Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  “Do you know what Sam drives, Saunders?”

  “Yeah, a white van with the gallery logo on it.”

  “Can you see it, the van?”

  A pause. “Yep, it’s here, too, and it looks fine.”

  “I think you should make an entry, Saunders. I got a bad feeling about what’s inside.”

  “I agree, Detective. I’ll call you in five minutes.”

  Staal’s phone buzzed again less than two minutes later. “Detective Staal? (crackle) Oh, Jesus!” (hiss) Saunders’ voice was overwhelmed with emotion and the cell connection was weak and noisy. “I’ve (sputter) seen anything like this, (sizzle-spit-crack) –awful!”

  “What’s wrong Saunders?” (snap-hiss) “Constable?” The phone went dead and the display read, signal lost.

  * * *

  Knight washed down the last mouthful of toast with a gulp of cold juice. He set the serving tray, dishes, and flatware on the floor and sprawled out on the king size bed. Suite number 4 was the honeymoon suite at the Bed and Breakfast and he had just enjoyed the complementary breakfast that came with the suite. The meal was no continental rip-off; it included two eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns, fresh orange juice and tea.

  The suite was over 600 square feet. It had an incredible ocean view from the deck, and he could see the outer Gulf Islands. The fireplace was lit and the television was on and tuned to VH1. He wished he could stay forever, and now that his mission had ended he could, or at least until his cash reserves depleted. His plan was to stay for most of the day, and then leave for the 6:30 PM ferry to Victoria.

  Detective Staal had until six to figure out where he was and to track him down. Knight smiled when he thought of the surprise he had waiting for Staal and his partner.

  “Later,” he whispered.

  Knight wondered if there was an update on his case and so he thumbed the cable remote until he found CTV. After about five minutes of boring chatter, they ran the segment of Staal calling him out. It was the third time he had viewed the footage, and it still made him laugh.

  He stood and talked to the screen. “Do you think I’m stupid, Jack? You think I’d just come a-running if you insulted me?” He threw the remote across the room sending a shower of plastic, electronic bits, and batteries when it exploded on a dresser. “No, Jack. You will come to me, and I’ll be waiting.”

  Knight checked and rechecked that his travel bag was properly packed and ready to go. This was more of an exercise to calm his nerves than a need to prepare an escape. He thought about the sunrise that had greeted him this morning when he awoke. A brilliant orange and red fire scorching the sky before the sun took its place in heaven.

  “I did it. I was strong and I did it. All that is left is Jack Staal and Rachael Gooch.” They couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of his mission. They got in his way. They both refused to understand that he was doing the work that the police couldn’t carry out. He glanced at his watch. It was 9:45 AM. It had only been a little less than two hours since he had completed the judgment.

  Knight had previously visited Sandra Meneghello about a month ago. Although she had changed her name to Delleman, and then to Black, she would always be Meneghello to him. She didn’t recognize him in June, nor did she this morning. During the earlier encounter, he had posed as Dickson Collins.

  During the June meeting, Collins had become interested in the most expensive Stephanie Black watercolor painting in the gallery, priced at $6500. The framed 28x60 inch vista featured a pod of Orcas following a Washington State ferry. One whale was captured in full breach, surprising dozens of passengers watching the pod. A child on the boat was missing the amazing spectacle of the leaping whale, pointing out to his mother a majestic eagle soaring overhead. The gallery included several limited edition print versions of this work, but Collins only wanted the original.

  Meneghello called her painting ‘The Show Off’, and accepted a 200 dollar deposit to hold the piece for a month, until Collins could return with his wife, Angela, to view the work.

  Meneghello feigned disappointment when Collins telephoned and informed her that his wife couldn’t make the trip. Collins insisted that the transaction take place before the shop opened for business. Meneghello agreed that she would have ‘The Show Off’ ready to go at 8 AM.

  When he rang the doorbell, Meneghello invited him in and locked the door behind him.

  Knight let her go through her spiel about wanting to keep the piece for herself, but needing the funds to cover her overhead.

