Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  “Screw my tone. Word is I have a ghost on this case. A fuckin’ FBI ghost!”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Staal?” Ross stood.

  Staal stepped closer to his boss’s desk. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. The Bureau has been on this case for weeks, maybe since day one. What I want to know is, why the fuck weren’t we told?”

  When Ross began to speak, Staal cut him off. “Gooch, the others and I are legging out this case and the Americans are sitting back waiting to swoop in on any suspect with their big-budget manpower and gadgets. They aren’t doing shit, and they don’t have to, ‘cause they know our every move, and why is that, Ross? ‘Cause someone is updating them straight out of my homicide book! ” Staal’s throat was raw from yelling and his breath was short.

  “You finished, Staal?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, a SAIC contacted me after the second victim,” Ross said.

  “And?”

  “It’s nothing, Jack. Every time a high profile case from here makes their news some cheese-dick agent thinks it’s a guy he’s tracing down in Hicksville, Alabama.”

  “And nothing came of it?”

  “The Birthday angle caught interest from the field office in Jacksonville, Florida.” Ross opened his e-mail. “Turns out the guy they want was estimated at 300 pounds. Uses an eight inch knife with a serrated edge.” Ross waited for his words to sink in. “I hear anything from the Bureau or any other agency, foreign or domestic—you’ll be the first to know.”

  Staal nodded. “I’m—I apologize for my outburst.” He had no reason to disbelieve Ross.

  “Jack, are you okay? Is this one getting to you?” He looked Staal up and down.

  Staal took a long breath. A knot caught in his stomach. One of the key symptoms of PTSD is uncontrolled rage. Ross, as well as all the Command officers was well trained for spotting the signs. Staal had just given Ross sufficient reason to take him off the case. “I’m good, Inspector—just a little fatigued.”

  “I want this one—I need you on this, Jack—your experience,” Ross paused. “Hanson is our town and that little fuck is tearing it to shit!” His eyes were intense, his face tight with emotion.

  Staal nodded.

  “Detective, I understand you were in on the tip line?”

  “Yeah, glad to help out.”

  “Anything there—the Team or our people?”

  “Yeah, we have an angle. The Team went in another direction.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  Staal told the Ross everything he had on Francis Hennessey. He mentioned that someone from Hennessey’s building called in a tip as well as sent an anonymous e-mail of some extremely disturbing photos of his apartment.

  “And the Team has no interest in this Hennessey?” Ross’ face turned from mild curiosity to one of concern.

  “Nope, they’re still investigating Douglas.”

  “Douglas? Isn’t he clear, unless...”

  Staal’s mind began to race. Why was the Team still on Matt Douglas? “Yeah, they have a co-worker at the book store reporting hearing Douglas boast about beating the shit out of some girl at a party.”

  “What’s your take on that?”

  “Can’t imagine Douglas hitting on anyone.”

  Fraser, Hayes, Gooch, and Wakamatsu all glanced at Staal when he returned to his desk. Staal took a long breath, held it and then exhaled as though the action could blow out his embarrassment over the scene with Ross.

  “That shit Pierce said is true?” Fraser asked.

  “A SAIC made some calls after Haywood. It’s nothing. Pierce was just trying to get us to give something up.”

  “Detectives, I have an e-mail from an anonymous sender,” Dana Donovan said. “You won’t believe this shit!” Donavan was a detective in the General Investigations Section. She and Staal had carried on a mild flirtation before he and Hayes began dating. She handed several printed pages to Rachael Gooch.

  “Jesus,” Gooch said as she read. She handed each sheet to Staal as she finished.

  Staal glanced at the photos, and then paused to read the letter from concerned citizen at gmail.com. The note told of Francis Hennessey and how odd he was and referred the attached photographs. It mentioned his strange friend Raven, loud satanic music, and the weird clothing they both wore. It also insisted law enforcement check out a website called DFA. Staal passed the material to Fraser.

  “So what do you think, Jack?” Gooch said.

  “Seems kind of convenient, doesn’t it?”

