forward again.

  Friendly, Beckett thought.

  A recording came on the intercom, and a staticky female voice jibber-jabbered for several minutes in French. Beckett waited for the English version to follow, but when it never did, he raised an eyebrow. He considered asking the friendly fellow with the strange hair beside him for some clarification, but decided against it. Instead, he simply waited for others on the small plane to stand, despite the red seatbelt light still being illuminated above, and then did the same. Unlike many of the other travelers, mostly New York natives, he thought, given the way they spoke loudly to each other in English, he only had a small, leather messenger bag that was tucked under his seat beneath him. He fished it out, and then waited for the front of the line to start moving forward.

  There was a second announcement that Beckett didn’t understand, but when it was quickly followed by a pressure change, he quickly skirted down the aisle, offering polite excuse mes and pardonnez-moi, as he slipped by them.

  The stewardess, a not wholly unattractive woman with long blond hair and large, if slightly wide-set, eyes looked at him with a practiced glare of scorn.

  Beckett just grinned and shrugged.

  There was no way that his grumpy seatmate or this disgruntled airline employee was going to ruin his buzz. The fact was, he was excited. Excited in a way that reminded him of the first time he had seen a dead body in medical school nearly a decade prior. Not in any macabre sense, but in appreciation of a mystery.

  Beckett’s first dead body had been a white male in his late sixties. A sheet covered him up to his nipples, and his eyes were closed, his mouth slightly agape. There was some discoloration around his nostrils and at the corners of his eyes—reddish blue smudges—but it wasn’t immediately clear if they were caused pre- or post-mortem.

  Hovering over the dead body, he had tingled with fear and anxiety and… something else. Sure, he was a little grossed out, but while several of his colleagues had to excuse themselves from the room, Beckett had been transfixed.

  In his current position as Senior Medical Examiner, he had come to realize that it had all been a ploy, that exposing first year medical students to a dead body was intentional, and that the intention was to weed out the squeamish. And the doctors leading the course were okay with you if you left, if you needed to purge your stomach of its contents, and none of them held it against you. But you had to return.

  That was the key.

  For Beckett, his anxiety quickly became excitement when the curmudgeonly doctor, who could have been anywhere from sixty to a hundred-and-sixty years of age, had uttered the words that had sent him on the path to become a forensic pathologist more than a decade later.

  Just five simple words.

  “What did he die from?”

  Because with these words, the body had stopped being just a body; it was a mystery, which Beckett had fallen in love with long before he had become a doctor.

  Over the past few years, however, the mysteries in his life had all but up and vanished. Most of the time he was resigned to filling out paperwork and performing rudimentary examinations, as he had been doing this morning when the five dead gang bangers had been rolled in.

  Filling out the cause of death that a child, should one be so negligent as to allow a child to observe a man with three bullet holes in his chest, another with a hole behind his right ear, and others with various red roses on their faces, limbs and torsos, could have done, no longer held his interest.

  But butterfly slurry—now that was interesting. That was new. That was exciting.

  And now here, in Montreal, a city that he had been only once before when he had been very young, with strict orders to keep things on the DL, Beckett felt like a cross between Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman and James Bond.

  With the looks of the latter, and the brains of the former, of course.

  Beckett had a certain spring in his step when he approached the custom’s officer with his immigration card in hand.

  “Bonjour,” the man said.

  “Bonjour,” Beckett repeated in a terrible accent. The man frowned and then addressed him in English.

  “What is your business in Canada?” the man asked in an accent that rivaled Beckett’s French one.

  “Sightseeing. Wanna check out the new hospital.”

  The man looked up from the sheet of paper.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Campbell?”

  “I’m a doctor—pathologist, actually.”

  The man seemed less than impressed.

  “And you’re here to see the new hospital?”

  “Yep. Heard great things—you know, want to check out how the other side works.”

  The man stared at Beckett with hard eyes.

  “The other side?”

  “Public health care system.”

  The custom’s officer pushed his lips together tightly and handed his immigration card back to him.

  “Just be ready to wait in line,” he said. His lips transitioned into a smirk, which was difficult to do given his still pursed lips. “Have a good day Dr. Beckett.”

  “Merci,” Beckett replied.

  As he headed toward the entrance, his stomach growled angrily at him.

  What he had told the officer hadn’t been a lie—he was very much interested in visiting the new super hospital—but he had all day to do that.

  First, however, it was time to check out the notorious food scene of Montreal. And on the top of his list was Magpie’s Pizzeria.

  The place where Chris Papadopoulos had been murdered less than a month ago.

  CHAPTER 28

  Drake spotted Raul’s Rover after nearly five minutes of cutting off angry taxi drivers. In all honestly, it wasn’t that hard to locate: the large black SUV stood out among the yellow cabs like an albino ant scurrying across asphalt.

