A Striking Death

by David Anderson

  fifty-four

  It turned out that Ellen Clarke lived in the same retirement community as William Donnelly. Different street, but the same kind of condo unit. It was an interesting coincidence, Drumm thought.

  He remarked upon it when Arthur Billinger’s former principal opened her door to him.

  “Billy! Oh yes, he’s the reason we moved to the Briar Patch. He and his wife moved here first and raved about it. So then my husband and I decided to try it. All in all, it’s worked out well for us. It was the golf membership that sealed the deal for us. Mark – that’s my husband - is out playing right now.” She shivered. “Brrr! It’s way too chilly for me. He likes to get his money’s worth, though.”

  Ellen Clarke was a cheery woman, somewhat overweight. Her hair was short and brown – surely it was dyed, as she appeared to be in her sixties – and she was considerably shorter than Drumm.

  “Some coffee, Detective Sergeant?”

  “Thank you, no. I’m here about the murder of one of your former teachers, Arthur Billinger. You were principal at Prince Albert Senior Public when he was there, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He was there for three years, and so were you, I gather. Do you remember him? It was a long time ago now.”

  “Of course I remember him, Detective Drumm. I remember all my colleagues.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “No, not at all.” Ellen Clarke was sitting on her sofa in the living room with her legs crossed and her hands together on her knees. “Still, I was shocked and upset to hear about his death. It was such a brutal thing. And that other man too: the paper is saying the two deaths are linked.”

  “Brutal it was,” said Drumm. “It’s the reason I’m here, of course. We are trying to establish why someone would want him dead. Can you think of anyone at Prince Albert who hated him? Any parents, or students, or other staff?” Drumm watched carefully for her reaction.

  Ellen Clarke’s pleasant face was frowning. She had a network of wrinkles around her eyes, Drumm noticed. “It was a long time ago, of course,” she said. “And like I said, I didn’t know him well. He was pretty quiet. But I don’t remember anything like that.” She paused. “I’m trying to think if any parent ever came into the office about him, but I don’t think so. Have you looked in his file?”

  Drumm said, “There’s nothing there. How about his relationships with the staff? You knew he was gay, I’m sure. Did he ever get involved with any of the other teachers? Or the custodian?”

  “If he did, I didn’t know about it.”

  “How about the students?”

  Ellen Clarke sat up straight. “You mean did he come on to them? That I would have known about, for sure. There was nothing like that.”

  Drumm was once again getting nowhere and he knew it. “What kind of teacher was he?”

  “He taught French, you knew that, right?” At Drumm’s nod, she went on, “Prince Albert is a senior public school. All the kids are in grades six, seven and eight.” She smiled. “It makes for an interesting mix of hormones and testosterone. His job was to do FSL on rotary, a tough assignment. He was strict and good at the job. He had to be, you know, in order to survive.”

  Drumm sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve been wasting your time. I know this was ten years ago now and more. We’re having a tough time getting a good picture of this man. Do you remember any of the teachers there who might have been friends with him? He had a group of retired teachers from Addison Road that he met with on Tuesday mornings. I’m wondering if he made any close friends at your school while he was there.”

  Ellen Clarke shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember. If I ever knew.”

  A thought had been nagging at Drumm. It had something to do with the dates. “1999-2002,” he said. “Those were the years Billinger was at your school. Wasn’t there a teacher strike sometime in there?”

  The principal stared at him. “There was. You have a good memory, Detective Drumm. It was in September, 2001. It didn’t last long, thank goodness. But what of it?”

  Drumm had been on strike once himself. It had been a bad experience. He still remembered the uncertainty of not knowing how long it would last, carrying an embarrassing picket sign, the abuse hurled at the striking teachers from passing motorists. Most of all he remembered how wearing it had been on his legs, marching back and forth on hard concrete sidewalks for his three hour shift. “When teachers are on strike, they walk up and down outside the school. They’re almost always in pairs.”

