Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  “Nonsense!” he hissed, shaking his head. “She would still spit on you.”

  His heart dropped into his stomach when he realized that Newsome was no longer in the whirlpool tub. She was just entering the pool house. Knight crawled out of the cedar shrubs and dashed for the building.

  Inside, it was dim so he pulled out his Taser gun and used the laser sight to help illuminate his way. He found Newsome in the shower, singing loudly with her back to him. He raised the weapon until the red dot of the laser was between her shoulder blades. He was about to pull the trigger and blast twin electrodes into her flesh, stunning her with a 50,000-volt charge. He was eager to try the Taser, but it seemed like a waste of a cartridge, so he changed the setting on the pistol, stepped forward until he was close enough to touch the weapon to her skin, pulled the trigger and touch-stunned Newsome. She cried out and dropped to tiled floor of the shower. Her body writhed, convulsed, and became still.

  Knight turned off the shower and used a towel from a nearby rack to dry off her face. He quickly retrieved the duct-tape and zap-straps from his backpack. In less than a minute, Newsome’s hands were tied behind her back and her mouth was taped shut.

  He sat next to Nicole and ran his hand down the length of her thigh. His thoughts were in turmoil. He wanted to run from the building and leave Morgan Creek. He couldn’t forget the past, couldn’t pardon Newsome, but his old feelings for her remained in his heart.

  “A childish crush,” he said aloud. Newsome jerked, her eyes opened and she began to struggle against her bonds. He fumbled in the backpack for the tools of sentencing.

  “I thought you were different, Nicole. I thought you liked me back in school. Remember those times you talked to me in homeroom? You told me about your mother’s boyfriend, how he looked at you, how he tried to get with you when he was drunk, and how horrible it made you feel. I don’t know why you shared those things with me. Maybe because I seemed so non-threatening.” He stood and walked around the shower room. “I cared about you. I felt bad for you.”

  “Then your friends tricked me.” His voice grew agitated. “You watched them do what they did to me. You could have stopped them—could have helped me.” His heart pounded and his body warmed with rage. “But no, you joined in and helped Meneghello do those things to me!”

  His hands were trembling and his breaths came in gasps. He saw the terror in Newsome’s eyes. Tears flowing down her face. She worked feverishly to roll away from him.

  He knelt and cupped his face in his hands. “I’m Damian Knight. I’m strong,” he murmured.

  “I’m Damian Knight. I’m strong,” he said more loudly.

  “I am Damian Knight. I am strong!” His voice increased in volume. “Justice will be swift.” He leaned close to Newsome’s left ear and whispered, “Happy Birthday, Nicole. It’s a good day to die.”

  Chapter 28

  Glancing at his watch, Staal couldn’t believe how late it was. 1:30 AM. It had been a busy night.

  Fraser and Hayes had stopped at Izzy’s Ark, the pet shop. Israel Bandali, the proprietor, acknowledged that Campbell worked the occasional evening and weekend as a stock boy and janitor at the pet store. Bandali reluctantly admitted that Campbell received pet supplies instead of a paycheck, and therefore Bandali had no address on record. Izzy knew that Campbell paid his bills from the proceeds of several newspaper routes and that he was quiet and kept to himself.

  Staal and Gooch studied the time line and bounced numerous ideas as to where Campbell might be hiding. Staal left several messages on Irene Campbell’s cell phone voice mail to no avail.

  Barnes and Wakamatsu worked the television stations and were able to secure airtime on Global and CTV’s late news broadcasts. The story lead the eleven o’clock news and called Nathan Campbell a Person of Interest in the Sean Moore homicide, included Campbell’s Drivers license photo and informed the public of a toll-free tip line.

  Now two hours after the broadcast, the phones remained silent, and Staal stood and said, “Did anyone get anything?”

  Wakamatsu was the only detective who didn’t shake his head. “Michelle Grant, a clerk at Safeway near the lake, says a guy who meets Campbell’s description was a customer twice in the last two days.”

  “Cameron and I will check her out in the morning,” Barnes said.

  Staal nodded and wrote the address of the grocery store in his notes. He didn’t expect much from the evening airings, but this was disappointing.

