Dead of Knight (29 page)

“Jack, I know the case against Zimmermann looks weak. A few on the Team feel the way you do.”

Trish took their lunch orders and Staal took a few minutes to think about what Degarmo had said. He swallowed a long pull of his beer and decided to push his Knight/Campbell angle. 

“You have photographs of Nathan Campbell, Les?” He fumbled for his cigarettes.

“The mother says everything was lost in the fire. So we’re using his D.L. shot.”

“You must see that Campbell looks like Jim Dell’s description of B.B. Like the cab driver’s...”

Degarmo’s face had the same surprised
are you nuts
look that Hayes and the others did when he brought up that theory. “Yeah, I guess if you look at it that way.”

“Drummond says both killers wore a size eight.” Staal looked into Degarmo’s eyes. “Jim Dell described a guy that is five-seven, one-fifty—so did the cab driver, Dhalliwal. He picked up a strange white guy around the same height and weight from Dell’s neighborhood just after Walker’s T.O.D. He dropped the guy at the Thirsty Gull. Moore’s widow said Sean got into it with Campbell around one AM at the Gull. The bartender told me that the guy Moore fought with was there from around midnight.” His face hurt whenever he spoke.

Staal gave Degarmo a moment to let his ramblings sink in. She nodded and motioned for him to continue.

“Shit!” Staal dropped his hand.

“What?”

“I just remembered; the old timers at the mall said the guy-in-black had facial bruises. Campbell had a black eye and bruises when I saw him at his house.”

“Jesus...”

Both detectives were silent for several seconds.

“After McKay, he began to chit-chat his victim before killing—”

“Right. He got cocky.”

“Yeah, a fake real estate deal with Haywood—then it was a coffee and a smoke with Walker.”

“Then with Moore it was, ‘Hey dude, there’s a body under that blanket!’” She nodded slowly and rubbed her face. “Moore stops to take a look and bam...”

“Nathan Campbell is Damian Knight—Birthday Boy. He’s on a mission, Les.”

“What mission, Jack? What’s the motive here?”

“Revenge...Moore bullied him in school. Relentlessly, I’ll bet.”

“But the women aren’t connected!”

“They are—to each other and to Campbell. We just haven’t found it yet.”

“Could he have dated each at some point over the years?”

“No. Campbell doesn’t date. It’s something far worse than a broken heart.”

“If we figure out what, we’ll nail him.”

Staal watched Degarmo think. She was on board, and not just a little. He could tell that she fully believed his theories.

“Jack, why did Campbell try to kill you? What were you doing when he hit you?”

He paused, remembering the Campbell house fire and his patrol of the scene. “Oh, shit! Fuck! The bags!” Staal had completely forgotten the trash bags he lifted from in front of Nathan Campbell’s house. He told Degarmo that Campbell must have seen him at the fire putting the bags in the trunk of his Impala.

“Where are they?”

Staal knew that the Impala had suffered almost as much damage as he had during the hit-and-run. He reached for the phone and called Gina’s cell. He needed the number of the motor pool at 565. He got her voice mail and left a message.

Pain sliced through his skull as Staal parked on Broadway across the street from West Precinct. He walked down the driveway to the rear of the building to where the patrol and unmarked sedans were kept until they were needed. He could have parked in the employee parking lot, and used the shorter route through 565, but he hoped to avoid contact with his colleagues. He wasn’t normally unsociable; he just didn’t have time.

Staal flashed his badge to the duty officer at the rear entrance and found his way to the office of Mike Stratichuk, the Sergeant in charge of the motor pool. Stratichuk was a thirty-year man with the last twelve behind a desk after taking a bullet in his back during a liquor store robbery.

Staal knocked before entering Stratichuk’s office. The north wall of the office was a floor to ceiling pegboard for spare keys, one for each vehicle in the fleet. Stratichuk was at least fifty years old; his once athletic physique had disappeared after his injury as quickly as the hair from his cranium.

“Staal! You look like I feel,” Stratichuk bellowed. “How the hell are you?”

