Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

“What’s that, Jack?” Gina asked. “Is that bothering you?”

  “No, I, uh…” A flood of thoughts rushed through Staal’s mind. “That cab driver, from the tip line, Dhalliwal. He picked up a fare two blocks from the Walker scene, who did not want his ride entered in the computer. He was about Birthday Boy’s size, spoke with a fake sounding accent, and was dropped off near the Thirsty Gull Pub.”

  “Yeah, so what are you saying, Jack?”

  “We know that Campbell was at the Gull that night getting into it with Sean Moore. We are pretty sure that Birthday Boy is around five-seven, takes a size eight shoe and smokes Marlboros.”

  Gina nodded.

  “Will Drummond’s guy took shoe-print casts—size eight at the Moore scene and bagged five Camel butts. I saw a Camel pack at Campbell’s mother’s place.”

  “So?”

  “The casts were size eight, and Sean Moore was ambushed, like the three women. The killer knew he would be in the park at that time of day. He doesn’t just shoot or stab his victims—he takes his time—learns their routines and then makes his move.

  “Jack, this is crazy. Nathan Campbell isn’t Birthday Boy.” Gina stood up.

  “I don’t know. It feels right to me.” He searched his mind for the key to his gut feeling. He remembered the Damian Knight faxes and the video surveillance tape and the old timers and....

  “So, Campbell smokes Marlboros when he is killing women on their birthdays, and then, to throw us off, he switches to Camels when he whacks guys from his school days?”

  “Shit, Gina. It’s just a theory.”

  “Jack, they got him,” Rachael Gooch said, entering Staal’s room.

  “Who, Birthday Boy?” Staal tried to sit up, then fell back in pain.

  “Antoski’s team came on the case, full time,” Gooch said.

  “There was another Birthday Boy victim on the third,” Gina told him.

  “What? Shit! Where?”

  “This time it was different,” Gooch said.

  “Different, how?”

  “She’s alive, Jack,” Gina said.

  “Alive! Did you get a description? What about a composite photo or a sketch?”

  “IHIT had it all. We were on the sidelines,” Gooch said.

  “This time he changed MO’s. Got sloppy—fucked up,” Gina said.

  “How?”

  “The Teams were able to recover a semen sample and they pulled a latent off the vic’s hardwood floor.”

  “A print?” Staal had always been sure that his killer wore gloves. “Did it hit?”

  “Yeah. Harold Zimmerman, 36, lived over near Chinatown in Vancouver. Did time for sex assault on three occasions. The first when he was nineteen. Been out on parole for almost two years.”

  “No match to anything we lifted from the other scenes or the Fed-X machines?”

  “No, Jack. There were no other hits.”

  “Who broke the case?”

  “Peter Woolworth and Hank Berger-Johnson.”

  “Shit!” Staal said. Berger-Johnson and Woolworth were brand new to the case from Sergeant Antoski’s Team. “They picked up Zimmerman?”

  “Yeah, and three days later the DNA from the rape kit came back a match.”

  “What about the object rape?”

  “Nope, no sign of it this time. Penile-anal penetration and ejaculation.”

  “Unbelievable. We don’t find as much as a flake of dandruff, and now they get a DNA match.” Staal tried again to sit up and paid for his mistake with a wave of nausea. “Did he leave his signature, the stick?” Anger entered his voice. This wasn’t a Birthday Boy case.

  “No, Zimmerman said he was distracted when he heard a siren, and left,” Gooch said.

  “Did he use the belt ligature? Was it even her fucking birthday?”

  “Jack, calm down,” Gina begged. “Yes, he used the belt and yes it was her birthday. Plus, Jim Dell picked him from a line-up.”

  “Dell? Fucking Dell picked out Douglas, too!” Staal took a long breath. “I’m sorry, but this all smells a bit off to me. I mean, Birthday Boy is a freak, but he never made a mistake. We found the Marlboros because he wanted us to. He knew we’d get DNA, but he doesn’t give a shit because he knows we have nothing for comparison. Our guy has no record—I’m sure of it.” He waited for any arguments and then began again. “And, shit, didn’t we all agree that our guy is impotent?”

