Crime Machine

by Giles Blunt

  “Why didn’t I hear about this?” Chouinard wanted to know.

  “I just picked it up now,” Delorme said. “She called in the middle of the night.”

  “Why’d she call you? Why not Crime Stoppers? Why not the general mailbox?”

  “I don’t know. A lot of people don’t believe Crime Stoppers is anonymous. Maybe she just wanted a female.”

  McLeod, uncharacteristically quiescent up to this point, came to life. “That clock radio is about thirty years old. I’ve met some desperate junkies in my time, but none of them would bother stealing that piece of crap. Even the most disadvantaged of our criminal adversaries have standards.”

  Arsenault was contemplating the floor. When he looked up, he said, “She said she hid under the bed?”

  Delorme shook her head. “She just said she hid.”

  “Well, it kinda jibes with what we have so far …” He looked at Collingwood, who shook his head and wrote on the whiteboard: For Sale. “Yeah, exactly,” Arsenault said, and changed the image. An exterior shot of Island Road, the driveway entrance. The mailbox that said THE SCHUMACHERS, and the sign that said FOR SALE, CARNWRIGHT REAL ESTATE. “Notice there are no tracks around the For Sale sign or the mailbox. Call me anal retentive, but I decided to take prints off both of ’em anyway. Lifted a good thumb and a couple of partials off the sign. And get this: they match prints we found in the master bedroom—on the headboard of the bed.”

  As circles and arrows flew from Collingwood’s marker, Arsenault changed the image to show first the bedside table, then the headboard. “We found a nice thumbprint here.” He pointed to an area near the upper left corner of the headboard. “And it doesn’t match the Schumachers or any other individuals we have so far.”

  “Well, the realtor usually puts up the sign,” Chouinard said. “Have we ruled him or her out?”

  “Him,” Cardinal said. “Randall Wishart over at Carnwright’s. Did he come in to get printed?”

  Arsenault said no.

  “I told him to.”

  Dunbar sat up and cleared his throat. “I have some information that might help. I took the Schumachers out to the house.”

  “Before it was cleaned up?” Chouinard said. “Who told you to do that?”

  “We needed to know if anything was stolen—especially now we’ve got a self-confessed thief on the scene.”

  “As of five minutes ago,” Cardinal said. “Why didn’t you clear it with me?”

  “I didn’t think it would need clearing. I mean, we’re all supposed to be investigators, right?”

  “We’re working a coordinated investigation. Do not go off interviewing people without telling me.” Cardinal felt the heat spreading up his neck and into his face. “I should not have to be saying this.”

  “Okay, I hear you. Can I tell you what they said?”

  “After they’d finished throwing up?”

  “They weren’t that bad, considering. They didn’t see anything missing. Nothing. Also, I asked them about their routine for closing up the house in winter. They lock doors and windows, turn the heat down, shut the water off, all that. Main point, Mrs. Schumacher strips all the beds and puts on fresh bedspreads. They don’t have a cleaning lady, so that long black hair could be crucial.”

  “Okay, that’s good stuff,” Cardinal said. “I’m still annoyed at you, but let’s move on.”

  “What do we know about this Wishart?” Chouinard said. “The realtor.”

  “He’s been with Carnwright just a couple of years,” Cardinal said. “He’s married to Carnwright’s daughter.”

  “Laura Carnwright?” Delorme said. “She’s a high flyer. She must be on every committee in town.”

  “Wishart seems like a real go-getter himself. Hasn’t been out to the Schumacher house for a few weeks. Or so he says.” Cardinal looked at Arsenault. “Do we have anything back on the tires?”

  “Tread marks,” Arsenault said. He flashed a picture of the hydro utility road. “Our runner seems to have got into her car here—if it really was a her—and shots were fired, damaging her tail light. Treads on this vehicle are all different, all old and worn, and could belong to any number of subcompacts: Honda, Mazda, you name it. Same with the shards of tail light. The driveway’s more promising.”