“I’m good, Mike,” he felt dizzy and nauseous. “I’m looking for my ride—‘09 Impala.”

“Ah, leave some effects in there?” Stratichuk stood, turned away form Staal, opened a filing cabinet, and fumbled through the papers. “What day was that, Jack, the second?”

“Yeah, the second. It was a Friday.” Staal noticed that Stratichuk’s face grew red with embarrassment as it became apparent that he had misplaced the file. “The unit number is 07891, if that helps any.”

Stratichuk sat and worked his computer. “Jesus, why didn’t you say you knew the unit number?” He typed with his index fingers. “Here it is. Damn thing is still at the body shop.” He looked up at Staal. “You want me to call over there?”

“No, that’s fine. Uh, Mike, did it go straight to the shop from the scene or was it here for awhile?”  

Stratichuk continued typing. “It was here for a couple days. Wakamatsu took photos of the damage and Drummond got a paint-chip sample from the suspect vehicle. We didn’t clean it out or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Staal had Stratichuk write the phone number of the body shop and then left the Sergeant to his keys and paperwork. As he left the office, Staal couldn’t help thinking how close Campbell had taken him to a desk job...or worse.

Lake City Auto Body and Paint had enjoyed the steady business of the city’s collision work for almost twenty years. Staal asked about 07891 at the service desk.

A busty brunette named Annette ran the desk, answered the phone, and made sure the coffee pot was full of fresh brew. Annette told Staal that 07891 was out back in the wash rack. The Impala had sustained body damage from the left rear quarter-panel to the front fender. Staal surveyed the once damaged area and remarked on how good the fresh Midnight-blue paint looked. The lot boy, a sixteen year old with streaked-yellow shoulder length hair, baggy jeans, and a Favre Packers jersey was busy washing the Impala. Staal couldn’t understand how yellow highlighted hair had become cool for guys. The kid knelt to clean the rocker panel and then straightened when Staal called him.

“Yeah, this one’s mine,” Staal said. Christ, the kid was tall. He stood a good six inches above Staal’s height. Staal keyed the trunk, and let the lid rise on its own. A rotten fruit smell attacked Staal’s nose. He smiled; never before had he been so glad to see two bags of trash.

Once Staal had the garbage bags secured in the Mustang, he called Wilson Drummond. Staal would have to be careful with Drummond, as Staal was not actively working the Sean Moore case.

“Jack, Jesus, it’s good to hear your voice,” Drummond said. “Thought we might lose you there for a while.”

“Yeah, then who would give you all those headaches, Will?”

“One thing I haven’t figured out. What the fuck were you doing when that prick ran you down?”

“Well, that’s what I’m calling about, Sarge. I’ve possibly got some evidence from the Moore case that you’re going to want to process, pretty quick.” Staal filled him in about the bags of trash.

“Get them in here ASAP. I’ll give Gooch a call and tell her what you’re doing,” Drummond said.

“Will, I’m wondering if you could keep this quiet for today. I mean, no use getting everybody excited if all I got is a couple bags of shit.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Jack. Campbell’s still in the wind and Fraser, Wakamatsu and Gooch are looking for anything to flush him out. If word gets out that we have something, they might ease up on the legwork—miss something important.”

“Thanks, Will. I’m glad we’re on the same page, here,” Staal said. He washed down more pain medication and worked a kink from his neck.

Twenty minutes later, Staal was suited up in white-plastic overalls, watching Drummond as he used a scalpel to slice open the first bag. The contents began to spill out over a stainless steel table. The second bag was opened up on a separate table, more than four meters away. This prevented cross contamination. Drummond took photographs of every step of the process.  

“The first thing we want to achieve is to establish that this stuff is in fact from the Campbell house,” Drummond said. I’m looking for any receipt or bill with a name and address.”

“Here we are. A Visa statement from Bag A. Irene Campbell. Address is a match.”

Drummond spoke loud and clear for the video recorder.