  No answers. No debate.

  Staal ran his free hand over his face. “Who is this vic? Any connection to the others?”

  “She’s Eleanor Peck,” Gooch said. “Twenty-seven, a fourth grade teacher. And as with the first three victims, no immediate links to the other women.”

  “Let me guess, this Zimmerman confessed to killing Walker and the others.”

  “You got it, Jack. He drives for Coast Parcel Service and admits that he met all of the women during deliveries over the last eighteen months.”

  “Why on their birthdays?”

  “Zimmerman says his stepmother sexually abused him for years and that it started on her birthday. Says she used her belt to choke him until he passed out and then did her thing. Apparently, Zimmerman used a dildo on the victims because he knew that we had his DNA on file. Then after a while using the phallus just wasn’t enough. He needed penetration.”

  “Any reason for graduating to murder this time? He didn’t kill until McKay, right?”

  “Yeah, Jack, that’s right. McKay was his first homicide. Zimmerman said that he never meant to kill McKay. But afterwards it seemed like the thing to do because he didn’t want to be identified.”

  Staal took a minute to let all that he had learned sink into his mind. He thought about how perfect the first murders had been perpetrated. Only a few denim and wood fibers turned up to go with the footprints and cigarette butts. The evidence was circumstantial at best. The missing signature nagged at him and he wondered what the big-shot profilers at the FBI would say about a killer who suddenly stopped leaving his calling card. Staal was certain it almost never happened, even when the bad guys knew the cops were closing in; they always left their trademark. These types needed to get credit for the kill.

  “I would like to call up Woolworth and Cheeseburger and congratulate them for taking a serial rapist off the street,” Staal said.

  “A rapist, Jack?” Gooch asked.

  “Yeah. Zimmerman is no killer. He didn’t kill Peck because that’s not his deal. He didn’t leave the signature because he didn’t know about it. Why didn’t we tell the media about the killer’s calling card?” Staal’s agitation increased, and as it did, his headache amplified, slicing through his skull.

  “Because we wanted to be able weed out any potential copy-cats,” Gina said.

  “Right...fuck!” Gooch swore.

  Staal nodded. He knew that convincing Gooch and Hayes that Zimmerman wasn’t Birthday Boy was one thing; persuading them that the true killer was Nathan Campbell was another. A custodian entered to empty the waste bins in the room. Staal saw two large bags of trash in his minds eye; but he could not recall the significance of the vision. Nurse Breen appeared with his dose of pain medication.

  When the door opened again, a tall thin woman, approximately fifty years old, entered the room and Staal quickly recognized her as the HPS department shrink.

  “Dr. Connelly,” Staal said. “Good to see you.”

  Gina and Rachael smiled and then made their departures.

  Janet Connelly was forty-five, but she could pass for ten years older. Her hair was gray and her skin had an unhealthy pallor. She was professional to a fault and didn’t waste any time. He remembered she had been meticulous during the interview she had conducted before he started with Hanson Police.

  “Jack, are you experiencing any symptoms?”

  Staal cringed inwardly. This woman could shut the door on him as an active field-investigator. “No, nothing.”

  “No, flashbacks, dreams, anxiety, depression or situational

  avoidan
ce?”

  He shook his head. The Stanley Park shooting may have threatened his career, but it hadn’t placed him in any real personal danger. He was never going to accept a diagnosis that made him out to be a victim.

  “You mentioned anger—outbursts in the past. Nothing like that?”

  “Nothing more than usual cop stuff.”

  “You sure?”

  He paused for a moment to decide if she was trying to trap him.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Jack, I have an incident report of unprofessional conduct and insubordination between you and Inspector Benjamin Ross.”

  “Ross filed a complaint?” That prick.

  “No. When I spoke with Inspector Ross he said your conduct was exemplary. Internal was told the same—I closed the file, however...”

  “Detective Murdocco has a problem with me taking the lead on the Birthday Boy case, Doctor.”

  Connelly betrayed nothing that would affirm Staal’s belief that Nick Murdocco was behind this line of questioning. “You’ve missed three appointments with me and I talked to Debra Braun—she hasn’t seen you in over three months.”

