Dead of Knight (12 page)

Staal picked up his phone and dialed Drummond. Kevin Ward, an assistant, picked up on the eighth ring.

“Ward? Where is Will?”

“I dunno.”

The dismissive tone of Ward’s voice enraged Staal.

“Don’t give me that don’t know shit! What the fuck, Ward?”

“Jesus Christ, Staal. He’s in the lab. We’re up to our asses in work for IHIT,” Ward said.

Staal hung up.

“I’m going down there,” Staal said to his partner. He grabbed his notebook, picked up a doughnut at the coffee table, and headed for the elevator.

Gina was exiting the lift as Staal moved to board the car. He told her where he was going and asked her to talk to Gooch about the report from Wong. On the third floor, Staal poked his head into each lab room until he found Drummond working the evidence from the Douglas search.

“Staal, don’t abuse my people,” Drummond said while he shaved chips off a hammer handle.

“Abuse? You gotta be kidding me. If you’d answer your damn pager, or let your people know where you’re at—nobody knew where the fuck you were.”

Drummond placed the woodchips in a test tube and added a light green liquid. “That’s no reason to get nasty with Ward. He was quite upset.”

“Upset? That creepy little shit. I’ll tell you about upset. Walker’s kids and sister are upset.”

Drummond continued to work on the wood fibers, ignoring him.

“Do you have anything for me, Will?” Stall asked finally.

“I’ve got nothing substantial to connect Mathew Douglas or anyone else to the murder of Kimberly Walker. I’ll have a preliminary summary of my findings shortly and a comprehensive report finished by the end of the day.”

Staal moved to leave then turned back to Drummond. “Ward is a good technician. I’ll talk to him on the way upstairs.”

Drummond glanced at Staal. “There was a matchbook—I should be giving this to Chin or Pitman—in Walker’s purse. A print came back to a Ronald Matheson. Another print on the watch crystal, Samuel Scott?”

“Yeah, Matheson is the common law husband. The piece of shit was in our drunk tank. Someone needs to follow up on Scott—boyfriend I think.”

“The belts you found. They were all too wide to be from the murders. The cotton fibers from Walker and McKay are denim, and came from the same subject; however they don’t match anything you brought me from Douglas.” He held up the hammer he had worked on earlier. “This one is alder, the other two are oak. As you know we’re looking for hickory.”

“Thanks, Will. Next time I see you and your people at Stamps, I’ve got the first round.”

“One more thing,” Drummond called after him. “The Marlboro butts found in the Discovery Park were smoked by the same person who left the ones in the lane.”

“Thought the DNA work was weeks off?”

“Saliva has the same proteins as blood. It’s not perfect, but it’s a pretty good indicator. The DNA profile will confirm it.”

In the elevator, Staal took inventory of the case facts. Douglas was in the clear, he had no suspect, but it looked like one killer had committed all three homicides.

In the detective squad area, Staal studied the files from all three murders. He re-read his own canvass interviews and those of Gooch, Fraser, Murdocco, and Degarmo. He came to a phone contact list from Gabriel Haywood’s phone book. He noticed that Murdocco had crossed all the names off the list except one.

Staal Found Murdocco and Degarmo in the coffee room. “You guys got a minute?”

“Yeah, Staal, what’s up?” Murdocco asked. Some of the tension from the Thirsty Gull remained in Murdocco’s tone.

“Just a little pow-wow to see where we are at with Birthday Boy. I’m bringing everyone in here in five minutes.”

“There is no ‘we’, Staal. This is an IHIT case—remember?”

Staal smiled and walked out.

“Fraser, Gina. I’m getting us all together in the coffee room in five,” Staal said when he passed Fraser’s desk. He made a straight line over to where Gooch was finishing up a call. 

“Jack, I think we need to have a sit down. Wakamatsu has a lead in the bank case,” Gooch said as she hung up the phone. She glanced over at Fraser and Hayes as they both pushed through the swinging coffee room door. “Coffee room?”