  Gina Hayes rose from her position at the table and set a clear package of four compact discs in front of Staal. “Almost forgot about these. I stopped by Ballard High, Campbell and Moore’s high school, and borrowed these student-record discs from 90 through 96.”

  “Good thinking,” Staal said, as he inserted the disk from 1995. He ran a search for Nathan Campbell and quickly found his information. Campbell had received A marks in Chemistry and Algebra. The info included the teachers’ names.

  “Gina, could you search his teachers’ names?” Staal asked. “We should call them and see if Campbell has been in contact with them lately.”

  “Did you check for Haywood, Walker and MacKay...just in case the Mounties got inaccurate info?” Gooch asked.

  “U-huh. They never went to Ballard. I looked through yearbooks for ’88 through ’97 as well. Nothing.”

  Staal noticed that Campbell received high marks in every class except for Physical Education, in which he’d gotten an F. Duncan Quinn’s note said, ‘Nathan has not achieved even the lowest levels of fitness and is routinely absent from class.’

  He looked up Campbell’s junior year and realized that the same teacher, Duncan Quinn, had given him a C-, the lowest passing grade.

  Staal remembered his P.E. teacher, Mr. Gore. Gore the Gorilla, Gore was the school football, basketball, and track coach, and had little or no time for those kids who weren’t physically endowed. If Duncan Quinn was anything like Gore, then Quinn could be a possible Campbell target.

  Staal picked up the phone at his desk and called 411. He received a number and address for Quinn. He stood and crossed the office to the coffee machine. He poured a cup, took a sip, and decided to call the retired teacher despite the fact that it was just after two AM. He thought about Quinn receiving a call so late...the guy would be pissed. But if Campbell had Quinn in his sites.

  At his desk, he dialed Duncan Quinn. The system rang three times, then paused, and rang twice more before a voice answered that seemed remotely familiar.

  “Yes,” Staal began. “I apologize for such a late call, but is Duncan Quinn there please?”

  “Who is this?” the man demanded.

  “It’s Detec-” Then it hit him. “Campbell?”

  “Staal?”

  Staal snapped his fingers to get the other detectives’ attention and said, “Hello, Nathan. How are you tonight?” The line went dead before Staal finished his sentence.

  “Campbell is at Duncan Quinn’s place.” He shouted the address, and dialed the Patrol Watch Sergeant and asked him to send patrol units code three to Quinn’s neighborhood, and for the units to wait for the detectives. Code 3 was without lights and sirens.

  Staal drove Rachael Gooch in the freshly repaired and painted Impala. He didn’t believe for a minute that Campbell would still be at Quinn’s home when the patrol units arrived, still it might be the break they had been looking for.

  Duncan Quinn’s home reminded Staal of Irene Campbell’s before her son burned it to the ground. It was a one level, wood and stucco ranch style house, dating to the early sixties. Three patrol cars were parked half a block from the home. The neighborhood fell under the jurisdiction of East Precinct, so Staal didn’t anticipate knowing the officers as well as he would his colleagues from West. Staal and Gooch would enter through the front door with two uniform cops and Fraser and Hayes would take the rear with two more uniforms.

  At the front door of Quinn’s, Staal nodded to Gooch as well as Constables Hamilton and McCloud. Grace Hamilton w
as a second or third year cop, who had a reputation for working by the book. Harris McCloud was even larger than Fraser at six-six, 260. He was a fifteen-year veteran, whose bitterness from missing numerous promotions was as renowned as his former drinking problem.

  McCloud carried a battering ram that Staal doubted the big man would need to break the peeling gray door down. Staal adjusted his Kevlar vest, checked to see that the others were wearing their bulletproof armor and then said into his phone, “You guys set?”

  “Yeah, on three,” Fraser answered.

  “Two, three—GO!” Staal yelled.

  McCloud took one swing with the ram and broke the deadbolt from the doorframe.

  Staal and Gooch drew their weapons, as did the officers. Gooch entered first, followed by Staal and the others.

  “Nathan Campbell! Hanson Police!” Gooch bellowed.

