“Does Zimmermann have a partner in crime?”
“I don’t believe so,” Staal said. “I believe our killer works alone.” He noticed several more news trucks pulling up.
“If Zimmermann didn’t kill Walker and the others, then who did, Detective Staal?”
“I believe that Harold Zimmermann is a copy-cat,” Staal said. “He never meant to kill Eleanor Peck and so she survived. Zimmermann is a rapist, and as you probably know, has been convicted of sexual assault twice before.”
“Answer the question, Staal! Who is Birthday Boy?”
Deter Hampton from CTV news pushed forward toward Staal. “Detective Gooch. Your department has requested that my station, in fact all these stations, run a profile, in heavy rotation, about a Nathan Campbell. Is Campbell involved—is he Birthday Boy?”
“We have a warrant,” Staal noticed Gooch’s hesitation to field the question, “for the arrest of Nathan Campbell for the murder of Sean Moore, and for the hit-and-run attempted murder of a police officer.”
“Is it not true?” It was Pierce, the freelancer, the reporter that had lied to Staal about the FBI working a shadow investigation. “That you, Detective Staal, and Sergeant Gooch are building a case against Nathan Campbell, as Birthday Boy?”
“We can’t confirm or deny that at this time,” Gooch responded.
Staal noticed that at least five TV cameras were taping, most likely running a live feed to the respective news broadcasts of each station. “Nathan Campbell!” Staal said loud enough to attract the cameras. “You’re a pathetic little puke. You’re a wimp. You still live at home with your Mommy.” Staal pointed to a camera. “You ran me down from behind with your car because you’re a gutless coward.” He looked directly into the nearest lens. “I’m right here, Campbell. You want a piece of me? Take your best shot!”
Rachael Gooch stepped close to Staal and took his arm while she spoke into his ear. “What the hell are you doing?” She led him away from the media gang, through a door into West Precinct and down a narrow hall and into an empty office.
Once he was seated, Gooch said, “Jack! What the fuck was that? You’re calling Campbell out?”
“I’m thinking that if Campbell is busy getting pissed at me, then maybe, just maybe, he’ll make a mistake and come after me instead of his next victim.”
“I don’t know, Jack. It’s risky. You might have pushed him too far. Who knows what he might do?”
“Maybe it will slow him up for a bit. Just enough for us to figure out his next move.” Staal ran his hand over his forehead. “If he’s thinking about killing me, instead of someone like Kim Walker, then we might just be able to catch up to him in time.”
Staal found Fraser and Gina Hayes at the MC table, still answering phones from the late news tip line. Gooch headed for Max Barnes’ office.
“Nice work, Jack,” Fraser said, when he hung up the phone. “Maybe that little prick will come after you instead his next vic.” He smiled. “Love to get my hands on that bastard, you know?”
“Thanks, Kenny. Where’s Waku?”
“Cameron’s here somewhere,” Gina said. “Hey, Jack. You’re up.” She pointed to the TV in the corner of the room.
Staal looked up at the screen and saw himself goad Campbell like Hulk Hogan challenging the Giant to a looser-leave-town match at the next wrestling pay-per-view extravaganza. The female news anchor gave her own take on Staal’s outburst, calling it unprofessional, testosterone charged bravado.
“Just trying to save one of your sisters, lady,” Staal said. He had copies of the two notes from Campbell spread out on the table. He clicked off the TV.
“Ken, Gina, take a look at these notes from Campbell. This one,” Staal pointed to the first note. “Took us to the Regency Hotel over in Abby. I got the room number, 208, from it, too. The second one was taped to the chambermaid. I think it might tell us where he went—or it may be a decoy.”
Fraser read the note in his bass voice. “Good work, Jack-o. You are a topnotch investigator. Unfortunately, I’m that much better. What, did you stop for some Mickey-D’s? Anyway, I’m checking my list, and I have to get my motor running. Perhaps you and the boss lady need a vacation—mom says cruises are great. Lot’s of food, drink and salty fresh air. You need a hobby Jack. My Dad liked to gulf. Try fishing for Salmon or perhaps you’d prefer something bigger...like a whale?”