  “Huh?” Gooch’s expression turned to mild confusion. “Staal, this is a damn good tip.”

  “Yeah, maybe it’s the break we need.” Staal glanced at Fraser. His plan had worked and Gooch was now charged up about going at Hennessey.

  “We could ask the sender for more info,” Hayes said. “Find out how they got these photos.”

  “I’ll return the message,” Gooch said. “I doubt they’ll respond.”

  “The e-mail doesn’t give much on Hennessey. We need to watch him, learn his routines, and if he looks good, get him to come in voluntarily on some bullshit charge,” Fraser said.

  “I agree, let’s get back to running Hennessey. Kenny, I want to know who this Raven is. Gina, maybe you can run Death From Above, the cult, and whatever Ded Can Dance is.” No one seemed to notice anymore that Staal, instead of Sergeant Gooch, took the lead on the case. Staal had gained his colleagues’ respect.

  Fraser nodded and rose from the table.

  Gooch stood, and said she would start work on obtaining a warrant to tap Hennessey’s phone line. She left the table to track down an available Judge.

  Staal sat at his desk and thumbed through his message notes. Of the eight on his blotter, only one caught his attention, a note from Harrison Tate at Global news. The newsroom was leading the evening news broadcast with the Birthday Boy story and footage from the convenience store. Tate wanted a quote from Staal.

  Staal thought about the photos on the walls of Hennessey’s bedroom and felt a pang of disgust in his stomach. The scenes from the photography reminded him of the park dream. He shook off the memories.

  Fraser made eye contact and signaled Staal to meet him at the coffee machine. “When you were grilling Ross I looked at what I pulled from Hennessey’s PC.”

  Staal nodded.

  “That Raven dude who called when we visited Hennessey’s place,” Fraser said. “Real name is Abdul Mohammed, got a local address. Hennessey’s other online buddies—a Stephen Posh and Dwight Shultz—I’m still working on those two. All four are deep into this DFA shit. I’m set up to be alerted when any one of them come online.”

  “Good work, Kenny. Rachael is working on a warrant request for a phone tap. I’ll tell her to include Mohammed, as well,” Staal said.

  Phone taps had come a long way since the days when an investigator had to commit a break and enter in order to insert a tiny electronic listening device into a phone receiver. Nowadays the phone company’s Police Services System could be activated from a cop’s desk. Once a warrant is produced, TELUS could tap and record a suspect’s line twenty-four hours a day, or allow a detective to listen in over a precinct phone. Staal returned to his desk.

  “I found a crap-load of info about DFA. Mostly old stuff from their hey-day. I haven’t come across any law enforcement agency currently investigating the cult or any of its members,” Hayes said.

  “Members? You mean it’s active again?” Staal asked. He shook his head.

  “Yeah. There’s an official website, with a member’s area that you need a secret code to open,” Hayes said.

  “Jesus, maybe it’s just a web thing for losers who got bored of Lord of the Rings and Star Trek.” Staal paused. “But, man, if Birthday Boy is actually a group of killers...” He rose to walk around the room. It helped him to think. “It would make the stalking easier. A couple guys find new vics, while a few more follow the current prey.”

  “They could
be using this secret site to coordinate their movements,” Fraser said. “Shit, I gotta get into that site, man.”

  “The Birthday Boy MO doesn’t follow the old DFA methods, though. Back then, some females joined the cult and were committed members, while others were brought in only for murder in ritual killings,” Hayes said.

  “That’s right. I remember my old man talking about it when I was a rook,” Fraser said.

  “Okay, let’s say Hennessey, or one of his crew, stumble onto the DFA site,” Staal theorized, his mind racing. “They all get into it big time. Talk about killing someone like what they see on the site. Finally, Hennessey finds Stephanie McKay at the DMV, and Hennessey or the group watch her and then take her out at the park.”

  “Nice theory, Jack,” Gooch strode to the table. She had returned from her search warrant request with Judge Matheson. “But we didn’t find any evidence of a group at the park, and I doubt a gang was waiting for Haywood in the townhouse basement.” Her eyes were intense. “And does the Damian Knight book connection fit with the DFA angle?”