  She shouldn’t worry about money, as he was certain that the value of her work would soon make a sharp increase. He smiled.

  * * *

  Jack Staal used Gooch’s cell phone to call Saunders. The Constable was struggling to deal with what he had found at the Dreamcatcher, and the duty that lay before him.

  “Saunders, is there anyone that can pick us up? We’re using the chopper pad at the hospital.”

  “I’ll come and get you and your partner, Detective,” Saunders said.

  “I need you to seal that crime scene and to make sure that no press or civilians enter and screw up evidence. Can you call someone to come in and get us?”

  “I’ve got Jeffery Snow coming in to protect the crime scene.”

  “Snow?”

  “Yes, Corporal Snow is RCMP, retired in ’01. He has over thirty years in law enforcement. He’ll know how to handle this.”

  “Okay. We’re crossing the harbor. I think we’ll land in about five minutes.”

  Dean Saunders didn’t arrive until ten minutes after Gooch and Staal walked from the chopper pad to the hospital Emergency entrance. He was about fifty years old and in good physical shape. He stood just over six feet tall, with his hair cropped military style, and a thin mustache gracing his upper lip. His face was grim.

  “Constable Saunders. This is Detective-Sergeant Rachael Gooch.” They exchanged handshakes and then got into the Crown Vic. The drive from the hospital to the Dreamcatcher took less than five minutes, but it felt like an hour.

  “That’s Corporal—uh, Jeff Snow standing there,” Saunders stammered, still obviously shaken, pointing to a man in his late 60s or early 70s standing near the door. Snow’s thick curly hair was pure white and he reminded Staal of Leslie Nielson. “He’s a good man. He worked some pretty big homicide cases during his time in Alberta. This isn’t the first time he’s helped me out.”

  After the necessary introductions were made, Saunders used a penknife to slice through the yellow police line tape, and opened the door to the gallery.

  “We can expect the press to arrive any minute,” Gooch said. “I hope to use our crime lab people, led by Sergeant Wilson Drummond.”

  “Our FIS usually comes over from Nanaimo,” Saunders said.

  “Leave the door to me,” Snow said. He moved with the assuredness and grace of a man half his age.

  Staal pulled on latex gloves, handed a pair to Gooch, and then fished in his daypack for a flashlight. He stepped inside the door and walked past rows of paintings and shelves displaying blown glasswork and driftwood carvings.

  “Head toward the cash register,” Saunders said.

  The cash register sat on a four-foot high counter that was about fifteen feet long. From behind the counter on the west end, two naked legs protruded. Staal walked to the counter end and noticed a large painting behind the counter that had a $6500 price tag. Staal could smell urine. He prepared himself for what he was about to see, and then advanced to face the body.

  Sandra Meneghello-Delleman-Black lay facedown. Most of the scene was familiar. Her dress was pushed up to her waist, and Staal could see ligature marks on her neck. Her eyes bulged, a paintbrush jutted from her anus, and her skin-color was bluish. No doubt she had asphyxiated due to strangling.

  “I didn’t know he urinated on them,” Saunders said.

  “This is the first time,” Gooch said. She took numerous stills with her digital camera.

  “I expected it. Lipton mentioned that Men
eghello did it to Campbell,” Staal said.

  Carved in Meneghello’s lower back with a knife were the words, THE DEVIL’S WHORE. Blood flowed from the wounds showing that the cuts were made when she was still alive, her heart still beating. Staal took instant photos of the slash-marks.

  “I never heard anything about the carving or the paintbrush,” Saunders said, his voice wavering.

  “The paintbrush is his signature,” Gooch explained. “He has done something like that on each vic. We never let it out to the media to prevent copycats. The cutting—is something new.”

  Staal stared at the marks and shook his head. The anger and hatred that the cuts represented was unmistakable. Campbell had waited his entire adult life to exact his revenge on Vince’s Girls, and now it was complete. Staal couldn’t help but wonder if Campbell would now go after Sean Moore’s friends, or any other former classmates who had treated him cruelly back at Ballard High.

  “What do you think, Jack?” Gooch asked.

