Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  They continued to pick through the trash bags. “Check this out, Jack,” Drummond said. “I’ve got not only a box for a cattle-prod, but the receipt, as well. Looks like from an online company.”

  Staal eyed the receipt. “Hmm, I’ve got another receipt here. The bastard bought himself a Taser, too. Looks like top-of-the-line, with a laser sight.”

  “Yeah, I found six four-packs of double-A batteries for it,” Drummond said. “A Taser and an electric cattle-prod...this guy is nuts.”

  “Yeah. I have this bill, too,” Staal said. “Can’t figure it out, though.”

  Drummond read the receipt. “Izzy’s Ark. Three dozen mice, eight large rats, and three rabbits, $167.83. Sounds like it’s from a pet store. ”

  “A pet store? Who the hell buys thirty-six frigin’ mice?”

  “A reptile keeper,” Helen Carter said as she entered the lab through the main door. Carter was Drummond’s DNA specialist. She was approaching fifty, but looked to be no more than 35. She had the face and body of a Hollywood superstar, without the obvious telltale signs of a plastic surgeon’s handiwork.

  “You have something, Helen?” Drummond asked.

  “Remember that fleck of animal skin that was found in Kimberly Walker’s hair?” Carter began. “Well, my contact at UBC sent it along to his Herpetologist associate.”

  “What? What skin are you talking about?” Staal was puzzled.

  “Wong found a strange piece of skin in Walker’s hair,” Drummond said. “We thought it was reptile, so Carter sent it out for analysis.”

  “Why wasn’t I notified of this?”

  “Hold on, Jack. We thought it was just some debris from the scene,” Drummond continued. “We wanted to identify it before we got hold of you ...then you had the accident.”

  “Anyway, it turned out to be snake skin,” Carter said. “Boa constrictor, to be exact.”

  “Weird,” Staal responded.

  “No, weird would be the fact that the blanket that you found covering that sand-mermaid at the Sean Moore scene is peppered with the same skin particles. Boa constrictor.”

  “Shit!” Drummond exclaimed. “The arson investigator that did the Campbell house fire listed something about dead animals in cages, in the basement. I’ll call Captain Hagglund.”

  “Thanks, Helen,” Staal said. “I think it’s time I called Sergeant Gooch and brought the squad in for an update on what we have here. When will the DNA results be ready?”

  “Normally, I’d say a month to six weeks.”

  “Shit—Will?”

  “Four days, perhaps a week at the most.”

  Staal stood back to watch Drummond open a grocery store bag. Drummond shook out the contents and began to unroll several balled up bits of paper. “Jack, I’ve got a business card for ReMax Realty—a Joseph Turner—isn’t that where Haywood worked?”

  Staal took the number from the card and phoned Joe Turner. Turner’s voice cracked when he said that Gabby Haywood no longer worked in the office, and that she was deceased. Staal shook his head. He was right about Campbell and now he had the proof he needed to convince the others.

  An hour later, Staal could do little more with the contents of the trash bags and left it all in Drummond’s capable hands. He had made contact with Gooch and after she got over her surprise and anger about what Staal was up to, she agreed to get the rest of the squad together for a meeting in one hour. By then, he would have a few more test results from the lab and a better theory to present to the squad. He was apprehensive about whether or not his partner would bring Staff-Sergeant Barnes.

  In the coffee room at West Precinct, Staal sat between Gooch and Gina. He was glad of the rest and took another dose of pain medication. A minute or so later, Ken Fraser and Wakamatsu entered the room. Each detective was glad to see that Staal was up and on his feet. Staal began, “You’ve all asked me about what I was doing when Campbell ran me down that day. Well, just recently, I remembered.” He paused when Maxwell Barnes took a seat across form him and motioned him to continue.

  “Sergeant Drummond and I have gathered evidence to support my theory that Nathan Campbell not only killed Sean Moore, but all three of the Birthday Boy victims as well.”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ, Staal!” Barnes said as he stood. “The rumors are true. You are crazy! This meeting is over. Everybody finish your tours and go home!”

  “No, Max,” Gooch stood. “Let him finish. Then we’ll decide.”

