Pringle poked Drake on the shoulder. “Let’s go. We don’t need to be here.” He motioned to Myron that they were leaving.
As they drove out of the industrial park, Drake explained to Pringle that he wanted to pick up Brian Stam as well as Dave Parker at the dealership. He told him about the red car being at Tony Hempsill’s the night before and an anonymous tip he’d received that claimed a driver in a red car had thrown the body out on Cobalt Street.
“Anonymous?” He turned in his seat toward Drake.
“Yes, anonymous. And I think we should pick up Tony Hempsill, the old man who lives across the street from the murder scene.” Leave no stone unturned. He was overstepping his mark, but he didn’t care. No one else would be killed on his watch. If they were bringing in every potential suspect, then why not bring in everyone on the periphery too. No one else was going to die.
Pringle spoke quickly. “Okay, I’ll have him picked up.” He considered for a moment, probably thinking about all the citizens he was pulling in. “You realize…”
Drake beat him to it. “I know – we have no evidence – just the list.”
Pringle was the senior officer, an experienced senior officer, and he’d been supportive of Drake’s involvement in the case. No one from the Major Crime Unit had pulled rank on Drake; no one had even questioned why he was so involved. He had one last chance to dig through the rubble and figure out what was going on. They had different reasons for wanting to find the killer. Pringle felt this was his opportunity to put his stamp on an investigation and lead a team. Drake was tired of ghosts haunting him. It had to end.
Pringle nodded and spoke as though he was talking to himself. “Just the two of them – Tony Hempsill and Brian Stam.”
Drake spotted the other cruiser behind them. Myron was driving and he could see Sophie Peterson sitting in the back seat. She was close to the other woman, Brenda, the office manager.
He drove along the old highway and thought about the salesman, the driver of the red car. Did he drive out to Trailco, poison Derek Rochfort, and then blatantly sit on the edge of the desk while Drake watched him from the police cruiser? He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. His hangover was still there, somewhere, unimportant now.
The radio squawked that Frank Wilson and Monica Brown were in custody and sequestered in interview rooms, and Sergeant Ryberg’s estimated time of arrival was less than thirty minutes.
“Okay, we better go directly back to the station. I’ll have a couple of uniforms pick up the men from the car lot.” Pringle paused, a definite pause. “And your potential witness too.” He spoke into the radio and arranged for a patrol car with two officers to collect Dave Parker and Brian Stam. Drake would be denied seeing the man’s expression when he was placed in handcuffs. Then he radioed for another car to pick up Tony Hempsill. He gave instructions to keep it as low-key as possible. “Stress to him that he’s not in any trouble. We just want him to help with our inquiries.” It seemed as though Pringle was checking off the boxes and saying things out loud to make sure he was doing everything correctly. The two of them were in deep, very, very deep.
Manpower would be stretched thin. Drake could imagine the frustration on the watch commander’s face as he sat in front of a pile of time cards and duty rosters. Officers would have to be brought in from their regular time off. They were bringing in a busload of suspects with no evidence.
They drove in silence. Nothing else needed to be said. They knew what they had to do. Either someone had to trip over themself or they needed to find a link between one of the suspects and the two dead men. When they reached the entrance to the town, the sign was partially covered in snow but could still be read. “Welcome to Hope.” Both men continued to look forward out the windshield. Neither of them acknowledged the irony; they just kept staring ahead, driving toward the detachment.
Chapter Twenty
* * *
It all happened so fast.
A chair was knocked over as a uniformed officer led Brian Stam, in handcuffs, through the situation room toward the cells. He glanced over at Drake, but did not speak. He had a curious look on his face as though he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. The little police station vibrated with noise and commotion. Veronica was talking to two men dressed in suits. Briefly, everything stopped as the sound of a woman shrieking pierced through the building. The watch commander pointed down the hallway in the direction of the noise, and an officer marched toward the disturbance.
