by Easton, Don
“He has many connections,” replied Lee. “Furthermore, he has never been convicted of any criminal acts. He is welcome to travel anywhere, including the United States.”
“He is like you,” observed The Shaman, “in that you have no criminal record.”
“Somewhat different,” noted Lee with a smile. “Goldie, like Wang, controls a large gang of barbarians. The drug business is different than our other, more corporate, enterprises. Goldie and Wang did not make their way to the top by relying entirely on their intelligence. They are both personally familiar with the use of … lethal persuasion.”
“So, his resumé is different from yours in that you have never had to soil your hands with another person’s blood,” said The Shaman.
“I suppose so,” mused Lee, “but I do respect his intelligence, nevertheless. He has never been convicted and it has been years since the police even came close to catching him. And that was not in Canada. Since then, like your past analogy of the onion, he has developed many layers of protection.”
“Despite what you think, if he is to fill your position, he will not do so without proper screening, including a polygraph.”
“Most certainly. As you have taught me about the onion — the closer you are to the middle, the more intensity exists. If you do not wish to fly someone in, here in Vancouver are several firms that offer the services of lie detectors for corporations.”
“We will decide at the time, but you will mention it to him within the next few days. I will be spending a week golfing at Crown Isle in Courtenay on Vancouver Island. I hope it is as luxurious as the Internet makes it out to be.”
“I have never been there.”
“Perhaps next time I will invite you to accompany me.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, we will meet again next week before I leave Canada. I will wish to know how Mister Goldie reacts to our proposal and the security measures we require. He knows a great deal about us. If he refuses, I would see it as a serious problem.”
The Shaman’s eyes glanced through the glass window of the balcony to where Da Khlot was seated inside before adding, “Should that happen, as Mister Khlot has said, to keep him would be of no benefit.”
“I see no reason that he would refuse. I didn’t,” added Lee with a smile.
“No, you didn’t. And if all goes well, you will be stepping through the last layer of the onion yourself. The protection will be for you as much as for me.”
“He will be scrutinized carefully,” said Lee. “If he passes, would you like to meet him in person?”
“He will be your responsibility. I see no necessity for him to know my name. I’m sure that in time, with the transactions involved, he will figure it out, but I see no advantage in personal contact. His placement is your decision. I hope you have chosen wisely. Your life will depend upon it.”
Lee nodded sombrely.
“Now, this brings us to another small matter that needs to be discussed. Trivial, but requiring prompt attention.” The Shaman paused, smiled, and said, “Like peeling the onion, I hope it does not bring tears to your eyes.”
Da Khlot hurried to open the door to the balcony when The Shaman and Lee stood up, signalling an end to their meeting. Lee’s face did not portray the jubilance of a man who had been promised a promotion. His eyes appeared distant and his jaw was set with determination as he hurried out of the suite.
Da Khlot looked at The Shaman, who returned his gaze and said, “Tonight you wear your new suit.”
8
It was two o’clock in the morning when Corporal Connie Crane arrived at Coquitlam River Park, where the murder had been reported. She was the second member of the Integrated Homicide Investigative team to arrive.
Several marked and unmarked police cars lined the side of the main road, and yellow police tape sealed off a small, gravelled parking lot leading into the park. Inside the park, floodlights running on generators were being turned on, sending an array of light and shadows through the trees.
She parked behind a patrol car and approached two uniformed officers standing near the tape.
“I’m with I-HIT,” she explained, reaching for her badge inside her windbreaker. “Do you know where my partner —”
“Over here, CC!” yelled Dallas, answering her question.
Connie ducked under the crime scene tape and approached Dallas. He was a new addition to I-HIT and this was only their second case together. He was a blood-splatter expert, which was a field of expertise unto itself. CC felt he had distinguished himself on their first case and was glad to be paired up with him.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Accident on the Port Mann. What have we got?”
“Adult male, still warm. Multiple gunshots. Empty 9 mm six-shot semi-auto pistol beside the victim. Whoever did it made no attempt to hide the gun.”
“Where’s the body?” asked CC.
“Less than a minute walk along that path,” replied Dallas, pointing to a trail leading from the parking lot. “Face down beside a small creek.”
“The parking lot doesn’t look well used,” noted Connie. “Couldn’t hold much more than five or six cars. Who reported it?”
“A young couple who came to park and make out. They got into an argument and ended up going for a walk. I think what they saw took their mind off the quarrel. They didn’t see anyone and there were no other vehicles.”
“How does the couple look?”
“I don’t think they had anything to do with it. They’ve given statements. I did a quick statement analysis … appears truthful.”
“Victim a dealer? Into drugs?”
“Don’t know. He looks and is dressed like a street person. Also had a relatively fresh dressing on one hand. Looked professional. I’m betting he received medical treatment recently. I patted him down for a wallet, but there wasn’t one. No identification that I could find yet. Maybe when we print him —”
“Robbery?” said CC.