  Gooch and Staal moved through the living room, dining room, and made their way toward the kitchen. Fraser, Hayes, and patrol officers Hartley and Kasson had already left the kitchen for the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  Hayes returned to the hallway less than a minute later to report that the bedrooms were clear. Staal pointed at the door to the basement. Hayes nodded.

  Staal reached to grip the doorknob, and as he flipped open the door, he swung himself out of the line of fire. Gooch made her move through the door, but Staal, thinking it was too dangerous, stopped her. Somebody had mentioned calling in the SWAT team earlier, but now it was too late.

  Staal looked around the kitchen and quickly picked an empty case of beer bottles off the counter. He crossed to the open door and tossed the case down the stairs. Staal hoped the clash of glass would startle Campbell enough for cops to get down to the basement without drawing gunfire.

  A second after the bottles hit the concrete basement floor, Staal was at the foot of the stairs waving his Glock across the open area. The eight cops used their powerful Mag-Lite flashlights to light the dusty basement, but there was no sign of Campbell. The basement was smothered in stored junk.

  “Fuck!” Staal said. “Campbell wasn’t here when I talked to him.”

  “What? He was here, Jack.” Gooch asked. “Campbell just slipped away?”

  “He must have call-forwarded this line to a cell or something. He couldn’t have gotten out of the neighborhood so fast.”

  “I don’t know, Jack,” Gooch said. To McCloud she asked, “How soon did you arrive after the call came in?”

  McCloud looked down at Gooch with an agitated look on his face. “Hartley and Kasson were first on the scene.”

  “Hey, Red,” Gooch said to Hartley. “What was your response time?”

  Red Hartley had started with the HPS in the early 70s. He had seen many changes in that time, including the hiring of the first women patrol officers. He had lost his wife to Cancer, his hair to old age, and his patience for cops hired and promoted only to fill a quota of minorities.

  “What are you saying, Sarge?” Hartley was clearly pissed off. “That me and Dave screwed around before we rolled on this?”

  “No, Red, nothing like that. We just need to know how long after the call came in you got here,” Gooch said. Staal always marveled at her ability to cool a situation.

  David Kasson walked over to where his colleges stood. Kasson had the body of an athlete and the looks of a soap star. “We were close by, Gooch. Coffee time. Dispatch said it was a possible homicide suspect, so we hauled ass. We rolled up here less than five minutes after we got the call.”

  “All right, so we’re talking about six maybe seven minutes after I talked to Campbell,” Staal remarked. “Okay, yeah. Lots of time for that little shit to bolt after I called.”

  “Jack?” Gooch was looking at him. Staal could tell she was assessing him and his comments about patrol response time. He nodded his was okay.

  “If we’d seen anyone running or spinning tires, we would have stopped them,” Hartley added.

  “There’s a Ford sedan in the garage. We’ll have to check with the DMV to see if Quinn had any other vehicles,” Staal said.

  “You hear that?” Hartley said.

  Staal heard a muffled bang-bang. “Yeah.” He walked around the basement slowly, holding a hand up for quiet. .

  “There it is again,” Kasson said.

  “Shhh. Duncan Quinn! Are you here?” Staal called.

  Bang-bang.

  Staal noticed that the north wall of the basement was boarded up. He hurried to the wall. “Shine your lights over here!” He pounded on the wall twice with his fists. Bang-bang, came the response. “Shit. Everybody look for a pry bar or something to pull this crap off.”

  Within a minute, McCloud and Fraser were using hammers to pry off the boards and Staal crammed a crowbar repeatedly into the mishmash of plywood. Kasson used an electric drill to remove the drywall screws that held the entire barricade together. Three minutes later, the barrier came down and Staal was picking at the door handle mechanism with a small screwdriver, as the knob was gone.

  “Got it.” Staal hauled the door open and quickly flipped on his flashlight. His nostrils met with a stench of human feces and urine. He starred into the horrified eyes of Duncan Quinn.

  “Somebody call an ambulance? Sit tight, Mr. Quinn. We’re Hanson Police. You’ll be all right.” He peeled the duct-tape off Quinn’s mouth, then pulled out a penknife and went to work on the tie-straps binding his arms and legs.

  Staal used his light to check Quinn for injuries. He noticed that Quinn’s wrists were bruised and swollen. There was a deep cut above his left eye, with a dried blood trail down his cheek. Staal was no medic, but he was certain the man had no broken bones.

