Dead of Knight (24 page)

“Oh, well,” he whispered. “Every soldier of justice has his police entanglements.”

He slumped down in his seat when he saw a patrol cruiser ride past the driveway. He turned on the windshield wipers to clear the mist from the fire hoses.  

* * *

Jack Staal pulled the Impala to the side of road after he drove through the intersection of 287 NW and 12
^th
Street, and rubbed a hand through his hair in an attempt to clear his mind. A moment earlier, an Asian woman had walked past the front of his vehicle carrying a newborn close to her body and he had to fight off the overwhelming sensation that the child was in danger.  

The daydream had disappeared as quickly as it arose, but it left him feeling foggy; and off his game. Staal swung his car away from the curb and continued on a course that would bring him to within two blocks of Nathan Campbell’s residence. Wakamatsu had already called to confirm that he had acquired a search warrant and was now on route with back-up.

Staal was only a few blocks from the Campbell neighborhood when he saw a thick black plume of smoke twisting for the clouds. He couldn’t see flames, but he heard fire crews racing to the scene. He knew what had happened; Campbell had set his home alight. Had he torched himself along with it?

“With a bit of luck the little bastard will be alive and on the run,” Staal said to himself.

Staal turned left on Renfrew Street and crawled slowly past the fire scene. The Campbell house appeared fully engulfed, with flames blazing from the living room window and dancing out of a gap in the roof. He held his badge up where the fire fighters could see and then scanned the crowd lined up to watch the blaze. He couldn’t see anyone who looked like Nathan Campbell.

* * *

Campbell
’s heart was pounding and his thoughts were racing as fast as the flames destroying his home. He had recognized Staal’s midnight blue Chevy Impala as soon as it appeared. He turned the ignition key and started the Sunbird. He depressed the clutch pedal and shifted the stick into first gear. He held down the clutch, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. He checked the fuel gauge and took a deep breath. “Easy. Calm. Control.” 

* * *

Staal spotted Chief Bradley Sturtze of Fire Hall Number Three. He called out, “What’s it look like, chief?”

Chief Sturtze was in his late fifties and in as good of shape as any of his crew. His face showed signs of burns and scrapes, souvenirs of past battles with the city’s biggest infernos. Bradley crossed the sidewalk to Staal’s Impala. “Looks like, smells like—‘cause it was—deliberately set.”  

“Yeah, how’s that?” Staal asked.

“Got a gasoline accelerant all over what’s left of the rear porch and staircase.”

Staal nodded.

“You just in the neighborhood, Detective?”

“Nope. The resident, one Nathan Campbell, is a suspect in a homicide. I was about to pop his ass.”

“You think he’s in there?” Sturtze asked.

“Could be. Let me know if your boys find a crispy.”      

Sturtze went back to his fire and Staal to his search of the area. He parked the Impala and mingled with the growing crowd. Campbell wasn’t a pyromaniac, so he probably wouldn’t remain in the area to watch his house burn. Still, Staal’s gut told him that his suspect was nearby, so he continued to scan the crowd. He flipped out his phone and dialed Wakamatsu to update him on the situation. Before Cameron could answer, the master bedroom window exploded, showering the yard with hot glass. The crowd ducked and retreated a few steps.

Wakamatsu sounded disappointed when he heard about the fire and said that he would send the others back to 565. Staal closed up his phone and a moment later, he heard a familiar voice.

“Detective Staal. I hope you’re happy!” said Irene Campbell. Her hair clung to face, damp with perspiration.

“Happy, Mrs. Campbell?” Staal asked.

“You and that—that Chinaman’s questions. You scared him—so much he .... Just look at my home. I’ll sue. You, the police force, the city. You’ll hear from my—”

“Look, Mrs. Campbell,” Staal interrupted. “Your son will go down for Sean Moore’s murder and now you can add arson to the list of charges.”