On the whiteboard, someone had taped the original list over the arrows under Michael Robinson’s name. Trevor Middleton’s name had been added to the bottom, and the men who had been killed had a line through their names.
Frank Wilson
Derek Rochfort
Monica Brown
Dave Parker
Michael Robinson
Trevor Middleton
Two men from the list were dead.
The newspaper that the normally docile watch commander usually read was nowhere to be seen. He stood tall and valiant behind his counter – speaking loudly to a man and woman who kept trying to interrupt him. “Your clients will be available once they’ve been processed and not before.”
The doors to all four interview rooms were closed. Frank Wilson’s name was on the whiteboard outside interview room one, two had Monica Brown, the waitress’ name, and three had Trevor Middleton’s name. Dave Parker was sequestered in the remaining interview room, while a burly officer stood at the end of the hall, his eyes on the doors. Whether they wanted to or not, the drinking group had been reassembled to its original state – minus the two dead men. The other potential suspect, Brian Stam, was being held downstairs in a nine by nine cell until they were ready to interview him.
Through the middle of the room, moving slower than usual, strode Sergeant Matt Ryberg. His face was stress red and his hair seemed to be thinner than when Drake had seen him the day before. He ignored the outstretched, curled finger of Sergeant Thiessen and walked toward Pringle and Drake.
“Who’s talked to who, and what do we know?”
Pringle spoke quickly. “Wilson has asked for protective custody. He thinks he’s in danger. Four of the five have lawyers either with them or awaiting access. Trevor Middleton’s is a tax attorney – his brother apparently; I said I’d be willing to play along.”
Ryberg tossed his jacket over a chair and rolled up his sleeves. The outline of large sweat stains was visible on his underarms. “Yes, good call on the lawyer. What do you mean five? There are four more names on the list.”
Drake began to speak, but Pringle cut him off. “We had a tip that a red car was seen on Cobalt Street on the night of the murder, and the occupant threw the body out. We believe we have traced the vehicle back to Brian Stam, one of the salesmen at the dealership.”
There was a long pause while the noise and commotion continued all around them. Drake wanted to explain, but he sensed there was a protocol for the situation because Ryberg continued staring at Pringle and dealing solely with him. The lack of evidence, and the fact that Pringle and Drake had picked up all of the potential suspects, hung in the air between the three men.
Sergeant Thiessen yelled across the open room, “Ser. Geant. Ry. Berg. May I see you?”
Ryberg put his hand up in the air but did not look at the sergeant. “I want Wilson first, and then Parker, and then the woman.” The invisible note-taking man, Myron, had somehow made it back from the scene and was standing on the outside of their small scrum. “Myron, I want you observing. Pringle, play the heavy and John can assist.”
Myron began to object, but Ryberg cut him off. “It’s fine. Trust me. You’ll get your shot. I need you watching from the observation rooms. We’ve gone cowboy here, picking up all these people.” He kept looking at Myron, ignoring Pringle and Drake. He wasn’t accusing; he was noting the facts, just like in their strategy meetings. “But that’s okay, we’ll follow this through. I need you observing and making sure we do everythin
g right.”
It seemed to appease the young man. The noise had subsided, but there was still movement everywhere. Veronica stood off to the side, waiting for one of the officers – any of them – to acknowledge her.
Drake took a chance. He was right; he had to be. “I have some additional information. We might want to chat before going in.”
Sergeant Thiessen was yelling again, to no one in particular. Ryberg’s eyes lit up, and his eyebrows angrily merged together in the middle of his forehead. He leaned toward the three officers and spoke in his strong accent, gritting the words out between his teeth. “Okay, give me two minutes to sort out this….” He almost said it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t call the sergeant a name. “Two minutes, then we meet in the hallway briefly, briefly.” He looked toward the interview rooms. “Then we take door number one.”