“Don’t think so. It was more like a kidnapping and execution. The guy’s hands were bound behind his back with duct tape. His mouth was taped, as well. So were his ankles, but I found a piece of duct tape in the parking lot. Looks like he managed to get most of the tape off his ankles while being transported. I think he was dragged out of a vehicle and dumped on his back on the ground. Someone tried to shoot him in the face but the bullet took a chunk out of his ear. The victim rolled in panic. I think that’s when he freed the last of the tape on his ankles and got to his feet and bolted. Later he took another bullet through his thigh, one in his back, and then one to the back of his head. The last one was at such close range that the muzzle likely touched the back of his head before the final shot. Pretty cold thing to do.”
“No shit.”
“I checked the gun. Looks like all six rounds were fired.”
“So whoever murdered him was a lousy shot. Probably missed him with two rounds altogether.”
“Could be. Something peculiar, though. The victim had a large garbage bag over his head and torso.”
“How was he able to run so far down that path?” asked Connie.
“It wasn’t the dark-green type of bag. Made of clear plastic. The type you would use for disposing of leaves and stuff in the fall.”
“Someone figured it would help eliminate DNA from their vehicle.”
“That’s what I figure. The victim was coughing up blood before he got here. The inside of the bag was sprayed from blood coming out his nose.”
“Maybe the bullet in his back went through a lung.”
“No. Wait until you see the bag. There was quite a bit smeared around inside. I think the bullet in his back was followed in short order by one to the skull.”
“What’s your guess on why he was bleeding prior to arrival? Think he was punched in the face?”
“No, it’s not a broken nose. I’ve seen this type of blood pattern before. My guess is someone took a bat or pipe to his ribcage to subdue him. Autopsy should c
onfirm it, but I bet one of his lungs is punctured with a broken rib.”
“A tough way to die.”
“Yeah. I bet he knew it was coming. Slow and painful way to go. I’ve uncovered the route the victim took after arriving and have a theory from what I’ve seen. Where do you want to start? At the body or do you want me to show you the evidence leading to the body?”
“May as well start at the beginning. If he was bagged, I doubt that there is much blood in the parking lot.”
“There’s always some when someone is shot. Bagged or not.”
“Too dry for foot or tire tracks,” said CC, thinking aloud.
“This is the beginning as I know it,” said Dallas, pointing to an area in the gravelled lot. “You can see a double set of scuff marks in the dirt. Like a bounce followed by short drag marks that match the heels of his shoes. My guess is he was dragged out of a van by two people. If it was a car —”
“He would have been lifted from the trunk. There wouldn’t be these patterns in the gravel from being set down.”
“Exactly.”
“Thought your specialty was blood?”
Dallas smiled and said, “If you look closely, you’ll see a little blood smeared in the gravel.”
“Got it,” said CC.
“The pattern is repeated about two shoulder widths away and then repeated a third time.”
“What the hell? You’re right.”
“Let me take you through it,” said Dallas. “He was dragged backwards out of a van and dumped on the ground. Someone tried to shoot him in the face, but he likely saw it coming and moved. The first shot took out a piece of his ear and tore the garbage bag. He then rolled two complete turns, leaving blood from his ear about two shoulder widths away on each roll.” Dallas looked at CC and said, “Are you with me so far?”
“Hang on,” said CC, clasping one hand over her ear and then stepping sideways while spinning around to simulate a roll. “Got it. Explains the gap in between.”
“Exactly. And here we have a small ball of duct tape. I think he got that off while being transported and it probably stuck up inside his pant leg. He still has a short piece of it on his ankles, but I figure he was kicking in his panic. His legs broke free at this point and he got to his feet and started running.”
CC then followed Dallas a short distance down the path, where he used a flashlight to point to a new blood trail that was easily visible.
“Here is where he took one to the inside of his thigh, but kept running,” explained Dallas. “By the large amount of blood, I’m sure the bullet hit his femoral artery. If whoever murdered him hadn’t finished the job, he would have bled out pretty quick.”
CC paused to envision the nightmare. Beaten with a bat or pipe … broken rib through your lung … bound in duct tape … kidnapped and laying on the floor of some van … dragged out and shot in the face … escape while more bullets are flying … trying to run with your hands tied behind your back … shot through the thigh … staggering … unable to gasp for air through your mouth … shot in the back … face down in the dirt … feel the gun on the back of your head —
“And here,” said Dallas, waving his flashlight beam over a spray of dark red blood in a contrasting splatter against the bright green leaves on a bush beside the trail, “is where he took one to the back. See where the blood from his leg changed direction? He spun around, staggered, and went down.”
CC looked at the man lying face down along a short embankment beside a small creek.
“The killer then put the last shot into the back of his skull,” continued Dallas.
CC paused and looked around. She knew that Dallas thought she was searching for clues. In reality she was trying once more to grasp the inhumanity of the human race. She sighed and looked at Dallas and said, “Guess it leaves us with who and why. Also, who is the victim? You said you checked for a wallet?”
“I only patted his front and back pockets. Nothing. Maybe he has it in his jacket. I didn’t want to move anything until the Forensic Identification Section does their thing.”
