Malabarista

by Garry Ryan

  “I’ll leave that up to the discretion of the investigator in charge to decide how much information to share with you.”

  “I see.” I wonder who the source is?

  “How long will you be?” Simpson asked.

  Lane looked at the clock. “Thirty minutes.”

  “Good.” Simpson gave him the name of the investigator and hung up.

  Lane dialed. “Keely? There’s a suspect in the bombing of your car. Can you make it for the interrogation?”

  “Fuckin’ right!” she said.

  “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

  When he drove up to the front door of the condo, Keely was waiting on the curb. As she eased into the Jeep, she said, “Have we got time for a coffee?”

  Lane pulled away and said, “Not yet.”

  “Who is this guy?” Keely snapped her seat belt on.

  “He worked in Chief Smoke’s office. A member of the Scotch drinkers’ club. You’ll probably know him to see him. After Smoke left, this guy was put back on the street.” Lane accelerated.

  “How are you feeling today?” Keely asked.

  “Just about every bone and muscle is complaining. I hope I don’t sneeze — my ribs are pretty sore.” Lane pulled the seat belt away from his chest as he followed the river into the downtown core. “How about you?”

  “The headache is gone, and I can move a bit easier. The stitches are healing, so I could wash my hair. It felt great to get rid of all of that grit and dust from the explosion.”

  “How are your dad and Dylan doing?” Lane drove under a bridge and accelerated along an open stretch of road.

  “Mom told Dad to lay off of Dylan. When you phoned, Dylan had already left to go to the university. Things are pretty tense. Dad is still pressuring Dylan to convert.” Keely looked out the window at cyclists and joggers using the paved trails between the road and the river.

  They drove into downtown and parked inside the wire behind the department building. Keely got out of the Jeep first. She opened the back door to the building and led the way to the elevators. Simpson’s secretary waved them through when they arrived at the chief’s office.

  Lane closed the door behind them. He and Keely eased themselves into chairs. Simpson sat in a third chair to complete the triangle.

  “Are you on the mend?” Simpson asked Keely.

  Keely nodded. “Better today.”

  “And you?” Simpson looked at Lane.

  “Okay.” Lane looked at the paintings of coyotes and bears hanging on the walls.

  “Officer Stockwell was apprehended this morning,” Simpson said. “He’s waiting in an interrogation room. He has been made aware that he is to be charged and has demanded a lawyer and a representative from the union. These individuals are en route. I would like the two of you to observe only. A room has been made available for you to watch the interview.”

  “Okay,” said Lane. He looked at Keely. She nodded.

  Simpson went to say something, stopped, thought for a moment, and said, “Very well. When the lawyer and union representative arrive, the interrogation will begin. Dr. Weaver is in an adjacent room. He’ll fill you in on some of the evidence.” The chief waited.

  “Could we get a cup of coffee?” Lane asked.

  Simpson smiled. “We’ll hook you up.” He stood, opened the door, and addressed his secretary. “Can you give these detectives directions to a good cup of coffee?”

  The chief shook their hands as they left.

  Five minutes later, they arrived at the interrogation rooms. Fibre was waiting for them. He waved them into a room with two chairs and a table. There was a flat-screen television mounted in a corner near the ceiling, and the walls were painted a nondescript colour. “This is what we have so far.”

  Lane looked at a small cardboard box containing the mangled end cap of the pipe bomb and three typed letters in separate envelopes.

  Fibre pointed at the end cap. “We have receipts connecting Stockwell to the purchase of pipe and end caps consistent with the remains of the pipe bomb. Also, the paper and printer used for the threatening letters addressed to Detective Saliba are a match to the printer Stockwell has access to and has been observed using.”

  Lane stared at the evidence on the table. I wonder who will do the interview and if he has any other evidence. Everything here is purely circumstantial.

  Fibre put the evidence into the cardboard box, picked it up, and left the room.

  Keely and Lane sat down and looked up at the TV. They saw an officer wearing a white shirt and blue tie sitting at a table with a file folder in front of him. His hair was cut short and he had the face of a choirboy.