Ryberg marched toward Sergeant Thiessen. Both of the senior officers’ faces seemed like they were about to explode. The precinct sergeant looked like he had just returned from vacation and had neglected to apply sunscreen. With his blond hair and flaming red complexion, he could have lit up half the town. Ryberg walked past the sergeant and pulled him toward his own office. “Come.”
Veronica tugged on Drake’s arm. She talked faster than he’d ever heard her speak. “Both Vancouver dailies, you name the TV or radio station, major interest from the US, and they all keep asking for our media liaison officer.”
Drake tried to calm her down while watching his two superiors. Sergeant Thiessen’s office door was open; the two of them stood just inside the room. Thiessen raised his finger and pointed at Ryberg as he tried to speak. The old investigator put a hand on each of Thiessen’s shoulders, not letting him talk, and stared into his eyes. He didn’t have to yell. “You need to make a call.”
Thiessen was sputtering, trying to object.
At the front desk, one of the men in suits kept asking to see to his client. The watch commander sprang up and jumped around to the other side of the counter, facing him down – almost physically holding him back.
Drake turned to Veronica. She looked like she was going to cry.
Ryberg was speaking firmly again. “No, you have to make a call. Make the ten twenty-one, Sergeant. Phone Johnson.” He stood closer to Thiessen now, their faces almost touching. Drake could barely hear him. “We have procedures for situations like this. You know that. Make the call, or I will.”
Thiessen was retreating – sitting down at his desk.
Drake spotted Sophie Peterson at the counter, signing in a patrol car. He placed his arm gently around Veronica’s shoulder and called to his colleague, “Officer Peterson, can you help us.”
Still chewing her gum, she walked through the maze of bodies and desks to reach them.
“We need your help. Can you help Veronica liaise with the media for a while, just for a while? Standard statements and we’ll update when we know more.”
At first she didn’t understand. “So this morning I’m a car-buyer, and now I’m dealing with reporters? And I still don’t know why.”
Drake began to open his mouth, and then Sophie saw Veronica’s face. “Okay, okay, I got it.”
Veronica turned over a pad of paper. “I have thirty new emails in the past thirty minutes asking about our multiple homicides. They want to know why we keep finding dead bodies, and whether the killings are related. Thirty emails – how do they even know what happened?”
Sophie nodded and told her it was going to be okay. As the two women walked away, Ryberg strode toward Drake, the situation with Sergeant Thiessen obviously resolved. Whatever call had to be made was either made or the threat from Ryberg had been sufficient. Thiessen was in his office and the yelling had ceased.
Without slowing down, Ryberg nodded toward the hallway that led to the interview rooms. “Follow me.”
Myron had disappeared again. Pringle stood to one side with Drake on the other. Ryberg glared at the two of them. “Apparently, one of the several suspects you two picked up this morning is crying his eyes out like a little baby. Unlike any of the guilty men I have arrested over the years, this man is not asking for a lawyer; he is asking for his minister. Now, as succinctly as possible, tell me again why this car salesman is in our interview room.”
Pringle corrected him. “Cell, he’s in a cell.”
Drake didn’t wait for Ryberg to react. “I have a contact, a street person who says he saw a red car slowing down on Cobalt the night of Robinson’s murder, and someone tossing a body out.”
Ryberg responded quickly. “A street person – is he credible?”
“I believe so, yes. A red car was also outside one of the houses on Cobalt last night and the driver was visiting with the old man I interviewed – the one who I think has more information, but wouldn’t talk. That’s Tony Hempsill. I had him pulled in too, as well as Brian Stam.”
Ryberg didn’t seem to know how to react. He looked at Pringle and then back to Drake. “And the red car belongs to this Brian Stam, this salesman?”
“Yes, the timing for the murder makes sense. I saw him at the dealership when I was there this morning. He could easily have had time to drive out and see Rochfort and then return to work. And I think the old man can help us too. I think he saw something, and I want to know who was visiting him last night. If he can concur on the red car, we might be able to trace it back to Brian Stam.”