Staal nodded, picked up the file folder, and retraced his steps.

“Okay,” Gooch began. “As you all may well know, Mathew Douglas is clear as a suspect. I have the preliminary reports from both Wong and Drummond.”

She read the reports, summarizing what Staal had found out during his visit to Drummond’s lab. “We all agree that this guy stalks these women, learns their routines?” Staal said when she was finished. “I think he must follow his victims for weeks, perhaps even interacts with them, and plots his attack according to the victim’s day-to-day patterns.” He waited for any comments.

“We have done intense canvassing and interviews of the friends, co-workers, neighbors, and family of McKay and Haywood. We know that the man in black was spotted in the neighborhood of Stephanie Haywood as well as Dell’s diner. Despite the Douglas arrest failure, do we still agree that man-in-black is our guy?” Gooch paused to see that all were in concurrence. She tapped the composite drawing, and then set it down again.

“Pitman is ready to release the composites to the media,” Murdocco said. “Hopefully we can get it run on the noon news as well as the six and the late news. Are you guys available to take calls?”

Staal glanced at Gooch, and she nodded. “Yeah, Nick. We’re in.”

Staal opened the file to Haywood’s phone book. To Murdocco he said, “You interviewed Haywood’s contacts, her real-estate costumers. This one, Mathew Affleck, is circled. You guys couldn’t find him?”

“Nah, it was disconnected,” Murdocco said.

“Shit! Murdocco, that’s our guy.” Staal picked up the desk phone and called the number for Affleck. A computer recording answered. “The number you have dialed is not in service.”

Staal made another call to the cellular phone company named in the recording and told the operator he needed to know when the number was disconnected. “The unit was reported lost on March 22, and service was terminated on April second of this year.”

Staal covered the phone’s receiver against his chest. “Jesus Christ, Murdocco, it was cancelled a day after Haywood was killed.” To the operator he said, “I need to know the name and address of the registered owner of that phone.”

“Sorry, Detective, that is private and confidential information.”

“Lady, I’m investigating three God-damn homicides that could be connected to that phone. Don’t make me get a warrant.”

The operator hesitated. “Okay, Detective,” she continued in a lower voice, “but you didn’t get this from me. Jennifer Arlene Longley.” She gave an address and a landline number, then abruptly terminated the call. 

“Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, both are actors. Our guy flipped the name, stole a cell phone, and used it to talk to Haywood,” Gooch said.

“Fuck!” Staal threw the file down in front of Murdocco. “He posed as an interested buyer looking for a townhouse. This Matt Affleck name is written on Haywood’s desk blotter and in her appointment book. She showed the guy an apartment on the thirtieth of March. Two days before she was killed.” He glared at Murdocco. “Damn it, Nick. Longley could have been a link to the killer.”

“There’s no address for the showing,” Murdocco said softly. “We didn’t have a likeness or even a description of B.B. to show Longley.”

“We have a record of all of Haywood’s real estate listings for this year,” Wakamatsu said. “I’ll go and find it for you.”

“Great. Thanks, Cam,” Gooch said. “I’ll call this Jennifer Longley.”

“Hold on a sec. This is still an IHIT case!” Murdocco pushed between Gooch and Staal. “I will make that call and Degarmo will run down this real estate angle.

“Sure, Nick. You do that.” Staal shook his head.

Before Staal and Gooch could leave the coffee room, a secretary poked her head in and said, “Detective Staal—call on line two.”

Staal pressed the line button and answered, “Yeah?”

“Detective Staal. Margaret Klassen, from the Hanson Post. I’ve got something here that you’re going to want to see.”

“Maggie, I’m real busy. Can I call you back?” Staal had given Klassen information for stories in the past. She had often expressed a romantic interest in him, so he assumed this was about her wanting to get together.  

“No, Jack. This is important. I just received a bizarre fax at my office number.”