  Staal looked away, embarrassed. Braun was the director of human resources and stipulated that he keep in touch with her.

  “Not sure how you managed to keep her from informing Inspector Ross,” she continued. “What about the PTSD support group?” She looked him straight in the eye. “Is the coordinator going to tell me much the same as Debra?”

  “Yes,” he said softly. He had only gone to one group support meeting. However, no one there was a ball-breaker like Connelly.

  “Detective, keeping up these assignments was pertinent to you securing and maintaining a position with the Hanson Police Service.”

  Staal took a deep breath and spent the next ten minutes doing damage control. He promised to keep his next appointments with Connelly and Braun, and would attend the support group as soon as he recovered from the accident.

  Chapter 23

  His level of fatigue surprised Staal after five days of unconsciousness. The pounding of his headache seemed to follow his heartbeat. Pound-throb. Pound-throb. The visit from Connelly only served to increase his weariness. He put his hand to his face and pressed down until the pain became manageable. A phone at the nurse’s station rang incessantly, and another patient nearby moaned in his sleep.

  “Jesus Christ!” Staal rubbed his closed eyelids. “Tomorrow’s agenda,” he whispered. “Get on my feet and get the fuck out of here.”

  Staal peeked through his fingers at the clock on the wall. Ten twenty-five. Almost fifteen minutes since Ms. Dolton, the evening shift nurse, chased Ken, Gina, and Rachael out of the hospital. Apparently visiting hours ended at eight PM and Dolton had been alerted to the Detective’s companions by the din of their heated debate.

  Fraser was pleased to see that Staal was awake and had quickly joined in the discussion about Harold Zimmerman and Nathan Campbell. He easily came around to the theory of Zimmerman being innocent of murder; however he drew the line at Campbell’s involvement. None of Staal’s partners would make the leap to Nathan Campbell’s connection with the Birthday Boy case.

  Fraser said that Staal was obsessed with the case, and that his fixation was going to destroy his career. “You keep up that line and the only law you’ll be enforcing is traffic,” Fraser warned.

  Hayes and Gooch agreed.

  “If Barnes or Ross hear that shit, you’ll spend the rest of the year in Connelly’s office,” Gooch said.

  “Jack, we’ll get Campbell for killing Sean Moore. But for now the Birthday Boy case is closed,” Gina said, attempting to calm the conversation.

  Staal regretted now the response he had given to them. “I’ll nail Campbell for Moore and I’ll prove he is Birthday Boy. You people can help or I’ll do it my fucking self!” That’s when Dolton had stormed in and ushered the detectives from Staal’s room.

  Staal reached for the phone on his side table. He dialed West Precinct and left messages of apology on Gooch and Fraser’s machines. He then called home to talk to Gina and heard his own voice on his outgoing message. He left the room phone number and asked Gina to call back.

  Staal decided the trio of detectives must have stopped somewhere for a drink, probable to discus their crazy-assed partner. What if they wouldn’t work with him anymore? What if they told Max Barnes about his theories?

  “Christ, Staal, get a grip!” he said under his breath.

  “What’s that, Detective?” Dolton asked when she entered the room.

  “Some pain meds would be great.”

  Dolton left a glass of water and two glossy white capsules. Staal swallowed them and drifted off to sleep.

  Jack was lying in the street and he knew that Campbell was nearby in his yellow Pontiac. A woman stepped out of the vehicle. Blood covered her face and streaked her blouse from a gunshot wound in her left temple. It was Karen Van Allen.

  Van Allen stood over him. Her eyes were blazing with anger and hatred.

  “You killed my Samantha!” she screamed.

  Staal stared up at the giant.

  “Not that drug dealer—you!”

  “No. It was an accident.”

  “You will never catch Campbell. You’re just like him! You’re a killer!”

  The scenery shifted. He was in the grass, choking and looking up at a medic from Stanley Park. The jogger, his arm dripping blood, was pulling at the medic’s shirt. Uniformed cops dotted the ground, bleeding and bandaged, but they weren’t men; they were the kids from the park. Somebody was yelling, “You’ll be okay.”