  “I’m working on that part,” He paused, his mind racing. “They could take turns killing. Shit! The murders could be an initiation,” he said. “The Knight books thing could be...one guy’s deal...the leader.”

  “Yeah, maybe they’re influenced by DFA, and now they’re doing their own thing,” Fraser added.

  “The birthday fixation could be their point to differentiate from DFA,” Hayes said.

  “What if they all had some traumatic experience on a birthday as a child,” Wakamatsu said.

  “Christ, Wakamatsu. You a psych major, too?” Fraser laughed.

  “All right, I think we’re onto something.” Staal glanced at Gooch.

  She nodded.

  “I’m gonna make some calls, see what I can get. Everybody keep at it. Wakamatsu, get on line and try to break that DFA site code.”

  “I got clearance for a tap on Hennessey, but not Mohammed,” Gooch said.

  “Good we’ll set up a stakeout on Hennessey, as soon as his shift ends.” Staal glanced at clock on Hayes’s PC. It was only thirty-five minutes until 6:00 PM and the full news coverage. He knew that the tip-lines could narrow the search to Hennessey, broaden it to Mohammed, or send the team in a completely new direction.

  Fraser called Staal and motioned him to his desk. “Mohammed and Shultz are online.”

  Staal moved to get a view of Fraser’s monitor. Fraser was online and in an Internet chat-room. Staal looked over the screen and noticed five screen names in the room. “I see Mohammed. Which one is Shultz?”

  “Here,” Fraser pointed. “SkullDigger is Shultz. The other two don’t talk to our guys.”

  “Okay. They saying anything interesting?” Staal asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Fraser said.

  HateRaven- Yo skull. You heard from Blood???

  SKULLDIGGER- Nah the Fuck must be working. You get the mail I sent you Raven?

  HateRaven-Ya. Nice shit. Printed it…it’s on the WALL!!

  SKULLDIGGER- hey. Who the fuck is Chimera? He aint saying shit.

  “Ah, shit! Chimera is me,” Fraser announced.

  “Do something, man!” Staal ordered. Fraser typed in as Chimera.

  Chimera69- You dicks like pictures? Try these!

  Fraser sent an e-mail to Mohammed and Shultz. It contained crime scene photographs from a murder investigation training program. Staal hoped the two suspects hadn’t seen them before.

  “Those are some of the nastiest shit we have on file,” Fraser said.

  The suspects responded.

  HateRaven- Awesome shit!!!! Welcome CHIMERA!!!!

  SKULLDIGGER-That shit is the BOMB!!!

  Chimera69- Glad you guys like it. Got anything for me?

  SKULLDIGGER- Coming up L

  Fraser received an e-mail from Shultz a minute later. “Let’s take a look,” Fraser said.

  The screen filled with image after image of women who had been beaten, raped, slashed, and mutilated. Some appeared to be the same as the ones on Hennessey’s wall.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  Staal turned away from the images. “Get back to the chat-room, Kenny. Remember, you love it all.”

  Fraser nodded and countered as Chimera.

  Chimera69- Not bad. Kinda tame compared to these…

  Fraser pulled up a file and sent some images from the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit. The file contained brutal pictures from some of the worst serial murder cases of the last fifty years. There was a pause of several minutes before Shultz and Mohammed answered. Staal imagined the two drooling over the pictures and saving them for their future enjoyment. They typed their responses.

  HateRaven- Fuck Chim!! These pics are the shit!

  SKULLDIGGER- Hey, hold on a sec—where did you find this? I’ve been into this stuff for years and never saw anything like them.

  Chimera69- Skull you pussy, U just don’t know where 2 look!!

  “I hate to upset this little bonding session,” Gooch said. “But the news is on in two minutes.”

  “Kenny’s got two of Hennessey’s buddies in a chat-room,” Staal said. “I think he should stay on during the broadcast and see what he can get from these pricks.”

  “Agreed. I’ve got Brownie and T-Rod on the phones for this one.”

  “Where’s Barnes?”

  Gooch shook her head. “Dinner break?”

