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The Dead List

Page 6

by Martin Crosbie


  “I won’t go. Miriam is in this house; it’s all I have left of her. So I stay here and listen to the foul language and have bottles smashed on my front path while the drug addicts break into my shed. You know they stole a set of tires for a car I’m not allowed to drive anymore. I had them stored out there. Tires… what the hell do they want with old tires?”

  They let the man tell his story, and even though he wasn’t talking about what had happened down the road and across the street from his house, Drake welcomed the break from having doors closed in his face. And he was less intimidating than Little Tommy Davis.

  Banman wasn’t as patient. He prodded the man, trying to hurry him along. “Tony, did you hear anything last night, or see anything? A man was found dead just across the street from your door.”

  “I didn’t see a thing. I use the bedroom in the back now. I keep an eye on my shed from the window just in case the thieves come back. Padlock won’t keep them out, and you boys have too many important things to attend to, so I sleep in the spare bedroom so I can watch it myself.”

  They shook the man’s hand and thanked him. When they made it back to the street, Banman pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “I need two minutes Drake. Just let me have a smoke and call the wife.”

  He pulled out his mobile phone. Seconds later he was asking his wife if she’d booked their holiday, and without waiting for her answer, he asked how much it was going to cost.

  Drake wandered up to the old man’s house again and stood on the top step. He turned and looked out at the area that was still taped off from the night before. After staring for a moment, he wandered around the back. The shed was metal and set a few feet away from the old house. It looked out of place and didn’t blend in with the rest of the yard. He pulled on a shiny, new padlock and gave a push on the door. Nothing moved. When he turned, Mr. Hempsill was standing by the back door.

  “I saw you last night under the streetlamp, talking to the other one – the commander.”

  “You know Sergeant Thiessen?”

  The old man sighed wearily. “From neighborhood watch meetings and Sunday services too, of course. We tried – me and old Thurston down the street. We wanted to help the police, get some community involvement, and stop the break-ins, the noises. That doesn’t work on this street though. We were the only ones who came to the meetings; none of the other neighbors cared.”

  The old man had an earnest look in his eyes. His children may have thought he was ready for a seniors home, but there was nothing wrong with his mind.

  Drake nodded at him, understanding. “It was your neighbors that you needed protection from.”

  “We knew that, but we tried anyway. We thought maybe we’d rally them, get them questioning their conscience, but they don’t have any. There’s no accountability. They drink and smoke all day and terrorize old men and women at night.”

  “Sir…”

  “Tony, Constable Drake, call me Tony.”

  “Tony, did you see or hear anything before you looked out at us under the streetlamp? If you can remember anything it would really help.”

  The old man contemplated for a long moment and then shook his head. “I was just watching my shed.”

  Drake thanked him, then made his way around the front of the house. “I’ll keep my eye out for your shed when I pass, Tony. I’ll do my best, and if you remember anything, give me a call. It’ll be just between us.”

  The man closed the door without answering.

  The remainder of the houses produced similar results. Doors were closed after a few terse answers, and the other relic on Drake’s side of the street contained an old couple who were so deaf they should have been communicating by sign language. After a few comical minutes where Banman and Drake knew they would get nothing from them, they thanked the couple and continued on their way. When they met with Van Dyke and Officer Peterson at the intersection they exchanged the same stories. The house Mr. Hempsill had referred to as “Old Man Thurston’s” had produced no information. He had a sleep apnea machine that he plugged in at night that drowned out the sound of the outside world. Van Dyke and Peterson encouraged the old man to keep that information to himself in case his home was burgled, but he just shook his head in disgust and said it didn’t matter.

  “It’s like they’ve given up. The creeps have won.” Brandon Van Dyke was the only officer in the force, perhaps even the country, who could keep a straight face and refer to drug addicts and criminals as creeps. Banman chided him for it and wandered back to one of the squad cars, dialing his mobile phone once again.