  Staal got to his feet and took two steps towards a child. He turned just in time to see the yellow Pontiac racing toward him, with Campbell at the wheel and his Brenda in the passenger seat.

  “Brenda! No!”

  “Jack! Jack, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.” Gina shook him.

  “Gina, what—what are you doing back here?” His heart pounded. He reached for a glass of water and struggled with the overwhelming need to run.

  “I had this feeling that I needed to see you before I went to bed. I guess I was right. You were calling out for your daughter.” Gina handed Staal the water glass.

  “Oh, yeah? It was a really weird dream. I’m glad you’re here, though. I’m sorry about my outburst earlier.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ve been having a lot of dreams lately.” She paused and then said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “It was about the hit-and-run. Brenda was in it. In the car with Campbell. Kind of freaked me out.” He had debated telling Gina about how severely the dreams were intruding on his daily life.

  “Shit. No kidding.” She paused for a few moments and glanced at the wall clock. “You know, about the Campbell thing.” She rubbed his legs.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve had some pretty crazy theories in the past, and well—the ones that you were passionate about—like this one, always turned out. Or moved us in the right direction, at least.”

  “You think I’m on to something?” He smiled.

  “Let’s just say I’m listening.”

  “I need to get out of here tomorrow, Gina. I want to open the file and run it all through my head. Work the timeline. I want to re-interview all the vics’ co-workers, friends x-boyfriends, their mail carriers everyone that might provide a link. Then I want to check out bookstores that specialize in the crap like those Damian Knight novels. One of the shopkeepers will recognize either the composite of Birthday Boy or what we have on Campbell. Then I want to call up the prick who writes them, ah, Dickson Collins.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jack. It’s nice to see you’re feeling better, but Dr. Sterling says you’ll be in here for at least a week. Plus if you get that close to the victim’s families after IHIT has grilled them for weeks one will surely make a complaint to Barnes.”

  “I can’t wait a week. I want Birthday Boy before he hits again.” Staal palmed his left temple wh
ere the throbbing pain still stabbed behind his eye as though some creature worked to escape from inside his skull.

  “Sure, I can see you’re just fine.” Gina said sarcastically. “Barnes says you’re on compensation leave, so that means you’re down for two weeks. Then you’ll have to pass the physical and then a little more shrink work with Connelly.”

  “I don’t care about all that shit. I’m working the case and I need your help, Gina.”

  Staal stared into Gina’s eyes. She tried to break the gaze, but Staal held it.

  “Okay, Jack. What do you want me to do?” She sat on the corner of the bed.

  Staal picked at the nylon adhesive tape holding the intravenous into his arm. He carefully removed each piece and stuck the ends to the bed frame. He then folded the last remaining napkin from his dinner into a two-inch square dressing and set it on the edge of the mattress.

  “I want you to get me the fuck out of here.” He yanked the IV stick from his left arm, reached for the napkin, and used the tape to fasten the bandage over the wound.

  “I don’t like this, Jack. You could really hurt yourself.”

  Staal could see the worry in her eyes. “I’ll be fine. Help me collapse this bedrail and grab my clothes from the locker. Okay, here we go.”

  Staal sat up slowly and felt a spin of dizziness. After a full minute of rest, he gradually flung his legs over the edge of the bed. He slipped out of his robe and pulled on his pants, shirt, socks, and shoes.

  “Jack, you don’t look so good. You sure you wanna do this?”

  “I’m good; just dizzy. We got to roll before that Dolton checks in on me.” He held the rail running the length of the bed with both hands and stood up slowly, testing if his legs still worked. After a moment, he tried a step toward Gina. Big mistake. The room spun and his stomach clenched. His legs buckled and he dropped to his knees. Gina reached out and slowed his decent to the floor.

  “Aw, shit!” Staal turned his head to the right and vomited his liquid diner onto the floor. “Wheel chair,” he hissed to Gina.

  Gina kept him steady and then she turned and pulled an armchair toward her and placed it in front of Staal for him to hold himself up.