  “Fine. You people want to waste your time. Inspector Ross is gonna love this shit!” Barnes moved to leave, but then took his seat again with a scowl.

  Staal nodded his thanks to Gooch, and continued to tell the story up to the point where he was now waiting while Drummond’s people were running the DNA tests.

  “Shit, Jack,” Fraser started the feedback. “If the DNA stuff comes back positive...I mean. I apologize. You were right. But, I—we, all thought you were fucking losing it.”

  “Fraser’s right,” Gooch said. “We should have at least listened to your theory.”

  “No hard feelings; I thought I was losing it, too.” Staal smiled.

  “The shoe prints from the MacKay scene,” Wakamatsu said. “Can they do a digital scan? Does Drummond have that on file?”

  Staal was about to answer when Wilson Drummond made his entrance. “Yes, Detective, my people made a digital image of the Discovery Park castings before the Queens Cowboys grabbed them and we did do a comparison. Constable Carter tells me she is 97% certain that the same person was at both the MacKay scene and the Sean Moore site.”

  “Yes!” Staal stood.

  “It gets better, Jack. We have two prints lifted from a cigarette box and another from a Red Bull can that match those we lifted from those fax machines.”

  “Do we wait for more results, or do we start working the leads right away?” Gina asked.

  “No,” Barnes spoke. “Let’s check the pet store and the realtor’s office for anything on Campbell. Somebody look at the Dot Com that sold the Taser; maybe it has a different mailing address or a post office box. Then let’s run every likeness of Campbell in the papers and the news. Rachael, did the canvass of Campbell’s neighborhood turn anything up?”

  “No, nothing solid.”

  Staal was surprised how quickly Max Barnes switched from calling his sanity into question to jumping on board and barking out orders for the next move. “If we run another Campbell media blitz I think we should leave out the Birthday Boy connection.”

  “I agree,” Gooch said. “There’s no sense in starting a scandal. People are already in doubt of the HPS’ ability to keep them safe. Do we alert IHIT about what we have found?” Gooch turned to Barnes.

  “No, not until you have Campbell in custody,” Barnes said. “IHIT had their shot and I’m sick of watching you people work in their shadow...I’ll make it clear with Inspector Ross.”

  Staal knew he would eventually get the MCS squad to see things from his side. Now, the fact that he had Barnes completely on board left him confidant of finding Campbell.

  “All right, people.” Barnes used his command voice. “Let’s get this little bastard.” To Fraser he said, “Ken, maybe you should pick up the mother again. Lean on her a bit this time. I’ll bet that old bitch knows where her boy has gone to ground.”

  Staal’s cell buzzed in his shirt pocket.

  “Jack Staal? It’s Rudy Vaughn.” Static clouded the line.

  “Mr. Vaughn? You still there?” Staal said as he exited the coffee room, made a left down the hall and found an empty office. “I’m glad you called.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Staal wasn’t sure what Vaughn’s tone meant.

  “Like my e-mail said, I’m looking for your son to help me find Pete’s daughter.”

  “Look, Staal,” Vaughn said, his irritation increasing as he spoke. “The only reason I called was because you’re Travis’ boy.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was on the job thirty plus. So don�
��t go feeding me no shit about trying to find Rebecca Reynolds. I know you’re with VPD homicide. So what you trying to get my son on this time?”

  “I-um.”

  “Dropping Pete’s name like that. I’d kick your ass—if I was still up there.”

  “Mr. Vaughn. I’m with Hanson Police now. I’m doing Wendy a favor out of respect to Peter Reynolds. I don’t care what Jon did—only that he may know where Rebecca is.”

  “You’re not working a case with my boy as the suspect?”

  “No. Nothing like that, sir.”

  A silent pause.

  “So you kept in touch with Wendy all these years?” Staal asked.

  “Huh, well, nothing formal. A card at Christmas, the odd letter or e-mail.” Vaughn took a long breath.

  “VPD is working it a missing person. They’ve got nothing solid and its going cold.”

  “I remember you as a kid, Jack. You loved to hear cop stories. Your old man was so proud. We all knew you would be a good cop.”