  Staal was about to comment when his phone buzzed. “Corporal

  Chin. How’s it going?”

  “Cut the shit. I’m canceling the tip line.” Chin said, with a sharp commanding tone.

  “Huh, why?”

  “I don’t answer to you, Staal.” Chin hung up.

  Staal made three quick calls. First to Degarmo. She told him that IHIT was still working Douglas. She didn’t know why Corporal Chin had cancelled the tip line.

  Staal began to dial one of his connections in television broadcasting.

  “CBC. Walter Banks Office,” A young female voice answered.

  “Get Walt on the line. Tell him it’s Detective Jack Staal and it’s about Birthday Boy.” Staal pleaded his case about putting the tip line back on for the six o’clock news. Banks was the program director for the CBC British Columbia and told Staal it would be tight but he would have line up in time.

  “Walt can you call your counterparts at Global and CTV and work your magic. I’ll owe you big time.”

  “Damn right you’ll owe me,” Banks promised he would do his best to make sure the broadcasts would air and that the tip-line number would now be an HPS number.

  Chapter 15

  Detectives Thomas Rodriquez and Lenny Brown from General Investigations sat at the conference room table and both checked their desk phones for dial tones. The networks’ opening segments played on the TVs placed on the table and the talking faces began their monologue and banter. Two of the three anchor people were thirty-something women, as were all of the victims.

  All three programs lead the broadcast with stories about the Birthday Boy case. Brown turned up the sound on one television and muted the others. The talking face mentioned the Knight facsimiles; then the composite drawings filled the screen with the perpetrator’s probable height and weight. Finally, the network ran the security tape and an interview with the two old-timers from Westlake Mall.

  Staal grew anxious when the investigation’s lack of a suspect and the department’s competence came into question. Even IHIT was taking some heat. “Just show the damn number,” he snapped.

  “By your command, Detective Staal,” Brown said when the number appeared.

  Staal answered six prank calls in the first ten minutes. Each caller pointed the finger at imaginary suspects, like Bart Simpson or the Boogieman. Staal was unimpressed with their lack of originality.

  “Staal!” Rodriquez called. “Got a guy on line five—talk to him, would you?”

  “Detective Staal speaking. Whom am I talking to?” The line was quiet. Sta
al glanced at the sets. Each aired a fast-food commercial. He was about to hang up when a man in his thirties spoke.

  “Yes, um...I, ah,” the man stammered. “I’m Michael Penske.”

  “Do you have any information on these crimes, Mr. Penske?”

  “Well, I not sure. The tape you ran and the drawing—well they look like a guy at my work.”

  “Where do you work?” Staal expected Penske to point the finger at his employer.

  “The Department of Motor vehicles, on 232nd. It looks just like Frank—Frank Hennessey, the night janitor.”

  “Do you have a beef with Mr. Hennessey, Mike?”

  “No, not at all. He works in maintenance and I’m in customer service, so we really don’t work together. This guy is just strange, Detective. No one here is friends with him or anything like that.”

  Staal wrote down Penske’s name and number and thanked him for his cooperation.

  “Strike two for Francis Hennessey,” he mumbled. His respect for humanity reached an all time low after he took several more calls that wasted his time, including a jerk who swore that Knight was his son.

  “Hanson Police Service,” Staal said to the next caller.

  “Is this the tip line?” a male voice with an East Indian accent asked.

  “Yes. Do you have any information, Sir?” Staal glanced at the call display terminal. “Mr. Dhalliwal?”

  “That man. On the news. He was a fare in my cab a few nights ago.”

  “Which night, sir?” Staal grew irritated. Another waste of time, he thought.

  “June 29.” He spoke again after a long pause. “The night the Walker woman was killed.”

  “Where did you pick him up and at what time?”

  “It was the 1800 block of Second Avenue, around 11:30 at night.”

  Staal perked up in his chair. The address was two blocks from Jim Dell’s diner and the time fit with the murder.

  “Mr. Dhalliwal. What cab company did you say you worked for?”

  “Emerald Cab Company,” he said.