“The next victim works at McDonalds?” Gina theorized.
“That’s too easy,” Fraser said. “The cruise means something, man.”
“Yeah, I know, but what?” Staal said.
“He thinks he’s better than us, Jack. Better than you,” Fraser said.
“Yeah,” Staal nodded. “The thing about the list. I think he has a list of the victims. Carries it around with him. Crosses people off when he kills and adds more as he goes.”
“Uh-huh,” Fraser said. “‘You and the lady boss take care,’ means that you and Gooch are on the list now.”
“Yep. Get my motor running...it’s from that song, umm. Get your motor running—get out on the highway.”
“The little prick is running somewhere,” Fraser said.
“Mom likes cruises...going by ferry?” Gina said. “To a fishing resort?”
“Yeah,” both Fraser and Staal said.
“A beach resort somewhere—with whale watching tours nearby,” Gina said. “Maybe a bed & breakfast.” She picked up the note. “Look how he spelled golf. G-u-l-f. Like Gulf of Mexico...or the Gulf Islands.”
“I think you’re onto something there,” Gooch said, as she returned to the homicide table. “Start an Internet search using everything you have going, Gina. Look closely at the islands.”
“I don’t know,” Staal said. “Campbell could have us chasing our butts, while he’s still here stalking or killing his next.”
“It does seem too easy,” Gina said. “Why the hell would he want us to know where he is?”
“Yeah,” Fraser said. “Campbell never tipped us before.”
“It won’t take anything to run all this through Google and see if anything comes up,” Gooch said.
“You’re right, Rachael,” Staal said. “We don’t have anything better.” He took a deep breath before starting again. “Campbell went to school with Newsome and Moore, and was a student of Quinn’s. I have always believed that these women knew each other in the past. I’m certain that Campbell has some sort of history with each of them.”
“We need to talk with Newsome’s husband,” Gooch said.
“The husband is grounded in Paris, and supposedly can’t fly until he gets grief counseling,” Gina said. “He’s catching a flight home tonight.” She poured coffees around the table.
“Maybe we should take a look at the book store and that pet shop again,” Gina offered. “Really lean on those guys. Somebody knows Campbell’s hangouts, his routines.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Fraser said. “These phone-in tip lines are getting nothing but every asshole with a short guy beef.”
“I want to go back and have another chat with the Campbell sisters,” Staal said. “The twin, especially. She might know something about the gun she handed us.”
“It’s quarter after one,” Gooch said. “We all might as well try and get some rest and then hit all these angles with a fresh head in the morning.”
Cameron Wakamatsu stepped up to the table and took a seat. “Got three things. First, Drummond says all his preliminary testing from the Newsome scene points to Campbell. He’ll have some DNA in a couple days. Second, Inspector Ross wants Gooch and Staal in his office and man, is he pissed! Oh, and third, I just saw a couple of Teamers in the hallway.”
“Shit!” Staal swore.
The IHIT members had already taken up positions in Ross’s office when Gooch and Staal walked in.
“Detective—Sergeant,” Ross said. “You both know Constable-Detectives Preston Woolworth and Hayden Berger-Johnson.”
“Sure,” Staal chirped.
<
br /> Berger-Johnson and Woolworth could pass for brothers, twins if it wasn’t for the slight age difference. Both were just over six feet and around 200 pounds with cocky, holier-than-thou attitudes.
Staal wanted to grab Berger-Johnson by the lapels and smack him. What was the deal with the hyphenated name? Pretentious bullshit.
“I said,” Berger-Johnson spoke, “this message suggests that Campbell may be bolting to the Gulf Islands. But we have a wit that puts him in Langley—we’re looking into that tip—running the security tapes at a grocery there.”
“We’re not certain the Islands are the place to look,” Staal said. “Besides, where do you start?
“Why not the islands, Staal?” Woolworth asked.
“We believe that the ferry/island angle may be a decoy,” Gooch said.
“You had Campbell at that hotel, but you let him walk right past you, Staal,” Wilson said sarcastically.