Staal used tweezers to place the statement in a zip-lock bag. He looked at the entries on the bill, hoping that one would look like a Nathan purchase. Nothing.

“Gotcha,” Drummond said. “From Bag B; an Esso credit card bill belonging to Nathan Campbell.” 

Staal noticed the last fill-up on the statement occurred on the night Kim Walker was killed.

Drummond began to sort out items from Bag A that were more likely to have latent prints, such as soda cans and cigarette hard packs.

“Check this out, Jack,” Drummond said, holding up a Marlboros cigarette box. “Both our killers have the same shoe size and they smoke the same cigarettes. Guess those Camels were not related.”

“Yeah, did you get a chance to compare the footprint casts from the Stephanie MacKay scene with the ones from Sean Moore?” Staal asked.

“Nope, why would I...shit you don’t think...you think that Campbell is Birthday Boy?”

“That’s right,” Staal took a long breath. “The proof is in these bags, Will.”

“Jesus, and Zimmerman is a rapist, and that’s it?”

He nodded. “I need you to dust everything for prints and compare them to the ones we pulled from the Xerox machines.” Staal wished he could sit down and take the weight off his numb legs. This day would test his tolerance for pain and fatigue.

“That I can do,” Drummond said. “Let me page Tomlinson. He can dust it as we dig it out.” He pushed a button on an intercom panel. To Staal he said, “Do the others think Campbell is Birthday Boy, too?”

“No, only Degarmo is on my side. She’s gathering up as much of the paper on B.B. as she can and is coming down here.”

“I’ll get Carter to get to work on these soiled boxers right away,” He pulled the shorts out with a pair of tongs. “If she can get DNA from it and compare that to the saliva from the Marlboro butts, or a least a strand of black cotton to run against the one we have...”

“Then we might just prove that Zimmermann is a rapist and not our killer,” Staal finished.

“And Campbell is more than an arsonist and a hit-and-run driver.”

Drummond paged Carter and told her that some more work was coming her way.

“Hey, Jack. Why would this guy put this stuff out in the garbage if he was planning to torch his place? Doesn’t make sense.”

Staal thought for a moment. “Campbell had no reason to torch his house until I dropped by and started in about Sean Moore. I’ll bet he put the bags out that morning as normal...and then forgot they were there.”

The first items that Jesse Tomlinson applied black powder to were the bright red Marlboro Kings box and the matchbook. At twenty-six, Tomlinson was the youngest member of Drummond’s FIS unit. He was a little over five-five with a goatee that looked like a black circle of dirt on his round face.

“Got two completes on the box and one partial on the matches,” Tomlinson said several minutes later. “I’ll go and enter them into the system and start the comparison.”

“Drop this at Carter’s on your way,” Drummond said, holding up the bagged pair of boxer shorts. “He’s waiting for it.”

“Take these cigarette butts, too,” Staal said. He had the remnants of a full ashtray that included Marlboros and Camels, in an evidence bag.

They continued to pick through the trash bags. “Check this out, Jack,” Drummond said. “I’ve got not only a box for a cattle-prod, but the receipt, as well. Looks like from an online company.”

Staal eyed the receipt. “Hmm, I’ve got another receipt here. The bastard bought himself a Taser, too. Looks like top-of-the-line, with a laser sight.”

“Yeah, I found six four-packs of double-A batteries for it,” Drummond said. “A Taser and an electric cattle-prod...this guy is nuts.”

“Yeah. I have this bill, too,” Staal said. “Can’t figure it out, though.”

Drummond read the receipt. “Izzy’s Ark. Three dozen mice, eight large rats, and three rabbits, $167.83. Sounds like it’s from a pet store. ”

“A pet store? Who the hell buys thirty-six frigin’ mice?”

“A reptile keeper,” Helen Carter said as she entered the lab through the main door. Carter was Drummond’s DNA specialist. She was approaching fifty, but looked to be no more than 35. She had the face and body of a Hollywood superstar, without the obvious telltale signs of a plastic surgeon’s handiwork.