  “I don’t care about what Jonathan is doing, Rudy. I think Jon and Becky are still together.”

  “They are...I’ve only got a phone number, they sometimes stay with my sister, Lenora Brand in Toronto—I’ll call her and tell her to cooperate with you.”

  “Thank you. Are you in touch with Rebecca at all?”

  “Wendy hasn’t mentioned her much in at last ten years. I know she had her share of trouble with that child.”

  After the call with Vaughn, Staal stared at Lenora Brand’s phone number on his notepad. He had to find Rebecca and quiet some of the images twisting his dreams of late.

  “Jack, this is where you disappeared to,” Gooch said as she stepped into the office. “You ready to shake down these leads you turned up?” She looked into his eyes. “Concussion syndrome?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay—just dizzy so let’s get at it.” Staal put the phone away.

  Gooch continued to look over his face. “Fraser and Gina are going to have a chat with Irene Campbell, and Barnes is riding with Wakamatsu to the pet shop.”

  “Yeah,” Staal said. “You and I should work on a release to give to the News stations. Let’s cover all the bases and then call in any favors we have with the producers and reporters to get this done right.”

  “Good idea. Maybe we can get something on the late news.”

  Chapter 27

  Kknight watched all 123 minutes of Episode IV on Quinn’s forty-eight inch flat screen television, commenting out loud on which scenes looked good and which appeared out of date. When the DVD finished and the room fell silent, he heard banging from the cellar. Duncan Quinn was attempting to bring attention to his predicament. The old bastard must be bashing his head against something.

  “It’s still only me.” Knight stood outside of the boarded-up cellar door. “No cavalry is coming to rescue you.” He smiled. “Your stupid neighbors believe I’m your grandson, and the mailman thinks we’re renovating,” he called.

  At the stairs he turned and said, “Oh, Duncan. Your Cadillac seems to have an overheating problem. Darn thing just burst into flames.” He smiled, and felt extremely proud of himself.

  He was pleased when Quinn’s second car, an old Ford Taurus, started up easily. He took care of the missing license tags by taking a set off a Honda Prelude located several blocks away.

  He packed three changes of clothing plus the other items he needed for the task at hand. He knew that the Detective Staal and his colleges had discovered that he was responsible for Sean Moore’s death and were looking for him. Moving on Sean was a mistake; he had not fully planned that sentencing. Still, Moore was now crossed off his list, and Quinn’s imprisonment was ahead of schedule.

  Patience and preparation had so far led to the successful termination of McKay, Haywood, and Walker. Best of all, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had their man, had arrested and charged someone else. Knight hated that Zimmermann had received credit for his achievements; but he wasn’t in this for the glory. Those individuals were evil, had done horrible things to him and to others, and he alone had seen to it that they paid their debt.

  It was judgment day for Amber Nicole Newsome. Justice would be swift.

  He didn’t expect the Hoover clicker to gain him access to Morgan Creek; but he tested it, anyway. When he failed to open the gate, he pressed the intercom button and when the guard answered, he said, “George W. Bush 2000.” The gate opened.

  Knight drove the Quinn Taurus around the perimeter drive and through the streets of the complex. He noticed that interior lights shone in most of the homes as well as the flickering blue light of television screens. He checked his watch. It was 8:44 PM. If Newsome stuck to her routine, and there was no guarantee that she would today on her birthday, then she would take her nightly swim at nine PM.

  He grew more discouraged with each pass by Newsome’s home, 44 Creekside Drive. After the third drive-by, he was close to deciding to give up and go back to Quinn’s, as only one light lit the structure, and it was most likely a timed security device. Newsome was not at home.

  Knight parked the Taurus at the duck pond and began to review his alternatives. He could make his way along the service trail, hope to avoid the old bastard and his dog, and take his position in the hedge at the rear of #44. Or he could strip down to his shorts, tie a sweatband in his hair and make as many laps of Morgan Creek in the guise of a jogger, until Newsome returned from her night out.