  “You know him?” Keely asked.

  “Yes.” Lane watched the man on camera. “It’s John Buck. He investigates complaints about police officers. I don’t know him well. In a minute or two, we’ll see how good he is and what he’s got.”

  Stockwell entered the room and walked around to the far side of the table. He was wearing black boots and jodhpurs: the uniform of a motorcycle cop. Lane noticed his close-cropped military haircut, the immaculate creases on his blue shirt, and the way his tie was tucked between two shirt buttons.

  “That’s Stockwell?” Keely asked.

  “Yep.”

  “He was a regular at the Scotch drinkers’ club,” Keely said.

  The door opened. A man in a grey suit entered and shook hands with Stockwell. “His name is Al Roper. He was in the club too.” Keely shook her head and looked disgusted.

  “Al Roper is one of the top defense lawyers in the city,” Lane said.

  Five minutes later, the union rep arrived. He was six foot four and had a barrel chest and clean-shaven head.

  Keely sighed. “That’s Art Lesley. Another member of the club.” She looked at Lane.

  Either she’s feeling it’s hopeless or she’s angry about having to see the good ol’ boys again. “We’ll see if Buck can use it to his advantage.”

  “How?” Keely asked.

  Buck is alone in a room full of testosterone. “He knows more than they do. That’s his advantage.”

  They watched Roper sit on one side of Stockwell and Lesley sit on the other. Buck stood up and reached across the table to shake hands with each of the men facing him. “This conversation is being recorded.” His voice is very soft, almost apologetic.

  “Of course,” Roper said. Lane heard the arrogance in the man’s voice.

  “We have several pieces of evidence to bring forward,” said Buck. “Officer Stockwell, this is your opportunity to reveal your deliberate intimidation of Detective Saliba, a fellow officer on loan to the police service.”

  Stockwell looked at the file in front of Buck.

  “I’ve advised my client not to answer any questions with regard to Detective Saliba,” Roper said.

  “As you will.” Buck pulled out one of the letters and began to read. “‘Rats get exterminated in this department.’ This letter was written by you, mailed by you, and received by Detective Saliba.” Buck looked at Stockwell, who began to open his mouth. “No, don’t speak. You had your chance.”

  “This partial print was found on the envelope. It’s a match with your fingerprint.” Buck opened the file and put a photocopy on the table.

  “Don’t know how that got there.” Stockwell wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “No, don’t say anything. Officer Stockwell. It is your right to refrain from answering questions. Please, follow your lawyer’s advice.” Lesley put his hand on Stockwell’s shoulder.

  Roper yawned. “As Officer Stockwell said, he doesn’t know how the fingerprint got there — if in fact it is his fingerprint.”

  “Another odd fact,” Buck continued, “is the paper and the printer used to produce the letters. All have been traced to a printer in this building that Officer Stockwell has access to and makes frequent use of.” Buck pulled out another letter and read, “‘The thing about rats is that they breed quickly, so extermination must be
swift and violent.’”

  “Great!” Roper said. “Let’s take this evidence to court as soon as possible!” He smiled at his client. “The evidence is so circumstantial that I can’t wait to discredit it — and you, Staff Sergeant Buck!” Roper shook his head and smiled at his joke.

  Buck pulled out the evidence bag and the end cap from a pipe bomb. He held up the label on the evidence bag. “We have receipts in the name of the accused. He purchased this pipe and these end caps.”

  “So he did some work around the house.” Roper looked at Lesley. “He brought us down here for this?”

  Buck loosened his tie. He opened the folder.

  Roper smiled. “Getting too hot in here for you, officer?”

  Buck kept his voice low. “We have a witness,” he said, “who will testify that you said, ‘I taped the bomb to her fuel tank. It was easy. And the pipe bomb worked like a charm.’” Roper and Lesley leaned forward.

  “As a result of the witness statement, we followed the procedures for tapping and taping.” Buck passed copies of documents to Lesley and Roper. “You can read along with your lawyer if you like, Mr. Stockwell.”