  Ellen Clarke stared at him. “You’re right. But what’s your point, Detective?”

  “I’ve been on strike myself. I was a teacher once. And I still remember marching on the sidewalk carrying a sign. I was usually with the same guy.” His name had been Reggie Turner and they had spent many unhappy hours pounding the pavement together. They had learned a lot about each other in that time. “I was just wondering if you remembered the experience yourself.”

  “Of all things!” She was looking at him oddly. “I do remember it quite well, actually. I was usually beside Hildi, my vice-principal. We had a lot of time to gossip.”

  “And Arthur Billinger…?”

  She laughed. “He was usually with Sarah Smillie. They were a bit of an odd couple, that’s why I remember. He was a serious man and her name was Smillie – it was funny! And then there was the fact that he was a wily old French teacher and she was young and just starting out. Oh, and she was short, and he was tall. He looked like Vincent Price, did you know?”

  “I’ve been told there’s that resemblance, yes.” Drumm was pleased. At least he had a name, someone who might know something. “Is Sarah Smillie still with the school district?”

  Ellen Clarke smiled. “I have no idea. I lost track of her a long time ago. But you surely don’t think she killed him, Detective?”

  He said, “No, of course not.” But she might know who did.

  fifty-five

  Lori was waiting for him at Luigi’s. She was sitting at a table for two, in a back corner of the Italian eatery. Knowing his preferences, she had her back to the door, studying the menu, so she wasn’t aware when he came in. Drumm slid quietly into the chair across from her. “What looks good?”

  She looked up and smiled at him. “Just about everything, but it all looks like a lot of calories to me.” She looked him over carefully. “You look like one tired detective.”

  “Thanks. You, on the other hand, look as fresh as a daisy. Or a lotus.” Lori did, in fact, appear to be unaffected by the difficult events of the night before and the lack of sleep. She was wearing black slacks and a white sweater; as usual her hair was done up in a bun. “”Have you heard the latest about Dick?”

  “Yes. It looks like he’ll make it, doesn’t it? I’m so glad.”

  “It’s nice to get some good news, that’s for sure.” Drumm could see their server approaching. “Order me a beer, please, Lori, and something to eat as well. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  When he returned, Lori was sipping from a bottle of beer; there was another one waiting for him. He raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s Peroni. I thought it appropriate considering the setting. And I’ve ordered salad and gnocchi. Okay?” She smiled at him.

  Drumm sipped his beer. “This is good. I’ve never had it before. Don’t usually have gnocchi either. I approve.” He raised his bottle to her.

  “What was it?”

  It was remarkable how well she knew him, he thought. “6.4, so I’m fine.”

  Lori smiled. “Good, then.” She looked away and then back at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Just concerned. Nosy actually, sticking my nose in when I shouldn’t.”

  Drumm smiled. “Don’t worry about it. To tell you the truth, it’s a relief to be able to talk to someone about it.”

  Their salads arrived.

  Drumm asked, “This Buleman guy, you think he’s creditable?”

  “I think he’s credible, yes.” Lori smiled
and took a sip of beer. “I arranged for him to come in this afternoon and sit down with Harrison. At least then we’ll have a sketch to go by.”

  “Good. Those things sometimes work. It’s certainly worth doing. It’s not like we have a lot to go on.” Drumm finished his salad and pushed the plate away.

  “What about this Sarah Smillie? She’s a longshot, isn’t she?”

  “Absolutely. But right now, she and that Buleman description are about all we’ve got. I’m going to try to find her.” Drumm waited while the server removed their salad bowls. “It’s possible she can fill in some of the gaps on our Arthur Billinger. I still feel like I hardly know who he was. Your muscle man in Danny’s who was scooping him out – and Levine too – Mr. Intense, we’ll call him. If he was the killer, what was it about? He just didn’t like gay men? Is that what this is?”

  “Mr. Intense had well developed muscles,” said Lori. “Which could mean he uses a gym. Once I get the composite sketch, I’ll make the rounds of the local fitness clubs, and that boxing place too, and see if anyone recognizes him.”

