Dead of Knight (10 page)

“You went out to the lane, just to talk to her, but she told you to fuck off. You lost your cool. You hit her. It went from bad to worse. I understand.”

“I don’t know a Kim Walker. I didn’t do anything like that.” Douglas was crying again.

“I can help you, Matt, but you need to tell me how it happened. If you talk to me, I’ll let the Crown know how much you cooperated.”

Matt shook his head.

“Tell me about last night, Matt. I have a warrant to search your home. We both know I’m going to find the evidence there that I need to convict you of murder.” He paused to let his words sink in. “This is going to scare the shit out of your mother, Matt. Eight cops busting in and tossing your place. What will your mom think? Why don’t you spare her that grief by telling me what happened last night?” He paused again. “Think about your mother, Matt.”

“There’s nothing in my house.”

“Nothing, huh? So, I won’t find the belt you used or the clothes you wore?” He reached out and took the cigarette from him. “You know about DNA, Matt?”

Douglas
nodded.

“I bet I find all kind of shit at your house to link you to this homicide. I bet I get a DNA sample off this butt that matches the ones we found at the scene last night.”

“Look all you want. I stole a car last night, a Mercedes. That’s it. I didn’t go to no diner, and I didn’t kill anybody.” Tears streamed down his face.

“Well, Matt, if that’s the way you want to do this. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what happed. Talk to me; right here, right now. If not, then I’ll go ahead and build a case against you so strong that even O.J.’s lawyers couldn’t get you off. You’ll get life in prison.” Douglas looked away. “Suit yourself, Matt.”

Staal got up from the table and walked into the hall where Rachael was still looking through the one-way mirror at Douglas.

“Wouldn’t budge, huh?” Rachael said. “Well, let’s put this warrant to use.”

“Yeah. I’ll have Anderson put him in holding.”

Rachael Gooch said nothing from the passenger side of the Impala. Staal’s thoughts drifted from the impending search to the park shooting dreams. Did it mean something? Why were they happening again with such frequency? He shook his head, rubbed his face, and turned the sedan down Elsom Avenue until he found the Douglas home. His empty stomach growled, begging for lunch.

“We should be handing this over to Degarmo and the team, Jack.”

“That auto-theft crew that our people are working on targets high-end Euro cars and this guy stole a Benz,” Staal said, gaining momentum as his story took shape. “He might be a worker bee for that ring. Douglas could be the piece that brings it down.”

“And IHIT has no interest in auto-theft.”

“Nope. Only if somebody gets killed.”

Gina and Fraser had already parked and were ready to execute the warrant. Gooch took the warrant sheet from Fraser and lead the way to the front door. A woman’s voice answered the intercom when Staal pressed the doorbell.

“Mrs. Douglas, it’s the police,” he said.

The woman opened the door the distance of the security chain. “You are holding my son?” she asked.

“Mathew Douglas is currently under arrest for auto theft. Please open the door, Mrs. Douglas; we have a warrant to search the home.”

After closing the door and removing the chain, she re-opened the door and stepped back. It was almost noon, but she still wore her nightclothes.

“Mathew tells me that you are trying to get him to tell you he killed those women in the news.” Her lips trembled and she shot an anxious look into the living room as she led them into the hall.

Staal knew someone was there.

She turned back to the detectives. “He says you think he’s Birthday Boy.” Her hair was disheveled and her eyes swollen from crying.

“We don’t want Mathew to admit to anything he did not do. He has confessed to stealing a car, and if he committed any other crime, he needs to talk to us now so we can help him,” Gooch said.

“Help him? Don’t you mean nail him to the wall?” A man in a cheap gray suit stepped into the hallway. His face glistened with sweat and oil, and his hair lay slicked back and greasy.

“Who might you be, sir?”
Lawyer
, Staal knew before he even asked.

“This is my attorney, James O’Neal,” Douglas said. To O’Neal, she said, “Can you stop this, James?”

O'Neal took the warrant sheet from Douglas and looked it up and down. “No, Laura. It’s legal. If you attempt to stop these people, you will be arrested.”

Staal and the others pulled on rubber gloves and moved past Douglas and O’Neal. They stopped in the living room.

“Me and Jack will start upstairs in his bedroom. If you guys want, you can begin down here,” Gooch said.

“I ran him at the DMV,” Fraser said. “He’s got a ’97 Civic registered. I’ll look in the garage.”

Gina Hayes said, “Computer over there looks like a place to start.” She moved to a table in the east corner of the room where a bargain brand unit sat with its tropical fish screen saver flickering.

Staal followed Gooch up the stairway. The home featured hardwood flooring in most of the main floor. The stairs and second floor’s thick, forest-green shag carpet was stained and thirty years out of date. The walls had no artwork or paper, only dull whitewash and framed photos of family members.

Gooch wore a dark blue windbreaker with POLICE written in bright yellow letters. Staal carried a duffle bag containing evidence bags, a camera, index cards, flashlight, and a print kit. He stepped into Mathew Douglas’s bedroom. The room was a disaster, the bed unmade and towels, underwear, shirts, jeans, and magazines strewn over every inch of the floor. Staal smelled garbage, dandruff, and soiled clothing.

He pulled his rubber gloves tight, knelt, and slid the mattress and box spring off the bed frame to reveal the filth underneath. “Jesus,” he whispered. Fruit flies rose from the discarded banana and orange peels. “Christ, we should get Drummond to pick through this shit.” He pushed books and food rappers aside and saw a red toolbox. He pulled the first drawer and found nothing. In the second were three hammers with wooden handles. A fourth handle had no head, but the base was tapped for better grip. He picked up the handle to look at the tapered end where a ball-peen or clawed hammer would normally be mounted. The tape appeared worn.