  The image changed again. “Vehicle One got there first. Or put it another way—Vehicle One was the first car there after the snowfall Thursday morning. Vehicle Two tires aren’t going to get us far. Wheel base gives us a compact, tires are the most common Goodyear snow tires, all four wheels. Vehicle One is a mid-size with Bridgestone Blizzard Grips, again all four wheels. Width and load rating would suit a range of pricier sedans: BMW, Saturn and Acura. The tires were discontinued three years ago, but you know the tire stores keep records of what they sell, and if it’s local we might get lucky.”

  Chouinard pointed at Cardinal. “You didn’t happen to get what Wishart is driving, by any chance?”

  “Yeah, I did. He drives an Acura TL.”

  “I knew there was a reason I hired you,” Chouinard said, getting up.

  “You didn’t hire me.”

  “Well, somebody must have had a reason.”

  15

  CARDINAL AND DELORME PULLED UP in front of Carnwright Real Estate just as Randall Wishart was getting into his car.

  “Mr. Wishart?” Cardinal said. “Could you hold it right there, please?”

  Wishart looked annoyed, until he realized who Cardinal was and then he flashed a smile. “Detective—what can I do for you?”

  “You can stop bullshitting me for a start.”

  The smile vanished. He looked from Cardinal to Delorme and back again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Cardinal opened the rear door of the unmarked. “Or we could do it right here in your office—maybe bring your father-in-law in on it? Or how about your wife’s office? Would you prefer that?”

  “Hey. I sell houses for a living. I don’t kill people.”

  “Just get in the car.”

  On the way, Wishart called a lawyer.

  —

  Dick Nolan was known around the CID as Dr. No, the reason being that he never agreed to anything if he could avoid it—certainly not to anything that might be construed as disadvantageous to his clients, of whom Randall Wishart was now one. He arrived at the station fresh from court, Burberry overcoat flapping, red polka dot tie flying over one shoulder, thinning grey hair shooting out from his scalp like a seeding dandelion about to blow away. His colour was high, not due to the cold but to a state of outrage that, as far as Cardinal knew, was permanent.

  Nolan stormed into the interview room where Wishart was waiting and slammed the door. Moments later his shouts of disbelief could be heard all the way down the hall.

  Cardinal gave them fifteen minutes. When he and Delorme finally sat down across from Wishart and his counsel, he asked if they had any objection to the interview being videotaped. He knew what the answer would be.

  “No tape,” Nolan said. “Why have you brought my client here against his will?”

  “We believe he has knowledge pertinent to the investigation of a double murder,” Cardinal said. “By law we have to interview him and—by all means check with your client, but I believe he would rather speak to us here than in his office or his home.”

  “You’re threatening his reputation and his peace of mind without cause, not to mention invading his privacy.”

  “All right.” Cardinal closed his notebook and stood up. “If Mr. Wishart doesn’t want to talk to us today, we’ll talk to him another time.”

  “Hold it. Hang on a second,” Wishart said. He leaned over to whisper to his lawyer.

  “We’re prepared to proceed on a limited basis,” Nolan said.

  Cardinal flipped the pages of his notebook. “Mr. Wishart, you told me you hadn’t been out to the Schumacher place for a couple of weeks.”

  “The house was broken into. The rear door was jimmied,” Nolan said. “My client, as you
very well know, has a key. Why would he need to break in?”

  “To make it look like someone who didn’t have a key,” Delorme said.

  “You were there on Thursday,” Cardinal said. “The day the Bastovs were murdered.”

  “Do you have some evidence that puts my client there? Perhaps a security video? A witness?”

  “We have tread marks that match the tires on his car. We have fingerprints on the For Sale sign. And on the bed in the master bedroom.”

  “Prints that you matched to my client how? He has no criminal record. He has never been in the armed services. He has never had a security check. How would you have his prints?”

  Cardinal folded his hands on the table and studied his thumbs. “Mr. Nolan, how uncooperative do you wish your client to appear? People who have recently been to the Schumachers’ were asked to provide fingerprints. He chose not to. Are you advising him to continue down that road? You know where it will lead.”