  Officer Peterson pulled her hat off and ran a hand through her curly hair. She smiled at Van Dyke. “You need to toughen up your vocabulary, Brandon.”

  Van Dyke watched her with a curious expression. “Why?”

  Peterson looked at Drake for support and then raised her arms in the air as she made her way back to the cruiser. “Maybe you’re right, Brandon. Just keep being you. Maybe you’re right.”

  Drake fell in beside Brandon as they followed the two officers, and he spoke so that no one else could hear them. “Brandon, one of the guys you talked to last night, the one who found the body, was a Van Dyke: Anton. Do you know him?”

  Brandon’s face went as serious as it had when he had viewed the body the night before. “I know him, John, of course I know him.”

  Drake stopped before reaching the squad cars and held his arm in front of the younger man. “Where do you know him from, Brandon? Is he family? Do you know him from church?”

  “Yes, he’s family. He used to be my brother, John, but now he’s nothing.” His innocence and friendly demeanor disappeared. He spat out the word and then said it again. “Nothing.”

  Drake began to speak, but Brandon interrupted him, clenching his teeth together. “I need to get to a bathroom. It’s happening again. I’ll see you at the station.”

  Before Drake could follow him, Banman called out. “Hey superstar, you’re wanted back at the detachment. Ryberg is waiting for you.”

  He ignored the comment and climbed back into the driver’s seat of the police car as Banman got in beside him. Ryberg must have located one of the men from the list. His status was about to be upgraded again. Brandon Van Dyke, with Sophie Peterson in the passenger seat, accelerated the car the few blocks back to the station, hurrying to get to the bathroom. Drake cruised behind at a conservative speed. He was surprised at how excited he was. Maybe he’d be an investigator for more than just a few hours this time.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  Drake almost walked into Pringle as they passed each other at the front door of the detachment. The investigator was once again wearing his long, dark-brown corduroy sports jacket. It contrasted oddly with his tan pants. Drake changed his mind; he didn’t look like an insurance salesman after all. Instead he looked like an oversized model who had just wandered off the pages of a 1976 clothing catalog. He turned when he saw Drake and stood at the open door. “Did you find any joy on the street of dreams?”

  “Maybe. Tommy Davis, built like a mountain, major priors, did a stretch for attempted back in the day. He says he heard a bang, but won’t elaborate. And an old man who I think knows more than he’s letting on.”

  Pringle had his own version of Ryberg’s eyebrow question mark. He gave Drake a tight smile that wasn’t really a smile and made a sucking noise with his cheeks. “Are you going back?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Let me know if you need a passenger. We had to release your friend Franco – half the town alibied him. They were all sitting in his living room watching the hockey game. Even his mother was with him.”

  Drake leaned against the wall in the hallway. “That’s too bad. I was thinking that maybe Robinson needed money and went to Franco. There might still be a connection there.”

  Pringle shook his head. “Sergeant Ryberg called a negative on that one, and I think he’s right. If Franco got his hands dirty, or had somebody do it for him
, they wouldn’t leave a body lying around. You’d be investigating a missing person, not a murder. And I wouldn’t have had to drive out here in the middle of the night listening to Myron talk about his new computer.”

  A uniformed officer shuffled past the two men and stared at Pringle’s jacket. When he looked up and saw the man’s hard face he quickly moved along.

  Pringle smiled and winked at Drake. “I’m off to hit some more of your local bars to figure out where our unfortunate car salesman ate dinner last night. I mean it; let me know if you want me to tag along for your re-interviews.”

  “I will. Good luck.” Drake tried to avert his eyes from Pringle’s outfit, and wondered whether any of the patrons in the bars would have the courage to laugh at the large man’s odd choice of clothing.

  Ryberg was writing on the whiteboard. He’d added new names to the arrows that branched out from Robinson’s name. Each of the names from the list had its own arrow now – Parker, the sales manager, his two drinker friends Derek Rochfort and Frank Wilson, and Monica, the waitress. There was also an arrow to his mother’s name and a couple that went nowhere, ostensibly waiting for more connections from the man’s life to be discovered.

