A Cuban Death

by David Anderson

  There was still the matter of Kathy Walters. He was anxiously awaiting the coroner’s report, because if he was going to close that case, he needed something more. Grange was denying any involvement with her, but if they could place him at the scene, then they’d have him for that as well.

  It had been a good day so far but it could get better. Get Drennan and the damned TV station off his back, lay this murder at Grange’s feet and his life would become a whole lot easier.

  And still, nagging away at him in the back of his mind, was the death of Michael Kennedy, in Cuba. What, if anything, was he to do about that?

  twenty-nine

  The call from the coroner came in on his cell. Drumm had given up answering his regular phone. Too many people were getting through that had no business calling, like Susan Benitez.

  “Nicholas? I finished the post on Kathy Walters and I thought I’d call and give you a heads-up. I know you’re anxious to get this finished.” The coroner’s voice was competing with some background sounds. It sounded like sizzling.

  “Thank you, Sigrid. Um, what are you doing? I hear something weird.”

  “I am cooking sausages for dinner, Nicholas. I couldn’t reach you earlier. You are very welcome to come over and share.”

  Drumm tried to picture sitting in Sigrid Brandt’s kitchen, eating sausages with a sixty-year-old woman. “No, thank you, Sigrid. Although sausages for supper – sounds good. They’re German, I presume?”

  “The best bratwurst, Nicholas. Too bad.” Now Drumm could hear what sounded like a kettle boiling. The coroner raised her voice over the noise. “Anyway, here’s what you want to know.”

  Drumm reached for a pen and a piece of paper and tucked the phone under his ear.

  “I’ll simplify things, because I know that’s how you like it. The COD was the knife wound as we said. It was a single upward blow through the ribs, and the weapon was left in. There was no attempt to remove it. The knife itself had a six-inch blade, plenty long enough to do the job, and appears to be a chef’s knife or possibly a carving knife, of the type commonly found in kitchens. She died from a combination of blood loss and shock. She wouldn’t have felt much after the first few seconds and she wouldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes. The heart just stopped working.”

  “TOD, Sigrid?” Drumm could hear pouring noises.

  “Say, between ten and midnight. Stomach contents showed a meal of soup, a salad and quiche.”

  The last meal, thought Drumm. His mind wandered and he thought, What would I have if I knew it was going to be the last food I ever ate? He came back to earth. “Any sign of sexual assault, Sigrid?”

  “No, Nicholas. There was no indication of recent sexual activity.”

  Drumm pondered while he listened to the noises from the coroner’s kitchen. It sounded like she was scraping a plate. “I won’t keep you, Sigrid – it sounds like your sausages are ready. But, how about the tox report, and were there any other marks on her? Like nicks or cuts anywhere?”

  Sigrid said briskly, “No drugs or alcohol in her system. No nicks or cuts or any other unusual marks on the body. No bruises or abrasions. She died from a single penetrating stab wound.”

  “So no defensive wounds, which suggests no struggle, and that might mean she knew the person who killed her.”

  “Or she was taken by surprise. Who knows? That’s your department, Nicholas.”

  “Sigrid, thank you very much. Enjoy your sausages.” Drumm disconnected.

  He put down his pen and looked at the few notes that he had scribbled down on the pad. There wasn’t much to go on. Or was there? Was this the work of Dr. Michael Grange? If so, it was a completely different way of doing things. Take the knife first of all. With the other victims he had used it to threaten; he had held it to various parts of the face: usually the cheek or close up to the eye or the neck. With this woman he had used it on the chest, and apparently with little warning. If it was sex he was interested in, then why stab the woman before he had what he came for? And the knife itself was completely different. This wasn’t some little fold-up thing that he could conceal in his hand. This was a hunking great big kitchen knife, the kind of thing you would use to carve up meat.