“I want to identify this guy. I’m not going to wait for FIS,” said CC. “I’ll be discreet. The sooner we can ID him the better.” She bent over the victim and gently started to roll the body over on the side, but her attention was diverted to a shadow cast by a fern growing out from the side embankment on the other side of the body. “Dallas, over there!” said CC. “Under the fern … see it? In the shadow. There’s something there.”
Dallas pushed the fern aside and shone his light. “Bingo! We’ve got a footprint.” Dallas squatted and examined it closer. “Too smudged to match, but gives us an idea of size.”
“Maybe the couple who found him,” suggested CC.
“They said they didn’t come down off the trail. Plus she was wearing short heels and he is big. I’m betting size ten-to-twelve range. This is much smaller. Not the vic’s. Maybe a woman?”
“Pretty wide for a woman,” commented CC, turning her attention back to the body. “Hang on, hand me your light.”
Dallas passed CC his flashlight and saw her direct the beam through the front of the clear plastic bag that was still covering the head and upper torso. She then squinted, peering closer through the bloodied plastic and reached her hand inside and took out a prescription pill bottle from the victim’s shirt pocket.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.
“What is it? Got something?”
“Yeah, we got something all right. Do you know Corporal Jack Taggart from the Intelligence Unit?”
“No,” replied Dallas, bending over for a closer look at the pill bottle.
“His wife is Doctor Natasha Taggart,” replied CC, covering her eyes with one hand as she unconsciously massaged the sides of her temples.
Dallas paused for a moment, glancing at CC. “Do you want me to call her?” he asked.
Connie sighed and said, “No, I will.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know,” replied Connie, “but with Jack, there is guaranteed to be one.”
9
It was 3:30 in the morning when Jack awoke and answered his phone. He listened as Connie briefly gave him the details of the murder.
“And no identification?” said Jack.
“Nothing except a prescription pill bottle listing Natasha as the prescribing physician. It’s soaked in blood. The last name looks like Montgomery.”
“Hang on, I’ll wake her,” said Jack.
“I’m already awake,” said Natasha. “Overdose?” she asked, taking the phone from Jack who shook his head in response.
Natasha listened in shock and disbelief, her ears hearing the words, but her mind acting fuzzy and numb. She heard herself speak. She sounded professional, but it was as if someone else were saying the words … putting her brain on hold for the real flood of emotion that would follow moments later. She passed the phone back to Jack.
“Natasha thinks he lives in an alley close to her clinic,” said Connie. “She thinks she can recognize his sleeping bag and is willing to help us. Think you could drive her and meet us there? We want to find out where this guy was grabbed as soon as we can.”
“We’re on our way,” replied Jack. “Give me your cell number.” Jack hung up and looked at Natasha. She was sitting on the bed with her knees drawn to her chest, holding the plastic rose.
“Someone murdered Melvin,” she sobbed. “Why? Why would anyone do that? He was harmless. A gentle person. Why shoot him?”
“I don’t know. Come on, we need to get dressed.”
Minutes later, as they rode the elevator down to the parking garage, Natasha turned to Jack as anger started to overcome grief. “Why?” she demanded. “Why would anyone do this?”
“CC is a good investigator. Very thorough. If anyone will find —”
“Don’t you patronize me! I know how these things work.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Melvin isn’t some la-d
e-da member of society. People like him disappear all the time. Who out there really cares? I’m the only friend he had,” she added, with a sob.
“Melvin didn’t disappear. He was murdered. It will be investigated as closely as if he was the mayor.”
“Yeah, right,” muttered Natasha sarcastically.
Jack hugged her as he sighed and said, “Melvin doesn’t sound all that different from who I was visiting today — Ophelia. I told you about her.”
Natasha paused, swallowed and said, “You’re different. So am I. Who else has visited Ophelia?”
Jack grimaced and shook his head.
“Exactly. And I’m the only one who Melvin could ever turn to.”
“That may be, but CC is a good investigator. She’ll do her best to solve it.”
They drove in silence, and were almost at the alley when Natasha asked, “Is she as good as you?”
“Who?”
“Connie Crane. Is she as good as you?”
“When it comes to homicides, I bet she’s better. Homicide is her field of expertise. Mine is organized crime.”
“How do you know it isn’t organized crime if you don’t look into it?”
“Honey, come on. Think about it. What you have told me about Melvin. It doesn’t make sense to involve organized crime figures.”
“Right. Proves what I was saying earlier. All this crap about it being looked at as closely as if it was the mayor. That’s what it is. Crap!”
“I’m not feeding you crap. You know me better than that,” said Jack quietly.
They slowly drove up and down several alleys before spotting a crumpled green sleeping bag lying in a pile near the bottom of a wooden hydro pole.
“That’s it, I’m sure,” said Natasha.
“We’ll just wait in the car until I-HIT gets here,” said Jack.
Moments later, Connie was the first to arrive, and Jack and Natasha got out of their car to greet her.
Connie used her flashlight to closely examine the area while Jack stood with his arm wrapped around Natasha. Her beam caught a sheet of plastic the wind had blown against the side of a Dumpster a short distance away.