  Nolan let out a long, slow exhalation through his nostrils. “Suppose my client—purely hypothetically—were to admit that his prints are likely on both the For Sale sign and the bed. There are any number of explanations for this. He’s a real estate agent who was asked to sell the house.”

  “But never showed it,” Cardinal said. “So how do his fingerprints end up on the headboard and bedside table in the master bedroom?”

  “I can clear this up,” Wishart said.

  “You don’t have to say a word,” Nolan said. “Let me do the talking.”

  “No, there’s a simple explanation. I’m sorry,” Wishart said to Cardinal. “I wanted to take a video of the house. The Schumachers had said no before, but I went ahead and did it anyway. I may have straightened the bed a little. You know, you want it to look the best possible.”

  “That video is evidence,” Cardinal said. “You’re going to have to produce it.”

  “I’m not sure if I still have it. I may have recorded over it.”

  “You went out there against the Schumachers’ wishes to shoot a video—and broke the law by entering without their permission—but you may have recorded over it?”

  Nolan looked at his client. “Now will you let me do the talking?”

  Wishart slumped in his chair.

  “There’s no reason why a video of an empty house is of evidentiary value,” Nolan said.

  “Excuse me,” Delorme said. “A video taken the same day as the murders?”

  Wishart sat up fast. “I didn’t say it was the same day. I told you where I was that day. I thought you were going to check with Troy.”

  “I did,” Cardinal said. “And I just may talk to him again.”

  Nolan put a restraining hand on his client’s wrist and glared him into submission. Then he turned to Delorme. “Now you’re implying not only that my client was there, but when he was there. Fingerprints—even if they are his, which we are a country mile from granting—do not, as far as I know, come with a date stamp. Kindly tell us the nature of the evidence that puts my client at that particular house on that particular day.”

  “Are you denying it?” Cardinal said to Wishart.

  “He doesn’t have to deny or admit anything.”

  “Hey, Counsellor, here’s an equation for you. I’ll let you do the math.” Cardinal had sworn to himself he wouldn’t let Nolan get to him, but he had to struggle to keep his voice calm. “The snow was fresh on Thursday, putting Mr. Wishart’s Acura with the Bridgestone Blizzard Grip tires there on that day. Either he was there for some entirely unrelated reason, in which case he’s only obstructing justice, or he was there to commit or abet a double murder. So rather than have him face a life sentence, I’d suggest you encourage him to admit one, that he was there on Thursday, and two, the reason he was there.”

  “Do you have moulds from his tires?”

  “We will soon enough.”

  “Do you have any blood? Any hair? Any fibre? You don’t—or he’d be charged. Do you have evidence of prior association with the victims—these Russians from New York? You do not. So unless you have a security tape or an eyewitness who puts him there on Thursday night, you have absolutely nothing and you’re wasting everybody’s time.”

  “If you weren’t at the Schumacher house,” Delorme said softly, “suppose you tell us where you really were.”

  “I worked late—till six-thirty or so—and then I went over to Troy’s house. We watched the game and then I went home, around eleven-thirty. My wife was in bed, so she can’t confirm that, but Troy will.”

  “Who won the game?”

  “Montreal, 4–1 over the Leafs. Lost it all in the third.”

  “What did you think of Rosehill’s penalty?”

  “Rosehill didn’t get any penalties. He’s still out with a torn ligament.”

  “Nice try,” Nolan said.

  “Let me lay it out for you, Randall,” Cardinal said. “I think you have a girlfriend. I think you have a little something on the side. I think you have hot little rendezvous with her in empty houses.”

  “No, no, no.” Nolan put up a hand like a traffic cop. “Unless you have this hypothetical other woman outside, that is totally inappropriate.”

  “Randall knows what I’m talking about, don’t you, Randall? What’s her name, Randall?”

  Wishart shook his head. “There isn’t anyone, I swear.”