  Raul was driving with purpose again, much as he had been when he had left the cemetery and had made his way to SSJ. Only now he was heading east, sticking to the major roadways, a clear indication that he still had no idea that he was being tailed.

  Drake debated calling Chase, but decided against it. If he called her, he would be required to report his missing gun. And that would raise questions, questions that might eventually make their way to Sergeant Rhodes. He trusted Chase, which was strange given that he knew so little about her, and could tell from the steely look in her hazel eyes that she was as dedicated to solving this murder as he was. And yet her words, those words that she had uttered that day when he had first crossed the police tape and headed into the alley, echoed in his head.

  Don’t show up drunk to a crime scene again. I won’t go down with your burning ship.

  If she thought, even for an instant, that he had lost his weapon while drinking, then she was apt to pull him off the case. And the truth was, this case had done wonders in keeping his mind off what had happened six months ago, visiting his partner’s grave notwithstanding. Sure,
when he closed his eyes he still saw Clay’s face, but it was gone when they were open now, which was something.

  Raul took a hard left onto a small side street, and Drake observed his surroundings as he followed.

  The concrete jungle that was downtown had slowly yet consistently reduced in stature, and most of the houses in the residential neighborhood he now found himself were of the row variety, constructed of plain brown brick, their windows covered in iron bars. It wasn’t until he followed Raul onto the next street that he realized how close he was to where Thomas’s body had been found.

  What the hell is going on here? Where is Raul headed?

  It was starting to look less and less like a payoff that Weston had delivered to Raul, but an errand that he was supposed to run.

  Before Drake could contemplate this further, the Rover suddenly signaled and pulled over to the side of the road. The movement was so sudden, or Drake had been so lost in thought, that for the second time that day he passed Raul. He looked away at the last second, but he thought that maybe, just maybe Raul had made eye contact.

  Thinking that his cover was blown, Drake sped up and did a quick lap around the block, circling back. When he spotted the Rover again, he was sure to park well enough away, backing his Crown Vic partway into an alley, hiding it from view—thankfully no peanut pushers this far from downtown—and got out of his car.

  Even from a distance, he could tell that the Rover was now empty. He scanned the street quickly, his eyes jumping from one plain brick townhouse to another, trying to figure out which one that Raul had entered.

  It was a near impossible task; the street was quiet, and aside from a young black man sitting on the steps outside one building sipping from a brown paper bag, it was empty.

  Well, Drake thought, I’ve come this far.

  He made the short walk toward the man on the stoop, debating whether to pull out his wallet or his badge.

  He decided on his wallet.

  “Hey, you see which building the man from the Rover entered?” Drake asked.

  The man looked up at him, and Drake realized that he was older than he had first thought. He had coarse black hair thinning at his temples, and deep grooves around his mouth.

  The man brought the bag to his lips and took a long swig.

  Drake waited. When he was done with his drink, he just stared off into the distance acting not only as if Drake hadn’t said anything, but like he wasn’t even there.

  Drake snapped his fingers.

  “Hey! Buddy! Where did the guy from the Rover go?”

  The man looked at him.

  “I didn’t see nothin’. And you best not call me buddy again.”

  And with that, the man stared off into space again, occasionally taking a sip from his bottle of liquor.

  Drake was starting to regret his decision to choose his wallet over his badge. And yet, he resigned himself to giving it one more chance. He held a twenty-dollar bill out to the man.

  “You—”

  The man snatched the twenty from his hand with amazing speed, tucking it into his pocket before turning away again.

  “The man from the Rover?” Drake asked again, feeling his frustration and impatience growing. It might do both of them some good to throw the man on the hood of his car as he had the psychiatrist.

  Still no answer.

  Drake took out another twenty, but when the man went to grab it this time, he pulled it back at the last second.

  “Which building?” he demanded.

  The man looked at him again and sneered, revealing a gold grill.

  “12,” he said simply. When he went to grab the bill this time, Drake let him have it.

  The numbers on the stoop that the man sat read 22, the second 2 having since unfastened and now hung upside down. Drake looked up the street first, then down. The numbers went down away from his car.

  Drake started in that direction, when the man hollered after him.

  “Best you get back in your car, whiteboy. This ain’t the place for you.”

  Drake ignored him, and continued up the street. The man with the bottle was nothing but a street punk, and yet Drake wished he had his pistol with him none-the-less. He wondered if Raul had had a similar interaction, but decided that he probably hadn’t. If he had, then Raul would still be hanging around when Drake had come around the block.

  No, Raul knew exactly where he was going.