  “Mr. Intense could also work out at home,” said Drumm. Their gnocchi arrived. “This looks good.” He waited while their young waitress departed. “But I agree it’s worth a try to see if anyone knows him. We’ll show that sketch to everyone we can think of. First, though, when we’re done here, I want you to come back with me to Billinger’s house.”

  Lori nodded. “Alright. I know you like having a second look. Maybe we’ll notice something new.”

  “And maybe we won’t. But I always feel compelled to do it.”

  Lori smiled at him. “Compulsions can be good sometimes.”

  fifty-six

  The yellow crime scene tape had been removed from Arthur Billinger’s house and the deceased teacher’s home appeared as normal as any of the others in the neighbourhood. It wasn’t even a week since he had been killed but the weather seemed to have changed considerably. Drumm remembered there had been geese overhead then but there was no sign of them today. It was much colder and windier and the dead leaves were swirling around as a warning that winter was on its bitter way.

  Inside it was chilly and the house smelled musty. He and Lori moved from room to room, reacquainting themselves with the layout. The smashed window in the kitchen had been boarded up, but the broken glass on the floor remained.

  In the bedroom, Lori turned the light on and opened the curtains which had been closed to foil nosy neighbours. The bloodstains on the bed and walls in the bedroom were a jolting reminder of what had happened there.

  “It’s pretty creepy seeing you holding that thing,” she said.

  Drumm hefted the bloodstained Louisville Slugger, still wrapped in its protective plastic coating. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to play the part of the corpse.” He smiled briefly at her. “I just wanted to try something.”

  He set the bat down, removed his jacket and handed it to her. “We know the killer stood here.” Drumm had moved right up beside the bed. “It’s dark, but somehow he can see well enough to do the job he came to do.” He turned and looked at her. “Any ideas?”

  “Probably his eyes had adjusted. Or maybe there was a light on already. Some people use a nightlight.”

  Drumm objected, “We didn’t find one.”

  “No, we didn’t. So maybe the killer brought one and then removed it. I doubt that, though. I just think his eyes had adjusted.”

  “Me too,” said Drumm. “Although maybe there was moonlight. We didn’t check that.”

  Lori made a note. “I’ll look it up.”

  Drumm said, “Doesn’t matter. He could see and that’s what counts.” He turned back to face the bed. “So he stood here and…”

  With two hands, Drumm slowly elevated the plastic-wrapped bat, lifting it over his head. He stopped and turned to Lori. “He would have done it like this, but you see the problem?”

  “You’re too tall.”

  “I’m too tall. If I try, I’ll hit the ceiling on the way up.” He looked carefully at the white-painted ceiling above them. “And I don’t see any marks on it.”

  Lori said, “So he was shorter than you. How tall are you, anyway?”

  “Detective Singh, I am a manly six foot one, and I am too tall to have committed this crime. Unless I did it on my knees.”

  “No way,” said Lori positively.

  “No way, indeed,” Drumm agreed. “Nobody would go down on their knees and then swing downwards like that. Especially twenty or thirty times.”

  “Which means,” said Lori, “that a shorter man did it. Maybe my height. Give.” She reached out and took the bat from Drumm. They exchanged positions.

  Standing beside the bed, she carefully raised the bat until it was fully extended behind her head. It cleared the ceiling by a couple of inches. She struck downwards, stopping the bat just above the bed.

  “How tall are you, Lori?”

  “I am five foot four, sir.”

  “Just the right height, too,” said Drumm. “So our killer is five foot four or shorter. That’s helpful.”

  “Worth coming out here again, that’s for sure.”

  Drumm slipped on his jacket while Lori closed the curtains again. They went outside and spent a fruitless few minutes prowling around the yard before Drumm had enough. “There’s nothing else to see. And we’ve got better things to do.”

  Lori looked at her watch. “It’s time I was going anyway. I want to be there when Buleman arrives. You’re going after Sarah Smiles? What kind of name is that anyway?”