  He decided on the second plan. While he jogged north along Creekside, he listened to Friday night’s network programming, couples coupling, others fighting and a party at #77. He turned right down Norfolk Avenue and then made another right up the service trail. At the end of the trail, he made his third right on Dominion Avenue and a fourth on Creekside. This was his circuit, and he could keep it up all night if he had to. He ran the streets, and walked and rested on the trail. After his third lap, he used the cover of the trail to pull gray sweats over his shorts and a Mariner’s cap over his band. Every three laps he would alter some aspect of his clothing, put on or take off the backpack, sometimes use earphones, and often change his direction of travel.

  After countless laps, he was out of breath, his legs were numb, his feet ached, and he was drenched in sweat. He sat just outside of lot 44, in the trail near the hole in the cedar bushes. He drained his water bottle and finished his last energy bar. It was almost one AM.

  His mind wandered to his freshman year in high school. January had been unusually cold and snowy that year. Sean Moore had waited just outside the school grounds, coming at him from behind and knocking him down. Several other guys joined in pummeling him with snowballs, blasting his face with particularly hard clumps of ice until his nose bled and his eyes swelled. He could still hear the gang’s taunts and feel each ice ball strike his body.

  “Get him, Byron,” Moore yelled. “Nail his homo ass.”

  Knight’s muscles clamped up so tight with anger and frustration that he trembled. He wiped a drip from his nose and was shocked to see that it was blood. He drew in long calming breaths until his heart rate returned to normal.

  A new light flicked on at the Newsome home. He heard soft music and a man’s voice. Could it be Gregory Newsome had returned from Paris for his wife’s birthday?

  “Or is the whore is cheating on the good captain?” he whispered.

  Crawling through the opening, he hesitated for a moment. If he was discovered, he would construct a story about losing his dog, he decided. He pushed forward until he could see directly into the kitchen. The sliding door to the yard was open enough for him to overhear their conversation.

  “Why don’t you stay and have another drink?” Nicole said, her voice slurred as if she was drunk.

  “I’d better be going, Nicky,” the man replied.

  “Come on, Todd. Don’t you wanna do me?” She giggled and staggered forward into Todd’s arms and then knelt before him and fumbled with the zipper of his pants.

  “Nicky, this isn’t going
to happen. Greg is my best friend and Sheila is yours.” Todd turned away from Nicole and only paused to say goodnight before he headed toward the front door.

  “Fine! Your loss, Todd!” Newsome crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator and removed what looked like a bottle of wine. She picked out a wineglass before she stumbled out the sliding door and shuffled toward the hot tub. Her bleached hair was tumbled. Her black dress was cut low in front to show maximum cleavage.

  At the edge of the hot tub, she set the bottle and glass down and reached behind her back. A second later her dress slipped to the ground. She wore no brassiere, and didn’t hesitate to wiggle out of her pink G-string panties. Before Knight could get a peek at her pubic thatch, she slipped into the bubbling water.

  He glanced at his watch. It was 1:14 AM. He couldn’t believe how seductively Newsome had dressed for her birthday get-together. How she had thrown herself at her husband’s friend. She hadn’t changed at all since her teenage years.

  Knight watched Newsome pour a second glass of wine and then down it in one swallow. She began to pour a third, then tossed the glass away and then tipped the bottle to her mouth.

  After several long mouthfuls, Nicole placed the half empty bottle at the edge of the tub and leaned back against an inflated headrest. Her left hand moved in a rhythmic motion. She tilted her head and moaned. Faster movements brought louder sounds of pleasure. She grabbed the bottle with her free hand, brought the neck to her lips, took a lasting pull, and then licked the tip feverishly. Tossing the bottle aside, she used both hands between her thighs until her groans grew louder and stopped abruptly with a long sigh. She began to sing to herself.

  “Happy Birthday. Hap-py Bird-day to me. Happy bird-day to Nicky.” She reached for the wine bottle and swore when she discovered the bottle was empty.

  Knight sat back. Should he call the whole thing off? Was Nicole Amber Newsome just a lonely, pathetic soul like he was, and not the evil monster he had always thought her to be? She’d begged Todd for affection and then masturbated like some hormone-crazed teenager. Her husband was ten thousand miles away and no doubt sleeping with half of his flight attendants.