  “You’ve got a high-powered wife and you’re sitting pretty in her father’s firm. If this comes out, all of that could be blown sky-high. You can tell us now, or you can wait for us to find her, and if we do—”

  “That’s all, Detective.” Nolan put his legal pad into his briefcase, snapped the locks on it and stood up. “My client has been more than co-operative.”

  “Oh, good. I guess that means he’ll be supplying us with a set of fingerprints.”

  “No, it does not.”

  “And I guess it means he’ll be handing over that video of the house he took.”

  “No, it does not. Not if it’s been recorded over.”

  “Are you available for another meeting tomorrow morning at ten?”

  “No. I’m in court. What possible reason could there be for another meeting?”

  “There isn’t. I just wanted to hear you say no one more time. Something about the way you say it, Counsellor. I just can’t get enough.”

  “Keep breaching my client’s charter rights and you’ll be hearing it a lot more.”

  16

  CURTIS CARL WINSTON, WHO CALLED himself Papa, knocked on the bathroom door. He had disabled the lock, but he gave it a moment before entering. The old man was standing in the corner, hands folded before him, secured by the plastic ZipCuffs that bound his thumbs. He stood erect, a certain nobility to his posture, but even this impressive front couldn’t hide his fear. Much that was wrong in the world could be traced to a shortage of fear, and Papa did what he could to supply it.

  “How are you doing, Lloyd? Got enough to read?”

  “Mister, I’m seventy-five years old. Why don’t you just take what you want and leave? I can’t do anything about it.”

  “Did you have enough to eat?”

  “Yes. Look, I’m an old man, I can’t sleep in a bathtub.”

  “If there was room for a mattress in here, I’d requisition one for you, but there isn’t. And I can’t have you needing the bathroom every five minutes, can I?”

  “Lock me up in the master bedroom. It’s got the ensuite.”

  “And probably a lot of sharp objects. I’ll think about it. I don’t want to cause you unnecessary pain.”

  Papa gestured at the door. He walked the old man down to the basement office and sat him in front of the computer.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here,” Lloyd said. “Or what you want.”

  “Let’s just say winter camping gets a little hard on the nerves, Lloyd—even when you know what you’re doing. Like everybody else in the world, we appreciate warmth and comfort.”

  “Uh-huh. And how long
are you planning on staying?”

  “That’s strictly need-to-know, Lloyd. You’re not going to be able to type with the cuffs on. If I take them off, you’re not going to give me trouble, are you? I need your word on this.” He placed a hand on his sidearm.

  “How am I going to give you trouble? You’re the one with the platoon.”

  “Just give me your word, Lloyd.”

  “No trouble. You have my word.”

  Papa bent and undid the cuff.

  The old man rubbed his thumbs and placed his hands in his lap.

  “Call up your calendar.”

  Kreeger put his bony hand over the mouse and did so. The screen lit up with the month of December.

  “You’re shaking, Lloyd. You don’t have anything to be afraid of. I have no intention of hurting you. None whatsoever.”

  “It’s a frightening thing to have your home invaded.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But it had to be done.” He squeezed the old man’s shoulder. Thin cord of muscle. “Relax. Really. I’m not a violent person. I wish I could convince you of that, but I understand you’re going to be skeptical. Who’s Greener and Greener, coming on Thursday?”

  “Landscaping outfit.”

  “Why would you have landscapers coming in December?”

  “An estimate. Work they’re going to be doing in the spring.”

  “Send them an e-mail and cancel.”

  The old man called up his e-mail and addressed a message.

  Gentlemen,

  Something has come up and I have to cancel Thursday.

  “Don’t just cancel. Make some arrangement to reschedule. Otherwise they’ll keep calling.”

  The old man typed a little more. He was surprisingly good with the computer.

  I’ll give you a call early in the new year and we’ll arrange another time. I apologize for the inconvenience.

  Sincerely,

  Lloyd Kreeger.

  “Good. Hit Send. You’ve got two more appointments this week. Do the same with them. Then we’re going to set up an Out Of Office reply. Not that you get a lot of e-mail. Bit of a recluse, Lloyd?”