  Drumm stood up and went to the window. It was snowing again, large fluffy flakes wafting down from a leaden sky, but he didn’t notice. He was far away, thinking. Grange hadn’t raped her. It looked like he had just killed her with one quick stab. Why? And was that just luck, or was it skill? Or maybe it wasn’t quick, maybe he had taken his time and got it just right. A veterinarian would probably have the knowledge to pull off such a thing. But again, why kill her? Was it sex he was after or something else? Grange had always taken the greatest of pleasure in molesting his victims, making sure he enjoyed himself to the bitter end. With this woman he hadn’t really started. It didn’t make sense. Unless the killing of Kathy Walters wasn’t the work of the Riverwood Rapist at all.

  On his desk where he had left it, Drumm’s cellphone vibrated again. He picked it up, surprised to see Sigrid Brandt’s name again.

  “Nicholas, I’m so sorry, I forgot to mention one thing I did find that was a bit unusual. I was so busy with my cooking, it slipped my mind.” The coroner sounded vexed, Drumm thought.

  “No worries, Sigrid. What is it?”

  “I found a hair stuck to the knife. It was on the top of the hilt, partially stuck to it and also the skin. It was about seven centimetres long, and of course most of it was soaked with blood. But the part that wasn’t appeared to be reddish in colour.”

  Drumm thought. Then he said, “Kathy Walters was blonde.”

  “Yes, I know. Which is why I thought this was interesting. I put it under a microscope and I can tell you it’s human. But you’ll want a more detailed analysis, I know, so I sent it to the lab.”

  “I’m trying to picture this, Sigrid. This hair was stuck to the top of the knife hilt. And the knife was underneath her scarf, of course. Did the hair get on the knife from her scarf? Or some other way?”

  “I have no idea, Nicholas.” The coroner sounded very prim and proper, Drumm thought. “That’s for you to decide. I’m just telling you what I found.”

  “Right you are, Sigrid. Thank you.” Drumm disconnected again.

  Interesting. And that one little hair put things in a completely different light. Because if the killer had red hair, then Drumm might have been looking at this completely backwards. Maybe Kathy Walters’ killer wasn’t a man at all, and maybe this had nothing to do with sex. Drumm thought back to a visit he had made, sitting in a cozy apartment, talking to an attractive woman with long, reddish hair. A woman with an axe to grind, perhaps?

  thirty

  The lab report arrived on his desk mid-morning, further proof of the priority that the YPS was putting on the Riverwood Rapist case. At this point it was still assumed that the murder of Kathy Walters was the handiwork of Dr. Michael Grange, although no charges had yet been laid. And Drumm had told no one about his suspicions. Drumm looked through the report and then summoned McDonald and Lori Singh to his office.

  Drumm waited while McDonald and Lori read through the information. He had already summarized his conversation with the coroner from the previous day; her report was also on his desk. It was rare that lab and autopsy results were completed so quickly but this had developed into a red-ball case and everyone concerned with the York Police Services wanted it completed as rapidly as possible.

  “So where do we go from here?” Lori was leaning up against Drumm’s wall, looking relaxed, while McDonald sat with his arms folded.

  “Well, you go to your meeting with the SIU. Dick and I have other fish to fry.”

  Lori frowned and Dick said, “Wear your Kevlar vest and you’ll be okay. They hardly ever shoot to kill.” He grinned.

  Drumm shot him a look. “Dick, stow it. Lori, it’ll go fine. You know what to say – we’ve gone over it enough times. You were attacked, you managed to get away and you discharged your weapon in
self-defence. When he fled, you properly identified yourself and then fired at him, to stop a violent and dangerous offender from hurting anyone else. He was a danger to the public and you did right to shoot at him. Everybody is on your side.”

  “Everybody except the SIU, that is,” murmured McDonald, and then he grinned.

  “I forgot,” said Lori. “You had your own little interview with them last year, didn’t you?”

  “I’m hurt that you didn’t remember,” said McDonald. “After all I went through, getting stabbed and then shooting that little bastard.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back. “And the worst part wasn’t getting stabbed, it was talking to the SIU after. They are tough and they are not your best friends.” He winked at Drumm.