  “Campbell posed as an interested art buyer. I’m thinking he went for that one, there,” Staal pointed at the watercolor with a jumping killer whale, placed behind the counter. “He stopped by a few weeks ago, to canvass the place and to set up the deal.” Staal crossed the room to the painting. “He convinced her to open early this morning and to finish the transaction before any customers came in.” He found a receipt on the counter for ‘The Show Off.’ The name on the bill was Dickson Collins.

  “Meneghello was writing up this bill when Campbell nailed her with the Taser.”

  “Yeah, the probes are here,” Gooch said. “Then he did this.”

  “Jesus Christ. I got to get some air,” Saunders said, turning and walking away.

  “Go ahead, Dean. There’s nothing any of us can do here,” Gooch said.

  Staal had turned back to the body when Saunders called out, “Detectives! You might want to see this!”

  Pinned with a blood-soaked knife to another painting was a note from Campbell to Staal.

  “Shit. Now the little bastard is a poet.” Staal resisted yanking the note from the canvass.

  “Let’s get that into an evidence bag,” Gooch said.

  “Yeah, hold on a sec.” Staal read the note through and repeated it aloud.

  “Dearest Staal. Roses are red. Violets are yellow. My mission is finished. So is Meneghello. True, you rescued poor Duncan Quinn. But, try as you did. You just couldn’t win. So mighty the cat. He goes down to the mouse. Perhaps a rematch, Jack. Back at the house.”

  Staal could feel his anger rise. He clenched his fists so tight that his fingernails cut into his palms.

  “He’s just trying to goad you,” Gooch said, noticing Staal’s fury. “Relax, Jack. I need you sharp on this. Not all pumped up on testosterone and pissed off.”

  Staal was silent for a minute. Then it came to him. “The little prick is still here, Rachael. The body is still warm. We can catch him before he bolts.”

  “Where do we start?” Gooch asked.

  “First let’s seal this up and leave it for Drummond or the Mounties.”

  The detectives stepped outside with Saunders and Snow, and Staal said, “I need another cruiser.” Saunders nodded. “Mr. Snow. I need you to ride with me. Saunders, ride with the Sergeant. Jeff and I will begin hitting the motels and Bed and Breakfasts. Dean, Rachael. You guys find out when the next ferry leaves and hit the terminal.”

  Saunders protested; he didn’t want to leave the scene. Normally Staal would agree; the crime scene needed to be protected. However, this was different. Campbell was close and Staal needed Saunders’ familiarity with the Island.

  * * *

  Knight glanced at the menu for room service. It was 11:30 and still no sign of Staal and his lady partner. He called the front desk, ordered a Philly cheese steak sandwich, fries and a root beer, and asked for it to be delivered at noon.

  Perhaps the poem was too hard for the cops to decipher. He hoped that Staal wasn’t looking all over the island for him without a clue. He waited for the movie he ordered to be finished and then turned to CTV news once more for information. The talking head didn’t even mention that an art gallery owner had been murdered on the resort island.

  Knight made a mental note to make his future letters more obvious. If Staal didn’t arrive soon, he’d have to come up with another clue letter. He pulled out the writing pad and held a pen, but nothing came to mind. Ten minutes later, he still had nothing.

  He stood and paced the suite, sat to write, and got up again. Still nothing.

  “I’m here, Staal!” he bellowed. “What are you waiting for?”

  Chapter 35

  Jack Staal had copied the poem from Campbell into his notebook and as Snow drove for the detachment, Staal read and studied it. The first section of the poem was nothing more than a jab at Staal. He whispered the line, ‘He goes down to the mouse,’ and then the line, ‘Perhaps a rematch.’

  Staal smiled. He knew that Campbell had researched his past and discovered he was a former boxer. What advantage Campbell hoped to gain with this knowledge, Staal did not know.

  Staal thought about the final line, ‘back at the house.’ He tried to get into the mind of Nathan Campbell, the psychopath. The man who believed he was a vigilante taking down society’s biggest criminals. Did ‘the house’ refer to the neighborhood where Campbell ran down Staal with the Pontiac? Was the rematch the final meeting of the outlaw and the law? Or was Campbell waiting somewhere on the Island, setting up an ambush? “Who the fuck knows?”