Staal tried to ignore the jibe from Woolworth. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the fact that he didn’t have the time or the patience to banter with the Mounties. Staal moved toward Woolworth and stared him in the eyes. “I’ve got a friend with a few outstanding parking tickets, Wool.”
“So, so what?”
“Well, Harold Zimmermann drove a car and so does my friend. Maybe it was Zimmermann and not my buddy that got those tickets,” Staal smiled.
“Fuck you, Staal!”
Staal turned away and left Ross’s office. He walked down the hall to the room that he had previously set up with the strategy corkboard line. Just out the door, Staal heard Inspector Ross say something about needing to talk to him. Staal didn’t respond and knew that Gooch could answer about his actions at the press rally.
In the strategy room, Staal added photos to a new board. This time it was shots of Newsome’s body in the pool house. He pinned several index cards full of notes and important names of Newsome’s friends and family. Staal had a mobile corkboard for each victim lined from left to right in the order they were murdered. The board assigned to Eleanor Peck was set aside because she hadn’t been killed and was not a Birthday Boy casualty. Sean Moore’s board sat between Walker and Newsome.
Staal used colored yarn to emphasize evidence that connected the cases. He used a red stripe to demonstrate trace evidence that linked McKay, Haywood, Walker and Sean Moore. A black thread explained that a denim fiber was found on both McKay and Walker. A green tracer marked the wood fiber present in McKay and Walker. After adding blue yarn to illustrate a common weapon, the stun gun, and a yellow for the footprints found at the McKay and Moore scenes, he posted a 9x11 legend sheet showing which each color represented.
Staal stood back. He knew that correlating the evidence in this manner would not help him catch Campbell. It did, however, help keep all the evidence in mind, and along with the timeline-chart would be invaluable in getting a conviction if Campbell came to trial.
The timeline included names of witnesses, who did what to whom and when, beginning with the McKay murder on March 23, and continuing to July 10 and the Newsome murder. The line included thirty-eight sheets and was taped along the north wall of the room, covering almost twenty feet.
“Fucking beautiful!” Staal sat down at the table in the center of the room, and spread crime scene photos, evidence cards, the ‘Birthday Boy’ fax machine note, and the messages from Campbell during the Best Western hotel diversion.
The IHIT teams were communicating with their counterparts on the Gulf Islands. Staal was convinced that Campbell was nowhere near the island chain that stretched from a few miles off Vancouver Islands’ east coast and south into the U.S. where it was called the San Juan’s. It felt like a diversion. He got up from the table and walked to the coffee room. With a hot cup of the swill that passed as java he sat and re-read the hotel messages.
“Where are you, Campbell?”
Staal felt fatigue overwhelm his entire body. He wanted to be anywhere but West Precinct. He needed to be at home, asleep with Gina at his side and Gilbert curled at his feet purring too loudly. He put his head on his crossed arms and closed his eyes. How long had it been since he had last slept? It felt like years.
Sleep took him quickly and he drifted to a dark room. He heard paper rustling, something moving nearby. Then he heard it; a child sobbing softly. It was so dark he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. The sobbing grew louder, became a piercing wail, until he was forced to cover his ears. He breathed through his nose because of the stench, a cocktail of urine and feces, both human and rodent.
He knew that the child was in that room. He struggled to find it, bumping and tumbling over unknown objects. The screaming continued, and his frantic search went on until he heard a voice call to him.
“Jack. Jack, there’s a call for you,” Gina Hayes said urgently.
“What?” He lifted his head from his arms and wiped drool from his face.
“Some guy calling from Japan says he knew Sean Moore, Nicole Newsome, and Nathan Campbell back in school. He sounds legit, Jack.”
Chapter 33
The phone line was silent when Staal first spoke. “Detective Staal here,” he said. The details of his dream faded away, except for the whimpering child.
“Morning, Detective, this is Charles Lipton speaking. I, um, I knew Nicole Wright, Newsome, I mean. I also remember Sean Moore and Nathan Campbell.”
“You went to school together at Ballard High?” Staal asked. He ran the compact disc of students and quickly found Charles Lipton. He graduated in ‘95, the same year as Moore, Newsome, and Campbell.