  Drumm said warningly, “Dick…”

  “Relax, I’m kidding. It’ll go fine, love. The squirrel attacked you and you fired your weapon in self-defence. That’s all you have to say. This kind of thing is a regular occurrence.”

  “And of course you’ll have the union lawyer with you,” said Drumm. “I know him, and he’s represented any number of cops. No worries. All our statements back you up. And we have Grange admitting he tried to rape you.”

  “I’m not worried,” said Lori. “I’ll do my interview and statement. But what’s next?”

  The lab report showed that the hair found on the knife was not from Kathy Walters. It was human, Caucasian and not dyed. There was no follicle attached and it had been cut on one end, indicating presumably that it hadn’t been pulled out. The knife was a six-inch chef’s knife, manufactured by the J.A. Henckels Company and available for purchase at stores everywhere. There were no prints on it and it appeared not to be new, judging by the wear on the handle and the cutting edge. It could have been bought at any number of stores and probably not recently, it appeared. In other words, unless they could find the home that it came from or someone who recognized it, it would be of no use to them whatsoever.

  Drumm said as much now. “I don’t think the knife will help us much. But the red hair…well, I’m sure you’re both remembering someone we talked to recently. We need to speak to Deborra Whiteside again.”

  “And Aaron Whiteside,” said McDonald.

  “And the Gills,” said Drumm. “We need to establish where they all were Friday night.”

  Lori looked from McDonald to Drumm. “So we’re saying this killing was not done by Grange?”

  “Yes,” said Drumm, simply.

  “He has no alibi,” objected Lori. “He just said he was home that night and no one can vouch for him.”

  “And nobody saw him go out either. It works both ways. It seems strange to say that I take the word of a vicious prick like Grange, but I do,” said Drumm. “I think he’s telling the truth. I don’t think he knew Kathy Walters or had anything to do with her death.” He looked at the two of them. “This has something to do with Cuba.” He sighed. “Get the Whitesides in here. I have some things I want to check out.”

  Sitting in the interview room, Deborra Whiteside was giving every indication of being agitated. She was sitting with her legs crossed and her left foot was swinging back and forth. The fingers of her right hand were drumming constantly on the table in front of her and she was looking around the room impatiently. Occasionally she would stare directly into the mirror in front of her, making it look like she could see right through it.

  On the other side of the wall, McDonald and Drumm were watching with interested looks on their faces. Mrs. Whiteside had been sitting by herself in the room for some fifteen minutes, ever since McDonald had rather brusquely escorted her in. Her husband, Aaron, was on his way from his school where Lori had insisted he attend at the station. Whiteside had been unwilling until he heard that his wife was already enroute and then he had reluctantly cooperated.

  Deb Whiteside was dressed in a black dress, cut quite low in the front and riding high above her knees. She was wearing a shade of lipstick that complemented her red hair; a pearl necklace and matching earrings completed her outfit. She had been at work and she had also been quite unhappy at being asked to leave her job.

  “She looks quite glamorous, don’t you think?” asked McDonald. “We don’t often have women sitting in here who look as good as she does. Anybody walking by might think she’s a call girl. In fact, maybe she is and helps supplement their income. It wouldn’t be the first time we had a moonlighting housewife.”

  “Except she’s not a housewife,” said Drumm. “Let’s go.”

  He and McDonald entered the interview room. Deborra Whiteside uncrossed her legs and focused her attention on them.

  “Why am I here? You’ve got no right to take me away from my job.”

  “You could have said no,” said McDonald. “And we have every right to ask you. We’re looking into a murder, the brutal killing of a friend of yours.”

  “You can’t think I had anything to do with that?” She stared at McDonald. “Is that why you called me in here? Because you think I killed Kathy? I thought you wanted some information or advice from me. That other detective just said it was important, that you needed to talk to me.”

  McDonald smiled. “I’ll bet you’re sorry now you ever approached me back there in Cuba. Hmmm? Look where it’s led to.” He walked around behind her and her head swiveled to follow him. “We do want some information from you, actually. Where were you Friday night? Let’s say…from eight o’clock onwards?”