  Lane glanced away from the screen to see Keely’s reaction. “Now this is getting interesting,” she said.

  Buck pulled more documents from his file. “We have transcripts of taped conversations between Mr. Stockwell and another member of the police service. I have one part of a conversation highlighted for you.” Buck slid copies to Lesley and Roper.

  Roper read the page and looked sideways at Stockwell as he passed the page to his client.

  “According to the transcript you said, ‘After what Saliba did to Smoke, she needed to be taught a lesson. The bitch is a rat. I’m glad the second explosion put her in the hospital. Maybe her and her fag partner will find another line of work now.’ Copies of the taped conversations in their entirety will be made available to the three of you.”

  Buck closed his folder and stood. “I need to inform you, Mr. Stockwell, that the next step is to have you removed as a member of the Calgary Police Service. Also, the crown prosecutor has been made aware of the charges against you. You are to appear in court in two days’ time. When you leave this room, you will be processed and have the specific charges explained to you.”

  “I had nothing to do with the second bomb!” Stockwell crossed his arms.

  “Shut up!” Roper said.

  Buck stood, picked up his folder, and left the room. A minute later, Lane heard a knock on the door. Keely opened it. “May I come in?” Buck asked.

  Lane saw that the knot of Buck’s tie was once again tucked neatly at the top of his collar.

  Buck shut the door.

  “Loosening the tie was part of the performance.” Lane said.

  “Mr. Roper was hoping to make me sweat, and I didn’t want to disappoint.” Buck stood with his back to the door.

  “Very nice work,” Keely said.

  Buck smiled. “I’ve debated whether to speak with you. I wanted you both to hear and see the evidence we have against Mr. Stockwell. There is more information, however.”

  Lane looked at Keely.

  “Like what?” Keely asked.

  “There are a series of conversations on the transcripts.” Buck set his file on the table, leaned back against the door, and crossed his arms. “Two names — a pair of detectives — are mentioned quite often. A former police chief offered a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch to anyone who could discredit or intimidate either of the detectives. Am I being clear enough with my generalizations?”

  “I think so,” Keely said.

  “Apparently the former police chief was upset for two reasons. First, a female officer uncovered some disconcerting facts about a club the chief belonged to, and he was embarrassed as a result. Second, the chief felt his reputation was tarnished by a male officer who discovered the illegal activities of a close associate.” Buck looked at the floor for a moment. “It’s important to understand that the former chief put great value in his reputation and his position.”

  Lane said, “Isn’t that kind of ironic?”

  “Not if you understand that we’re talking about a sociopath. Then it almost makes sense, and it makes Stockwell’s actions predictable considering the social environment.” Buck watched Lane and Keely and waited for a reaction.

  “I wondered sometimes if there were only a few of us who saw, really saw, what was going on,” Lane said.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit presumptuous to assume that only a few police officers could be intelligent enough to see that a very unhealthy climate was created by the network of male officers who advanced each other’s careers based on their membership in a misogynistic drinking club?” Buck looked at Lane and Keely in turn.

  “Are you assuming there weren’t a few women who saw what was going on?” Keely asked.

  “Point taken. Please understand that I am just explaining this to you, and I am asking you not to discuss this matter with anyone else.” Buck moved away from the door.

  “We hear you,” Keely said.

  “Thank you,” Lane said.

  Buck picked up his file and left.

  Arthur was waiting for Lane when he came through the front door. “Daniel is here. Behave yourself.”

  Lane smiled. “It’s great to be home.”

  “You seem pleased with yourself.” Arthur led the way into the kitchen.

  “Well?” Lane asked.

  “Well what?” Arthur asked.

  “What’s new on the hospital front?”

  “I have a series of medical tests starting tomorrow. And the operation is on for Friday. I can’t eat after lunch on Thursday, and I need to be at the Foothills at eight o’clock in the morning.” Arthur tried to smile. “So, come on. Tell me what happened.”