  “Smillie,” he corrected, but he knew she was teasing. “I am going to try. The school district offices aren’t open so it won’t be easy.”

  They were at their cars by now. She asked, “Will we get together later?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Right.” She got into the Prius and he watched her drive away.

  fifty-seven

  Lori enjoyed watching Harrison Wojtek work. She didn’t often get to see him in action so she tried to observe him whenever she could. He wasn’t actually an employee of the York Police Services as there wasn’t enough demand for his services. Harrison was a professor at York College for the Fine Arts and was called in on a contract basis as needed.

  Wojtek had already started with Buleman when she arrived. His technique was first to make the witness comfortable, and Lori could see that he had already succeeded. The artist had a charming grin and a self-deprecating routine that he used to good effect, and Buleman was laughing at one of Wojtek’s witticisms.

  She watched as Wojtek listened carefully to what the bartender had to say, and then he began drawing. He asked for more details, listened with his head cocked to one side and put his pencil to work applying the added information. Occasionally he would show Buleman what he had done and then erase and draw again as needed. Wojtek was a quick worker, but even so it took the better part of an hour to come up with a drawing that Buleman accepted.

  She noticed that the bartender looked doubtful when he gazed at the finished product, but he nodded as if to say it was close enough. Lori knew that most witnesses were keen when they started but increasingly sceptical as the session wore on. And she knew that sketches done like this were unreliable, but without a photograph, it was the best they could do.

  The drawing showed a young man with short hair and just the beginnings of a receding hairline at the temples. The eyes were close set and the eyebrows thick and rather fierce-looking. With those and compressed lips in a downward curving mouth, Harrison had succeeded in capturing an intense-looking suspect. Whether it was an accurate drawing or not remained to be seen.

  She thanked the bartender and the artist for coming in and complimented them both on their efforts. Then she hurried to make copies.

  Coming back from the machine, she saw that Sue Oliver had begun the formal interrogation of Matthew Wilson. There was a crowd outside the interview room watching the monitor. Lori took a few minutes to observe as well.


  She already knew that this would be a slam dunk case, unless Wilson recanted his confession or pleaded mental incompetence or some such baloney. He had admitted to attacking Detective Richard McDonald in front of numerous witnesses, and he had told the police where to find his weapon. It had been a spring-loaded knife, similar to a switchblade, and it had been found dumped in a garbage can at a shopping plaza in Barrie. There appeared to be blood on the blade and there was more blood on Wilson’s clothes. Everyone involved was confident that they had the right man, and this was an open and shut case.

  Wilson had legal counsel with him, a weary-looking lawyer that she didn’t recognize, with a look of resignation on his face. Lori didn’t blame him as his client was committing legal suicide right in front of the attorney’s eyes.

  Sue Oliver was leading Wilson carefully through the events of the evening before. The accused was answering all the questions in a dull monotone of a voice. Lori watched long enough to realize that Matthew Wilson was not the most intelligent of young men; he was barely coherent in fact. It also appeared that he had a thing for older women, and he had come across Celeste Chappell just as a matter of chance.

  Lori shook her head. What a random world it was. Dick McDonald almost losing his life because of the actions of this moronic peeping tom. She badly wanted to stay and watch the rest, to see exactly why he had knifed a cop, but she had to get going. She would have to find out later.

  As she headed out to her car, Lori glanced at the list she had compiled, planning the best route to take. The names of twelve fitness clubs were on the paper, as well as the York Boxing Club and the Base Borden Fitness Centre.

  Wojtek’s sketch would be released to the media as “a person of interest that the police wanted to speak with in connection with two recent murders.” Sometimes doing this kind of thing was helpful. More often than not, though, it led to dozens, if not hundreds, of false sightings that required a lot of police time and used up valuable resources. With so few leads to go on, however, Chappell had okayed the move. He had looked exceedingly harassed when Lori sought him out for permission.