  “I’ve got some bottled water,” Hamilton said from outside the cellar.

  “You want a drink, Mr. Quinn?”

  Quinn nodded slightly.

  Staal popped the cap off the water and held it to Quinn’s lips. Quinn slowly took a sip, then gripped the bottle tightly, and finished it in two long gulps.

  “Who did this to you, Mr. Quinn?”

  “A former student of mine—from the mid nineties—Nate Campbell,” Quinn gasped.

  “How long were you in here?” Staal helped Quinn to his feet and helped him to a ratty couch in the center of the basement.

  “I believe this is the second night...I’m not sure.”

  “Have you had any past contact with Campbell, Mr. Quinn?” Gooch asked.

  “I haven’t seen him since his graduation.” Quinn leaned forward on the couch and covered his face with his hands. “I—I pushed kids like him to do better, you know? To put down the vid-video games and get active—to fit in.”

  Gooch signaled the patrol officers to leave the area. Quinn broke down and began to cry.

  Staal felt a new level of hatred for Nathan Campbell. Three dead women, Sean Moore, and now this poor man reduced to a weeping, trembling mess. His only crime was spending a career passing on his knowledge of teamwork, camaraderie, and physical fitness to hundreds of teenagers.

  Gina sat beside the teacher and placed her arms on his back and shoulder. “It’s okay Mr. Quinn. It’s over now.”

  While Hayes worked to consol Quinn, Staal called Wilson Drummond and informed him that his talents were needed at the Quinn residence.

  “I hardly knew him,” Quinn said, wiping his face. In the distance, the ambulance siren wailed. “He was only in a couple of my classes. I don’t understand this.”

  “He’s not well, Mr. Quinn,” Staal said. He was about to ask Quinn if there was anyone that he could call, when he heard Gooch’s cell-phone ring. Something about the hollow chirp-chirp of the tone told Staal that it wasn’t good news.

  Gooch told Max Barnes about Duncan Quinn and then she listened for about a minute before she spoke again. “Okay, Max. We’ll roll as soon as the ambulance arrives. Yeah, Fraser and Hayes are here with me and Staal.”

  Suddenly, Staal felt nauseous again. He knew that he would soon have the displeasure of working yet a
nother one of Nathan Campbell’s murder scenes.

  McCloud’s booming voice invaded Staal’s thoughts. “Paramedics are right behind me.”

  “Kenny, Gina, Jack. We got to go,” Rachael Gooch said.

  Outside, the three detectives stood on the front lawn waiting for Gooch to relay what she had learned from Barnes. Staal broke the silence. “Birthday Boy?”

  “Yeah,” Gooch said.

  “Shi-it!” Fraser added.

  “Amber Newsome-Wright,” Gooch’s voice sounded mechanical. “Over in Morgan Creek.”

  Chapter 29

  The Impala’s engine roared as Staal drove hard under lights and sirens. He was familiar with Morgan Creek and he knew normally the community would be in darkness at 4:30 AM. However, Staal saw that several homes were already lit as the residents were roused by police activity.

  “Does Barnes have IHIT rolling?”

  “No, Jack; not yet. I think Barnes is tired of dancing to that tune. He’s going to hold off for as long as he can.”

  At the main gate of Morgan Creek, Staal pushed the intercom button and said, “Hanson Police.” Once inside the entrance, Staal stopped at the security hut. The guard stepped up to the Impala and nodded when he Staal flashed his badge.

  “Already have three units up there at 44,” the guard said. The man looked familiar to Staal. He had to be over sixty with gray hair and a trim build. Most likely, he was a VPD retired. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “You’re Andy MacNaughton, right?” Staal remembered him. He was career uniform and a good cop.

  “Yeah. You’re Travis Staal’s son?” MacNaughton said, smiling.

  Staal nodded. “Andy, I need you to keep this as quiet as possible. Tell the media and any nosy residents that you don’t know what the hell is going on. If a reporter pushes you, tell him to call HPS media relations.”

  “I heard that. Tell your Dad I said hi.” MacNaughton stepped aside and waved Fraser on, as well.