“Well, what’s it say?”

“It says, ‘Stop calling me Birthday Boy. I am Damian Knight.’ He sent it to me, Jack.”

“Shit! That’s all it says?”

“That’s it.”

“Don’t move on this, Maggie. I’ll be there in ten.”

Staal pulled the Impala up to the Hanson Post employee parking lot security gate. He flashed the attendant his shield and drove through when the gate rose.

“Is that her?” Gooch asked, pointing to an attractive blonde, about thirty-five years old, standing outside the rear entrance.

“That’s her,” Staal said, smiling when he remembered how Gina Hayes disliked the reporter’s way of using her sexuality to help pry information from men.

Gooch’s cell chirped, but she ignored it after checking the caller ID.

Klassen lead them through a maze of offices to her desk. The PC monitor screen-saver on her desk panned from scene to scene of a ski resort that Staal recognized as Whistler Mountain and the Alpine Olympic ski team. In front of the computer was the facsimile that allegedly came from the killer. He held up the sheet and stared at the angry block capitals.

DON’T
CALL ME BIRTHDAY BOY!

I AM
DAMIAN
KNIGHT
!

“No cover sheet?”

“Nope. You owe me big time on this one, Jack,” Klassen said.

“What could Detective Staal possible owe you for handing over evidence in a homicide investigation?” Gooch asked sarcastically.

“I just—I only hope that you talk to me first when you release any facts in this story,” Klassen answered.

Staal slid the fax sheet into an evidence bag as his cell pulsed in his pocket.

“Staal? It’s Barnes. Channel Nine News just received the same fax as the Post. Hayes and Fraser are rolling on it now.”

“Thanks, Max.” Staal turned to Gooch. “Channel Nine News got it, too.”

He examined the paper again. Small letters in the left corner revealed that the fax had originated with a Fed Ex machine. Staal dialed the number and suffered through several minutes transferring from department to department.

“Yeah, I need to know which of your pay machines sent a fax to this number.” Staal gave the operator Klassen’s fax number.

“Detective, could you tell me the ten-digit number in the bottom right corner of the facsimile?”

Staal read it to her. “250-989-3232.”

“It was sent from a machine in the Westlake Mall, 400 Pine, Hanson, B.C.”

“Would that be in a stationery store or...?”

“No, sir, it is somewhere in the shopping center. Much like a Coke machine would be.”

“Rachael. The machine is in Westlake Mall. Let’s roll.”

Staal flipped on the siren and lights in the Impala and sped from the Post lot. Gooch pulled out her cell phone and made a series of calls.

“Mall security says the machine is near a Grand and Toy office supply store, near the food court,” she told him when she was done.

Staal parked the Impala at the mall entrance closest to the machine and removed his crime scene bag from the trunk. They entered the mall and were immediately hit with an onslaught of fast food smells and loud voices. He scanned the area.

“There!” He pointed toward a machine standing just outside Grand and Toy, near a coin-op rocking horse. A tall black woman was just feeding a document into it.

“Police. Step away from the fax,” Gooch ordered. She held her shield out in front of her.

“What the hell?” The woman stepped back, alarmed.

Staal pulled on rubber gloves, set his duffle bag down, and lifted a sheet from the out tray of the machine. He looked it over. “This yours?”

The woman snatched it from him and stalked away.

“I’ll seal this corner for Drummond’s people,” Staal said to his partner.

When he looked up, a mall security guard was watching him. The guard’s nametag said Jesse. Jesse was a walking stereotype; over weight, coffee stained shirt, and a confident swagger in his step.

“Does this machine get cleaned regularly?” Staal asked him.

“Nah, never. But that one is brand new this weekend. Some jerk spilled a huge cup of soda on the old one and fried it,” the guard explained. “Hey, you guys want the security videotape? Dumb question, right? I’ll go get it for you.”

Staal began to photograph the machine. He marked the date and location on the cards, and then put his equipment away.