  Deborra Whiteside was trying to look at McDonald but since he was still standing behind her, she was having difficulty. She gave up trying and looked straight ahead at Drumm instead. “I was at home, with my husband.”

  McDonald came back into view. “Go out at all? Maybe nip down to the store? Or catch a late movie?”

  “No, I didn’t ‘nip down to the store’. I told you, we stayed in all night.”

  “Why? It was Friday night, time to party.” McDonald leaned forward and put his hands on the table staring at her. “Time to get all dressed up like you are now and go out and have a good time.”

  “Are you serious? These are my work clothes, for God’s sake. And we don’t ever do anything on Friday nights. Aaron is always late – he coaches and then does a workout. We stay in and watch TV when he gets home. Now Saturday night, that’s different.” She looked at Drumm. “You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with Kathy’s death?”

  Drumm spoke for the first time. “Mrs. Whiteside, it’s all about motive and opportunity. You had the opportunity, since you say you were home. And it seems you might have had a motive as well.”

  “Motive? Why would I want to kill Kathy? We were friends!”

  “Maybe not such good friends,” said McDonald. He was circling again. “At least, not according to your husband.” He stopped behind her. “Maybe you got a little too close to Kathy’s fiancé? And she didn’t like it? Maybe you weren’t as friendly with her as you want us to believe.”

  “We can place you at the crime scene, Mrs. Whiteside,” said Drumm. “We know you were there when Kathy Walters died. The question is, was it you that stabbed her, or your husband?”

  “What?” Deb Whiteside looked bewildered. “At the crime scene? What are you talking about? Aaron and I were home all night.” Her voice had risen to the point where she was almost wailing. “Talk to Aaron, he’ll say the same thing!”

  “I’m sure he will,” said McDonald. “And we’re about to ask him.”

  Drumm beckoned to McDonald and the two of them left the room.

  Outside they found Lori who nodded at them. She was standing looking through the glass into the interview room.

  “He’s in Two,” she said. “I just caught the end of that. She didn’t react to the part about getting too close with Mike Kennedy. Interesting, and I wish I could stay but I have my meeting…”

  “Maybe she didn’t react because it’s true,” said McDonald.

  “Good luck, Lori,” said Drumm. To McDonald he said, “Whiteside Number Two. Let’s go.�
�

  Unlike his wife, Aaron Whiteside looked comfortable, sitting tipped back in his chair with his arms crossed. He was wearing a black tracksuit. His chair thumped to the floor as the detectives entered the room. “Where’s Deb?”

  “She’s in another room,” said McDonald.

  “I want to see her,” said Whiteside.

  “Not just now,” said McDonald. “Friday night, the night your friend Kathy died. Tell us about your evening. Correction – take us through your day from when school ended.”

  “What is this?” asked Whiteside, looking from one to the other. “Am I a suspect?”

  “A person of interest,” said Drumm calmly.

  “I had nothing to do with her death,” said Whiteside forcefully.

  “So prove it,” said McDonald. “Your day?”

  Drumm pointed at him. “And no lies this time.”

  Whiteside frowned at Drumm, his usual sunny smile nowhere to be seen. “I don’t appreciate this, getting hauled out of school to come down here and be accused of a crime.”

  “Nobody’s accusing you,” Drumm pointed out. “We’re giving you the opportunity to explain what you were doing Friday night, that’s all. Tell us what you were up to and we can rule you out. Right?” He smiled bleakly.

  Whiteside scowled. “School ended. I had a basketball practice with my team. It went to about five o’clock. Then I got in my car and drove over to Family Fitness for a workout.” He looked directly at Drumm. “It’s on the way home, the one at Walker and Dunlop. I was there for about an hour. Say six thirty when I left there, more or less. Then I drove home, showered, ate dinner with Deb and then we watched TV.” He folded his arms. “Want to know what we ate? Or watched?”