  Ryberg kept staring at the whiteboard and didn’t look up when Drake entered the situation room. “Any leads from your door-to-doors?”

  Drake repeated to Ryberg what had happened on the street.

  “A bang – we’ll ask the two boys about it when we re-question them. We’ll bring them in this time. But for now, Mr. Frank Wilson awaits us in interview room three. Quickly look at his file. I’ll take the lead and you can follow.”

  Drake began to interrupt, but Ryberg cut him off. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on, you’re a smart lad.”

  Drake read the notes in the thin file as they made their way to the interview room. Frank Wilson was fifty-five years old. He was a logger who had been paid out in an insurance settlement ten years ago and retired early. In the hallway outside the interview room, Ryberg told Drake in a quiet voice that the officers who brought Wilson in had to endure a testy monologue. He claimed he’d met Robinson in the bar several years previously, and they’d struck up a conversation. After bumping into each other on a consistent basis a friendship was formed, and they’d meet and have a few beers several times a month. “But,” Ryberg leaned close to Drake, “he keeps repeating that he hardly knew him.”

  Wilson was a tall, lean man. He was lying back, at an angle, in the chair in the interview room, stretching his whole body out in a relaxed manner. He used his hands when he spoke and answered each question with a question of his own. From the onset he was frustrating to talk to, but the officers persevered.

  Ryberg folded his arms in front of him. “Did you ever associate with Mr. Robinson away from the pub? Did you meet him for dinner or go to his home?”

  “No, why would I do that? I knew the man to drink with and that was it. I’m retired. I don’t need to hang around with anybody, but he seemed like the kind of a guy who needed a friend, so we had a beer together sometimes.” There was a camera mounted high on the wall close to the ceiling and a spider microphone sitting on the table. The equipment was automatic and silently began recording the room’s activity as soon as the door opened. The normally intimidating environment did not faze Wilson at all. He eyed the camera from time to time between defiantly staring from one policeman to the other. “Like I said, I hardly knew him.”

  Ryberg continued. “Did you ever see him drunk? Did you have to see him home or into a taxi at any time?”

  “If I saw him drunk I wouldn’t let him drive, would I? I wouldn’t allow that to happen, what would be the point?”

  “So you never saw him drink to excess?”

  “I didn’t say that. Everybody does from time to time; it’s natural, isn’t it? If Mike Robinson got drunk he got put into a taxi, simple as that.”

  The questions and answers, or non-answers, continued for a while until Wilson asked Ryberg whether he should have a lawyer present.

  “Mr. Wilson, you can have a lawyer with you any time you like, but you’re not being charged or investigated. We’re just trying to find out what happened to your friend.”

  When they asked him questions, the man showed no hesitation at all. He had a strange sort of nervous energy. He sat up straight in his chair from time to time as though he was going to elaborate further, and then he would scratch the grey hair of his crewcut and smile calmly.

  Ryberg’s tone changed slightly as he asked his next question. It was faint, but Drake noticed it. “Mr. Wilson, we have yourself, Mr. Robinson, his sales manager – Dave Parker, Mr. Rochfort, Monica, the waitress who sometimes spent time with you…”

  Wilson’s eyes lit up and he licked his lips at the sound of her name. “Not enough time for my liking.” He grinned, showing off a set of shiny, white dentures.

  Ryberg was fishing. Drake recognized the tone from when he interviewed the two boys. “And the other person, what was the name?”

  Wilson didn’t hesitate. “Trevor, but he became gay, so he didn’t come around no more. Nobody wanted to see him, other than maybe Mikey, but we straightened that out.”

  They had something, but Ryberg didn’t stir.

  “Right, Trevor. And who objected to Trevor being there?”

  Wilson didn’t sense what had happened. He continued leaning back in his chair. “We all did. I said what we were all thinking. I told him he wasn’t welcome. Buttons agreed and so did Parker.”