Staal turned away form Irene Campbell, crossed the street, got back into his Impala, and drove around the block. He had a feeling that Campbell was studying the fire scene, watching him. Several people walked past the Impala heading for the fire. He never understood people’s need to witness carnage, to see others at the worst time in their lives. From car wrecks to murder scenes, street fights to structure fires; humanity had a sick need to see blood and guts.

This time Staal rolled past the fire from the east. He had only to turn his head slightly to see the crowd. Two patrol cops were working to keep the mass back and out of the firefighters’ way. Staal drove slow, the Impala jolting as he rolled over the two and a half inch fire hoses. He could feel the heat on his face and now that the wind had changed, he smelt a strong burnt chemical stench.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. Sitting at the curb at Campbell’s driveway were two extra-large orange trash bags. The bags either were out early or missed by the sanitation crews that week because no other resident had their garbage out for collection. Staal couldn’t believe his luck. He drove along side the bags, reached out the window, hoisted both with his left hand, and drove away struggling to keep them off the ground. He made a right on 12
^th
Street and drove as far as he could before the weight pulled the bags from his grasp. He pulled over, opened the glove box, and popped the trunk release button, but before Staal could swing out of the Impala, his phone chirped.

“Jack, it’s Drummond. Those footprints all around Moore’s body, the sand maiden, and the kill spot—”    

“Yeah,” Staal opened the Impala door.

        “—Jimmy got some good casts and I’ll know better in the lab, but they’re all from the same shoe and person. And guess what? A size eight!”

“No shit, Sarge?” Staal got out and walked to the rear of the vehicle where he hoisted the Glad bags into the trunk. He looked down 12
^th
to see a yellow coupe moving slowly in his direction.

“Jesus, Jack, do all the psychos in this town have tiny feet?” The line crackled. Staal lowered the trunk but it wouldn’t latch.

He paused, “Yeah, I guess.” The yellow Pontiac had slowed to a stop. Staal thought of an age-old cop saying; ‘There are no coincidences.’ “Next thing you’ll tell me is that you bagged half a dozen Marlboro butts.”

“Nope. But I did get five fresh Camel butts and several older ones of every other possible brand.”

“Oh, yeah? That trail is a favorite dog-walking path. I’m sure some guys gun a few cancer sticks while out on their morning stroll.”

“These Camel ones, though, correlate with the scene.” Staal heard voices interrupting Drummond and the man spoke to someone else. “Yeah, I’ll look at that in a minute.” To Staal he said, “Still there, Jack?” 

Staal was thinking about Camel cigarettes. He had seen that brand of smokes recently. But where?

“Jack, you there?”

“Huh? Yeah, Will, I’m here.”
Where?
“Shit!” On Irene Campbell’s coffee table, there was a pack of Camels and a book of matches.

“What? Jack…you there?”

“Look closely at those Camel butts, okay? And—” he paused to adjust the bags so the vehicle trunk could close.

* * *

Nathan Campbell had followed Detective Staal in his Pontiac for two blocks. Now the cop was out of his vehicle and vulnerable. Campbell was confused about what the cop was up to.

“He took my garbage?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “But why?” He strained to see what detective Staal was doing with the trash bags in his trunk.

He was so angry that he couldn’t think straight. His house was left in ruin, and the mission nearly compromised.

“Why my fucking garbage?” He thumbed the windshield wiper. “Fuck this!”

Why didn’t he burn the shit in the fire?

He didn’t know why the cops wanted his trash, but he knew it wasn’t for any good reason. Staal was close to sorting things out—too close. “I have to do something! What?” 

He revved the Pontiac’s engine, dropped the clutch, and stalled out. “Shit!”

He started it again and this time successfully engaged first gear. He accelerated down the street, jolting the car as he shifted into second.

* * *

Jack Staal slammed the trunk closed after shifting the oversized bags

three times in order for the trunk lid to close and not crush the bags.

“—and what?” Drummond was growing impatient.

“Hold on a sec, Will.”