Ryberg bit his lip and began to turn toward interview room one. Drake stopped him. He was in this deep; he might as well give him all of the information. “I went over the recordings of the interviews this morning.” It felt like it had been a week ago. “There were two words that kept coming up – money and group. I believe the men were part of a group that involved money.”
Ryberg snapped back at him. “Yes, yes, Myron told me about the firewood operation. I don’t see the relevance.”
Myron was back, coming in halfway through the conversation, just like at the murder scene. “Well actually there may be some relevance, but not quite in the direction we were searching. My contact at the bank mentioned in his fax that if I wanted information on other policies to follow up with him. So I did. The company that sold Frank Wilson the policy that allowed him to retire early signed him to another insurance policy five years ago. I’m waiting to hear back from the agent who sold it to him. I can’t figure out what he was insuring, but the other names on the policy are Michael Robinson, David Parker, Derek Rochfort, Monica Brown, and Trevor Middleton.”
The watch commander was calling his name from the front counter. “Drake, I need you please.”
Ryberg pushed his finger hard on Myron’s chest. “On it. Now. I want to know what this insurance policy is all about.”
The watch commander wouldn’t let up. He called again.
Drake left the men and walked to the front of the station. A man in a T-shirt and blue jeans picked up his camera. He began to aim it at Drake, but the corporal heaved himself up from behind the counter, showing his full six and a half feet of height, and the camera was put back down.
The watch commander stepped off to the side and motioned for Drake to come over. He stood close to him, speaking quietly. “I have Tony Hempsill here. Even if I had an interview room I wouldn’t put him in it, Drake.”
Drake began to interrupt, but the man kept going. “Tony is an old friend. I put him in the lunchroom. I don’t know what you want with him, but do not keep him waiting, Constable.”
There were too many connections in a small town – far too many.
Ryberg called to him. He was standing at the entrance to interview room number one with Pringle.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just hold him for a little while.”
Ryberg briefly gave him some instructions, and then Pringle held the door open. Ryberg seated himself at the small table and Drake sat beside him.
Frank Wilson did not look well.
Chapter Twenty-One
* * *
He was sitting upright and t
witching – his youthful pose from the first interview a distant memory. His lawyer was local; Drake had dealt with him on an assault case a few months previously.
Pringle had his twelve o’clock scowl plastered across his hard face. With his arms folded in front of him he looked like a disgruntled bouncer at closing time. Myron was ensconced in the observation room, probably holding firmly to his notepad.
The lawyer began to speak immediately. “Gentlemen, my client…”
Ryberg raised his hand and pulled his seat slightly away from the table. “Do not speak. I have two men dead, and I haven’t decided if your client is withholding evidence or if he is responsible for two murders. But, before we leave this room I will find out.”
It worked. He drew Wilson out right away. He spoke quickly, and ignored his lawyer’s pleas for him to remain silent. “Now listen to me. I’ve lost a friend. Two friends. Why would I kill them? Why?” He moved forward, and his chair scuffed along the floor. Pringle dropped his arms and took half a step toward the table.
The lawyer again. “Sergeant, if you’re going to charge…”
Ryberg ignored the lawyer and continued focusing on the old logger. “You know what, Mr. Wilson? I have an opportunity for you. Either you or one of your friends is going to win the lottery today. Do you have the winning ticket? Do you have something you’d like to tell me?”
Wilson was sweating; he shook his head defiantly as he talked. His words were joined together, like one long word. “There’s nothingtotell. Nothingtotell.”
Ryberg leaned back, signaling to Drake that it was his turn.
Just like before, the words came easy to him. As per Ryberg’s instructions, he disclosed a little bit of information. “Mr. Wilson, Frank, we’ve begun to assemble the facts. We know about your illegal firewood business. We know about the insurance policy. Either you or one of your friends is going to fill in the few remaining gaps in the story.”
The Dead List Page 18