  With a deep breath, Drake headed toward the building marked with the number 12, both digits right-side-up this time, and then made his way to the door. There was an intercom of sorts affixed to the brick wall, nothing at all like the elaborate one outside Clarissa Smith’s home, with a half dozen white buttons on it. His heart sunk when he realized that there were no names on the corresponding tags beside the buttons. At first he thought that they were blank, but upon closer inspection, he realized that there was something on them, only the text was sun-bleached almost to the point of being unrecognizable.

  And when his eyes fell on the tag adjacent apartment 6, a smile crept onto his face.

  He debated pushing a button, either the one for 6 or maybe even all of them, and speaking in a garbled voice with the hopes of someone buzzing him in, but for some reason, he tried the door first.

  It was unlocked.

  Detective Damien Drake opened the door and stepped inside, moving toward apartment 6, the one that had the uppercase ‘V’ listed as the tenant.

  CHAPTER 29

  Chase dialed Drake first. On the fifth ring, she hung up and tried again.

  “Come on, come on… pick up, Drake. Pick up your damn brick cell phone.”

  She hung up this time after the sixth or seventh ring, cursing the man not only for not picking up but also for his lack of answering machine.

  Chase tried Detective Frank Simmons next, but the result was the same. But at least he had an answering machine.

  “Detective Simmons, this is Detective Adams. Meet me back at the station as soon as you get this. I’ve got a lead on the psychiatrist that Thomas Smith was seeing.”

  Third on her list of people to call was Detective Henry Yasiv, who she suspected was still with Frank, but she gave it a shot anyway.

  The man picked up on the third ring.

  “Yasiv,” he said, his voice low.

  Chase’s eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses.

  “Henry? Why are you whispering? Where’s Detective Simmons?”

  “He’s in the other room, talking to Neil Pritchard’s mother. You were right… they lived together. Not only that, but they were close. Like really close. And Frank, well, Frank… let’s just say that the man has a way with the elderly. Shit, she must be at least eighty.” Even though he was whispering, there was excitement in his voice.

  “And? What’s she saying?”

  “You aren’t going to believe this, but—wait, hold on a second.”

  “No, don’t—” but the man had already lowered the phone from his ear. His words were muffled as if he was covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

  “I’m just getting a glass of water; I’ll be right with you.” There was a short pause. “No, I know it’s not polite to keep a nice lady waiting, Frank. I’ll be right there.” When Henry spoke again, his voice was clear. “See what I mean?”

  Chase pushed the start button on her BMW and it purred to life.

  “Get to the point, Henry,” she said as she shifted the car into drive and headed away from the Smith estate.

  “Yeah, sorry, anyways, Frank asked her about Neil and Thomas Smith and, get this, she says she remembers the man, only when she knew him he wasn’t a man, but a boy. Apparently, Thomas and Neil were best friends back in the day. I mean, way back. At first I thought she was just a little, you know, old if you catch my drift. But she isn’t… Mrs. Pritchard is sharp as a tack. She said she knew Tommy’s—that’s what she calls him, Tommy—brother Weston. Even had dinner once or twice with Ken and Samantha Smith.”

  Chase exhaled audibly
.

  Neil and Thomas were friends back in the day…

  This was the connection she was looking for, and had suspected.

  “Detective Adams? You still there?”

  “Still here, Henry.”

  “Okay, but that’s still not all—shit, hold on again, sorry… what? I mean, pardon?” there was a short pause. “Yes, I found a glass and yes it’s clean, not even a water spot. I’ll be right there, okay?” And then to Chase, he said, “Yeah, so I just thought that if she—Mrs. Pritchard—knew Thomas maybe she knew Chris Popo-whatever his name is, right? So I asked her. And you aren’t going to believe it. Chris—”

  The man was so excited now that he was starting to ramble like someone with ADHD hopped up on a handful of Molly’s. Chase couldn’t take it anymore. Revelation or not, this was excruciating.

  “Chris went to the same high school as Neil and Thomas and they were all pals—chums as she calls them—er, best friends to us, maybe BFFs if you—”

  “Henry,” Chase said calmly as she took a left onto the highway.

  “Do people use BFF still? I’ve heard—”

  “Henry,” she repeated. When he just continued to drone on, she shouted his name this time. “Henry!”

  The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Ma’am. Sorry I’m just a little excited is all. I tend to ramble when I hear—”

  “Did either of you happen to tell the woman that her son is dead?”

  There was a long pause, and even though she could hear what she thought was Frank’s voice in the background, this time Henry didn’t answer him.

  “No, shit, I guess we forgot.”

  Chase shook her head and her mouth twisted into a scowl.

  “Jesus, you guys have to tell her about her son, about Neil.”

  “Yes, of course, ma’am. I’m sorry, we—”

  “—were just excited? Yeah, I get that. Tell the poor woman, would you? Then get back to the station. I’ve also got some news to share. But good work, Henry. Great work.”