  “You remember Stockwell?” Lane breathed in the scent of salmon baking in maple syrup and ginger.

  “Hard to forget someone like that. Is this a time for celebration?”

  Lane reached into the fridge and pulled out a beer. “You want one?”

  Arthur nodded. “You sure this isn’t a wine celebration?”

  Lane looked at the beer. “No, this is definitely a cold beer celebration.” He reached into the fridge for a second beer, fetched two tall glasses, and poured. “Cheers.”

  There was the sound of feet taking the stairs two at a time. Daniel landed on the kitchen floor and took in the beer, Arthur, and Lane. His smile flatlined. “Just came up to get a drink.”

  “Would you like a beer?” Lane asked.

  Arthur smiled.

  “Sure.” Daniel tried on his best smile.

  Lane got up, pulled a beer out of the fridge, and poured. “Cheers.” He handed the beer to Daniel.

  Daniel hesitated, took the glass, and sipped tentatively. “Good stuff. What’s the occasion?”

  “Things are coming together. I can feel it.” Lane smiled at Arthur.

  Daniel went downstairs. “You’ll never guess what just happened,” he said to Christine, trying to keep his voice low.

  “What?”

  “Nice work.” Arthur smiled. “And what about Stockwell?”

  “He’s being charged with the first bomb.” Lane took a sip of beer and sighed.

  “What about the second bomb?”

  Lane closed his eyes, savouring the beer. “He says he had nothing to do with that.”

  “Do you believe him?” Arthur asked.

  “I don’t know.” Lane thought for a moment. “I really don’t know.”

  “How did Keely handle it?”

  Lane smiled. “Like a pro.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 29

  chapter 15

  “Take another bow for your work.” Lane lifted his coffee in a salute to Keely. They sat at Central Blends, where the coffee was smooth, the food was cooked fresh on the premises, and the atmosphere was rustic.

  Keely smiled. “The best part is that since Stock
well’s been charged, we moved back home yesterday. Dylan couldn’t have handled much more of living with my dad.”

  Lane nodded, then sipped his coffee.

  “Now all we have to do is figure out who killed Branimir,” Keely said. She tried to find a comfortable sitting position but couldn’t. “Could we walk?”

  Lane picked up his coffee. “Good idea.” He followed her past the dessert display, the tables, and the landscape photographs for sale. The original wood floors announced the progress of their steps through the café and to the front door.

  Outside, Keely rolled her shoulders back, closed her eyes, and felt the sun’s warm hands. “Which way?”

  “Left. There’s a great house over here.” Lane led the way.

  “Do you think Stockwell detonated the second bomb?” Keely asked.

  “Hard to tell. The only thing I know for sure is that Stockwell always looks out for himself first. Everyone else runs a distant second. If he says he didn’t detonate the second bomb, he may be telling the truth, or he may be trying to avoid a longer jail sentence.” Lane gradually increased his pace to keep up with his partner.

  “Where do we look?” Keely asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about retracing our steps and asking for DNA from Zacki Branimir. But first, I think we need to talk with Mladen. From now on, we don’t tell anyone when we’re coming to have a chat. For now, at least, I don’t think we should call in our location to dispatch. We can let Lori know, but that’s about it.” Lane stepped onto the curb and waited for a gap in traffic so they could cross Nineteenth Street.

  “You don’t think Stockwell acted on his own, then?” Keely looked left while Lane looked right. They stepped into the crosswalk.

  “No. On the other hand, it’s pretty clear that other members of the Scotch drinkers’ club will be distancing themselves from Stockwell. Any association with Stockwell is beginning to look like a career-limiting move. Whoever tipped Stockwell to our location and your personal information isn’t likely to come forward. The only way we’ll know is if Stockwell tells us who it was. Chief Simpson will put the communications department under a microscope. So we should be safer now.” Lane pointed at a house on their left. It was a two-storey with rounded windows, a brick face, and copper pillars. The front yard consisted of wild flowers and Colorado blue spruce trees behind an ornamental iron fence.