  “What’s that, detective?” Snow asked.

  “Nothing, Jeff, and call me Jack.”

  Staal turned in his seat and spoke to Gooch in the rear of the Constable’s cruiser. “Change of plans, Rachael. Campbell is still here, hanging around until we find him. I think that you and I should be able to track him by calling every Inn and B&B and using the names he’s used in the past.”

  “You think it will be that easy?” Gooch said.

  “Yeah, and it will save time rather than driving by all these businesses and frightening the customers.”

  “What do you want us to do, Jack?” Saunders asked.

  “Campbell may run yet. I would like you to check every vehicle parked in the line-up for the 12:15 ferry,” Staal said. “We have several photos of Campbell.”

  “All right,” Saunders said. “You can use my office to make your calls.”

  “When we find Campbell, we’ll call you for back-up,” Gooch said.

  Staal sat at a desk in the detachment office, opened the yellow pages for Salt Spring and Pender Islands, and turned to the section on accommodations. He crossed off any entree that wasn’t for Ganges or Salt Spring Island.

  “I’ll take the Inns, you take the B&B’s,” Gooch said.

  Staal called the Beaver Valley B&B, introduced himself as a Hanson homicide detective, and asked Lynn, who handled the bookings, if she had a Damian Knight, Nathan Campbell, Irene Campbell, Dickson Collins, or Angela Collins. Lynn assured Staal that no one by those names was staying at the Beaver.

  Gooch was having the same conversation with someone else, so Staal looked over the ads in the phonebook. He noticed that several of the Inns had the word ‘house’ in their names, such as The Harbor House, or Argyle House B&B. He circled the Houses, counted the listings, and found that there were eight in total.

  “Rachael? Have you called any that have ‘house’ in their names?” Staal asked.

  “House?” She put down the phone.

  “Yeah, like Tucker House B&B.”

  “No, not yet.” She looked over the listings. “There are a lot of them.”

  “The poem said, ‘Perhaps a rematch. Back at the house.’”

  “Shit!”

  Without further discussion, the detectives concentrated only on the House listings. Staal had crossed off three of them, and so had Gooch when he dialed the Harris house.

  “I understand, Detective Staal. What are the names you want me to check?�
�� Carol Harris said, when Staal told her about the high probability that a murderer was staying at her Inn.

  “Nathan, Denise, or Irene Campbell. Dickson or Angela Collins?”

  “We have no Campbell’s or Collins staying with us.”

  “Damian Knight?”

  “Oh, my. Mr. Knight is staying in suite number four.”

  “Do you know if Knight is still in his suite?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he is. I just delivered him lunch from the kitchen at noon.”

  Staal snapped his fingers to get Gooch’s attention and nodded when she looked at him. Staal got a basic layout of the Harris House, and directions from Carol Harris.

  “Mrs. Harris. Knight is very dangerous. Tell your staff to keep clear of that suite and evacuate everyone staying there.”

  Staal hung up the phone and said, “Let’s go.”

  “I’ll call Saunders and Snow for back up,” Gooch said.

  “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Rachael. Snow is eight years retired and Saunders’s doesn’t look like he’s handled much more than a few drunks and stoners.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Jack. Campbell gave that automatic to his aunt to hold. He could have an AK-47 for all we know,” Gooch said.

  Staal crossed the office and headed for the front door. “The last thing we need is for a local and a retired to get killed while helping us.”

  “Break out the Kevlar, Jack. Let’s finish this,” Gooch said. She took the wheel of the Crown Vic and they pulled out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  Knight glance at his watch, dipped one more french-fry into ketchup and popped the wedge into his mouth. His lunch was satisfactory at best. He crossed the room and exited the door. From the south corner of the deck he could see the parking lot and main entrance to the Harris House property. No Staal. Knight walked out onto Rainbow Road, looked both ways, and could find no sign of the detective. Heat rose from the road and Knight wiped his sleeve over his brow.