“Is that hickory wood?” Gooch asked.

“Damned if I know.” He placed the handle in a plastic bag.

Rachael held up a black leather belt and bagged it. She removed every shirt, sweater, and jacket and checked each for bloodstains. She then lifted a pair of shoes and turned them over. “What size footprints were in the lane and the park?”

“Eight.” Staal turned to look at the shoes. “Those flat bottomed?”

“Yeah, but they’re nines.”

Staal emptied an ashtray of butts into an evidence bag and then did the same with an empty Marlboro pack. He moved to the bureau. In each drawer, he found more items that could link Douglas to the killings. He bagged black jeans, two bandanas, more leather belts and gloves—the killer had to have worn gloves. Still, he found nothing substantial; no smoking gun, so to speak.

To file charges and convict Douglas, the lab guys would have to find evidence of anal penetration on one of the hammers, or match the leather belts to the trace fragments of leather left on the victim’s throat. Perhaps the shoes would prove to be the ones that left prints in the bushes of Discovery Park and in the dirt and debris of the lane behind Dell’s diner.

Wilson Drummond stepped into the bedroom. “You guys couldn’t wait for me and my people to do this?”

“There’s lots of work left for you. Be my guest.” Staal walked into the hall. “Find me a hair from Walker or something, Will. It’s pretty thin.”

Staal left Drummond mumbling about not waiting for him. He continued down the hall and paused in the bathroom. He looked under the sink and in the medicine cabinet, but found nothing. His excitement waned and he descended the stairs after a quick wander around the master bedroom. He moved through the main floor and noticed Fraser and Hayes talking just outside in the front yard.

Staal increased his pace. “Anything?”

“Nothing major. You?” Fraser flipped open his notebook. 

Staal shook his head. “He smokes the right brand...that’s about it. If we could nail Douglas with dick-squat, he’d be fucked.”

“Maybe Drummond will match a hair to the others or get something off those belts,” Gina said. “His people are still working on the DNA from the saliva on those Marlboros from the lane.”

“Yeah, Jack. Wouldn’t be the first time Wilson made chicken soup from chicken shit,” Fraser added.  

“I don’t know, guys. I think we caught a car thief today, and that’s it. When Gooch is done, let’s head.”

As if on cue, Rachael Gooch moved through the doorway. Her face betrayed similar disappointment. She said nothing as she walked the length of the driveway, opened the Impala’s trunk, and flung her gear inside. Staal added his equipment, and swung himself into the driver’s seat.

When Gooch got in beside him, he said, “I know we have a ton of paperwork and calls to make, but I’m starving.”

“Good call, Jack. Let’s pick something up on the way.”

Staal took two duffle bags of evidence from the search to the lab. He signed a clipboard and made sure the technician receiving the bags knew where the items originated.

The lab tech, Johansson, Staal thought his name was, sniffed at the bags. “Mmm, I smell overtime.”

“There’s lots to go around on this one,” Staal said, heading for the elevator to the detective squad room.

While washing down mouthfuls of turkey sub with coffee, Staal began an Evidence Report Form. He cataloged every item bagged and seized from the Douglas home. He was careful to name and date each bag. Next, he finished his account of the Crime Scene Report from the lane and the Arrest Report for Mathew Douglas. He paused frequently to think about the search. Earlier that morning he had been pumped about Douglas. Now they were back to square one.

Max Barnes stepped up to Staal and Gooch’s desk area. “Anything from the search?”

“Nothing that jumps out at you, Boss. Drummond and his people are still on scene.”

“Did we get anyone to toss the dumpsters from last night, Max?” Gooch asked.

“Yeah, Murdocco and the Mounties went all night and came up with dick.”

Staal lifted his desk phone and dialed Wilson Drummond’s cell. “Will. It’s Jack. Got anything for me?”

“Come on, Jack. You know I’ll call as soon as something comes up. So far, none of the trace evidence is a match. Jaz Gill will work into the night on the hammers and belts you found. We’ll know by morning. I can get him to page you if he finds anything.”

“Thanks, man. Have fun.”

“You working around the team again?” Drummond emphasized around.

“No, just working a possible connection to an auto-theft ring.”

“Sure, Jack. We’ll keep you posted.”

“Douglas lawyered up. So much for going at him again. I’m going to hand him over to Bruce Stenwick in Auto-Theft, Jack. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep,” Gooch said. It sounded to Staal like an order.

“Yeah, we kinda hit a wall.”

Staal ran the day’s events through his mind, hoping to jog loose an answer. He felt as though he had missed something—he shook his head. He hated to leave things in other people’s hands, no matter how capable they were. 

He made his way to where Fraser and Hayes were finishing their own reports. “You guys up for a cold one?”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Fraser said.

Gina smiled and nodded to Staal.

“Instead of Stamps, how about the Thirsty Gull? I know the owner.”

“The press has Barnes, Ross and McEwen trapped out front, so I think we should all slip out the back,” Gina said.

“Barnes will take one for the team. I’ll see you guys at the Gull in thirty. I’ve got a stop to make,” Staal said.

A drink or three was just what Staal needed and he looked forward to meeting with Kenny and Gina. But first, he would take care of a domestic problem; he was out of cat food. On the corner of Marine and Front Streets was a 24-Seven convenience store. He parked the Impala, and made his way through the maze of teens hanging out in front of the store.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He recognized the number.

“Wendy, how are you?” He put several cans of cat food in a shopping basket.

“Jack, I talked to Constable Wallace like you said, and still nothing. I can’t find any trace of Becky.”

Phil Wallace worked in missing persons at Vancouver PD.