“Yes, in 1994-95. The other women that were killed—what are their names?”
“Stephanie McKay, Gabrielle Haywood, and Kimberly Walker.”
“Yes...Steph and Gabbie and Kim,” he paused. “They went to different schools, but I saw them a few times at parties back in early 90s. After grad, over the years I’d bump into them occasionally—you know how it goes.”
“Yeah, sure.” Staal sat up straight and flipped on the phone-system’s digital recording device to tape the conversation. You knew these women back then, Mr. Lipton?”
“I knew of them, but we were in different circles, you know. But, they were tight. Had a gang. I remember that most of all. The clothes and the hair. They called themselves Vince’s Girls.”
“Mr. Lipton. Are you saying that all these woman knew each other back in 1993-95? Because we could find nothing to connect McKay to Walker, and so on. We looked in the Ballard School records and the year books...there are no photos showing these women together.”
“They knew each other, Detective; they were best friends. They were outsiders—hardly anyone knew them but...they met at work—an oriental restaurant. I can’t remember the name.”
“We checked with Revenue Canada, Charles. There’s no record of any of them working together.”
“The owner, he paid them all under the table, Detective. They all worked there and they all had a history of sexual abuse.” Lipton paused. “Mostly by family members.”
“How do you know all this, Mr. Lipton? If you only knew of them?”
“Back in 2005, it was our ten year reunion. Amber-Nicole was the only person I recognized there and vise-versa. We got to talking and ended up going together for about nine months. We broke up about the time I left for London.”
“What the hell is this Vince’s Girls shit?”
“Remember the hair metal band, Black Hed, from the late 80s and early 90s, Detective?”
“No, I don’t.” Staal kept jotting notes as the conversation continued.
“They were like Motley Crue and Kiss, but they never made it big like those bands. Anyway, Vince Black and Tommy Hedley led the group. The girls adored Black, and thus the name, Vince’s Girls.”
“Jesus, Lipton. Why didn’t you come forward sooner? I mean, shit, we could have, we could have—ah, shit!”
“I didn’t come forward sooner because I only heard about the murders tonight.”
&n
bsp; “What? It’s been front page news for months, all across the country—all across the continent, Lipton!” Staal knew he had to keep calm. If this guy hung up. “I apologize for my tone, Mr. Lipton. It’s been a long night.”
“I understand. It might be front page news in North America, but not here in Japan.”
“I see. You travel a great deal, Mr. Lipton?”
“Yes, I’m a consultant. When companies are in trouble, with say, a hostile take over looming, or bankruptcy on the horizon, I go in and clean things up.”
“Okay, I understand.”
“I just completed an eight month stint for an international electronics firm here in Tokyo. I found myself with a few spare minutes tonight, so I turned on the tube. I put on the CBC for the heck of it, since I’m coming home soon, and the main story was about Nicole’s murder and all that Birthday Boy stuff. I saw you, Detective Staal, talking about Nathan Campbell. I remember that little creep.”
“This information is going to be very helpful, Mr. Lipton. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, there is. The leader of Vince’s Girls isn’t one of your victims. Her name is Sandra Meneghello, but when I last saw Nicole she said that Sandra had changed it. Nicole didn’t know her new name.”
Staal could hear the emotion in Lipton’s voice when he spoke about Nicole Newsome. Staal waited for Lipton to gain his composure, wrote Sandra Meneghello on a sticky note, circled the name, added FIND HER, and handed the message to Gina Hayes.
“Detective Staal, I think I know why Campbell is doing these things. Most everyone was so mean to the guy. Especially Sean Moore. There was a rumor back in school that the girls tried to kill Campbell; they beat him up one night at a party.”
“I always believed there was some connection, a motive from the past,” Staal said. “Please go on.” His heart was pounding and his fatigue had vanished.
“When Nicole and I were together, I asked her about it. The real story was far worse than those rumors.”
Charles Lipton’s voice was heavy with disgust. Nathan Campbell was walking home after finishing his paper routes and took a shortcut through an overgrown vacant lot. The lot was a favorite bush-party hangout for Vince’s Girls.
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