  Ryberg and Drake looked at each other. Drake asked the question. “Who’s Buttons?”

  Wilson’s smile widened. “Rochfort. That’s his nickname. He got his old man’s factory.”

  Ryberg pulled open a file and read. “Derek Rochfort’s factory manufactures portable office trailers and mobile buildings. What’s the connection to buttons?”

  Wilson grinned. “You don’t have kids, do you, or grandkids? It’s from a kids’ nursery rhyme about the button factory. Monica’s kid was around one day, and he called Rochfort the buttons factory man, and it stuck.” He spread his hands apart in front of him and his eyes widened. “That’s how ‘Buttons’ was christened.”

  Drake spoke up. “She had her kid in a bar?”

  Wilson straightened up in his seat. “I didn’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth. All I’m trying to explain is how Buttons got his name. What the hell does that have to do with Mikey covered in blood and praying out on Cobalt Street?”

  Drake heard it, and he knew that Ryberg had too. Neither of them reacted as they stored the information away for later.

  “You’re right; it has nothing to do with it.” Ryberg’s voice became serious again. “Do you know if Mr. Robinson had any enemies? Is there anyone who might not want him around?”

  Wilson reverted back to answering questions with his own questions. “No. Why would anybody want him killed?”

  Ryberg didn’t hesitate as he switched tact once again. “How did Trevor take it when you told him he couldn’t drink with you anymore?”

  “We all told him, it wasn’t just me. It was a group decision. He was a good guy, a little off, but when he became gay that changed the deal.”

  “The deal, what deal?” Ryberg pressed.

  Wilson quickly sat up straight in his chair. “No deal, it just changed the group. He had all the boxes ticked – hairdresser, living with his mother, never talked about women, hot little Monica fawning over him and he couldn’t have cared less. We should have known. Then when he told us he was going to be living with a guy, it was game over. He could drink someplace else, couldn’t he?”

  Drake asked, “So he never came back to the Legacy?”

  “Not while we were there. Why would he? He wasn’t wanted.”

  After spending an hour getting vague answers and little information they had hit on something. Ryberg asked the old logger to excuse them for a moment and enquired whether he wanted a cup of coffee or a glass of water.

  “Gentlemen
, you can have five more minutes of my time, and if you don’t give me a reason to stay I will be leaving you. As I told you, I hardly knew the man. So no, I do not have time for a coffee or water.”

  Ryberg closed the door and pulled Drake down the hallway. “We have something here; I just don’t know what it is. Before he leaves get Trevor’s last name. I don’t want to spook him. Make it sound like you have it already, and you’re just confirming.”

  “Right.”

  “And what’s your take? Did it seem like he knew more about the body than he should have, or am I stretching? Sergeant Thiessen and I released a statement to the media, but we were vague with the details. We didn’t say anything about praying.”

  Drake thought of Rempel, and his comments at the crime scene. “This is a small town. Somebody could have mentioned something in a bar or a grocery store. You know how it goes, it starts with a puddle of blood, it gets turned into a halo, and then the rumors begin.”

  A few minutes later they concluded the interview. When Ryberg asked Wilson to keep them abreast of his activities and let them know if he was leaving town, he answered immediately.

  “Oh, I am leaving town. I’m off to my cabin tomorrow. I’m retired; I don’t need money, and I don’t need to hang around. There’s a murderer in this town, and I don’t want to be here. I’ll be camped out in my cabin with my thirty aught six – hunting of course.” He smiled at the two officers, once again showing off his teeth. “And before you ask, it’s out by Chilliwack Lake. You can find me there if you need me, but lay on the siren when you’re coming up the road, because if I don’t know who’s coming I’ll set the dog on you.”

  Drake opened the door for him. “Can you confirm Trevor’s last name for us, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Mid…dle…ton,” he pronounced every syllable. “Why, are you thinking about getting a cut and a blow-dry?”

 

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