Without warning, the yellow coupe accelerated quickly, as though the driver had stomped on the throttle. The engine screamed and Staal turned in time to see the Pontiac streak toward him. The front bumper caught him just below the knees. The force of the impact threw him off his feet. He landed head first in the Pontiac’s windshield; his hands couldn’t protect his forehead as it crashed against the safety glass. The driver slammed on the brakes. Staal’s body slid off the vehicle’s hood. For a moment he was airborne. Then he slammed into the pavement, his body rolling with his momentum.

“Jack! What the fuck is going on?” It was Drummond’s voice. Staal still had his phone in his hand.

Staal tried with all his strength to stand, to run away, but his legs would not respond. He tried to speak, to alert Drummond. “Alp offider dowd!” He crawled on his hands, pulling himself off the street.

“Fuck! Staal’s hurt,” he heard Drummond say. “Somebody call dispatch. Jack. Jack are you with me?”

“Nide-wud-wud. Offider-dowd. Shid!” Staal cursed his own voice.

The Pontiac’s engine roared to life. The driver floored it again. Staal braced for an impact that did not arrive. Instead, the engine sputtered and stalled.
The guy can’t drive a stick,
Staal thought. Blood was in his eyes and mouth, and he felt dizzy, his eyesight blurred. He clutched the cell in his hands as he continued to drag himself between the two parked cars.  

“Jack—buddy. I need to know where you are, man!” Drummond yelled.

Staal reached the relative security of the spot between the two parked vehicles. He reached under his blazer for his weapon, grabbed the pistol, and rolled onto his back. Pain shot through his body, blazing from his legs to his spine until it reached his shoulders.

“Tweld Streed,” Staal said in a garbled voice.

The Pontiac pulled up beside the vehicles between which Staal lay. He heard the door open and the driver step out into the street. Staal clutched the grip and raised his pistol. He fumbled, almost dropped the weapon, recovered, and fired three rounds into the door and window of the coupe. He heard the driver curse and the door slam. The engine screamed and the front tires spun before the Pontiac sped away down the street.

Staal dropped his handgun and leaned back onto the asphalt. He was dizzy, and his stomach clenched. Wilson Drummond’s words echoed in his mind: “Do all the killers in this town have small feet?” He thought of Jed Wilkinson’s story at the Gull and the cabby, Dhalliwal’s statement....

Red light flashed behind his eyes, his heart pounded in his ears and chest, and he drifted off into blackness.

Someone was screaming. No, it was an air-raid siren. No, it was the screech of grinding metal. Jack Staal didn’t know what the sound piecing his eardrums was.

“Relax, Detective, you’re going to be okay,” a voice said to him.

Staal’s vision was blurry, and he hurt all over, from his legs, to his abdomen, to his head. He tried to sit up, to get his bearings, but he couldn’t move. Was he paralyzed or just restrained? Whose voice was that? Was it Campbell, or an accomplice? He struggled to move and was rewarded with a jolt of searing pain. 

“Detective, don’t fight the restraint...” The voice continued to speak, however Staal could not understand the words. He felt nauseous and he was losing the battle to stay conscious. White light filled his vision and then it went dark. The screeching ceased. 

Staal felt as if he was floating, then falling until he landed in a field. He felt pain, sharp and intense, throughout his body. Somebody pulled him to his feet, a uniformed cop in full riot gear. Several other cops were walking next to him on both sides; each armed with shields and batons.

Then they weren’t riot police anymore, they were detectives. To his left, Rachael Gooch, called out, “I’m hit!” She dropped to her knees, with blood bubbling from her mouth. Then she was gone.

Staal kept walking. He knew Fraser, Wakamatsu, and Gina Hayes were a few yards away from his position. He tried to call out to Gina, to tell her to take cover and to run from the area, however no words would come from his mouth.

Straight ahead, a faceless man in dark clothes stood up from the ground and walked toward the cops. Staal pulled out his pistol, and assumed a shooter’s stance. The dark man morphed into Nathan Campbell.