Dead of Knight (36 page)

“Why not the islands, Staal?” Woolworth asked.

“We believe that the ferry/island angle may be a decoy,” Gooch said.

“You had Campbell at that hotel, but you let him walk right past you, Staal,” Wilson said sarcastically.

Staal tried to ignore the jibe from Woolworth. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the fact that he didn’t have the time or the patience to banter with the Mounties. Staal moved toward Woolworth and stared him in the eyes. “I’ve got a friend with a few outstanding parking tickets, Wool.”

“So, so what?”

“Well, Harold Zimmermann drove a car and so does my friend. Maybe it was Zimmermann and not my buddy that got those tickets,” Staal smiled.

“Fuck you, Staal!”

Staal turned away and left Ross’s office. He walked down the hall to the room that he had previously set up with the strategy corkboard line. Just out the door, Staal heard Inspector Ross say something about needing to talk to him. Staal didn’t respond and knew that Gooch could answer about his actions at the press rally.

In the strategy room, Staal added photos to a new board. This time it was shots of Newsome’s body in the pool house. He pinned several index cards full of notes and important names of Newsome’s friends and family. Staal had a mobile corkboard for each victim lined from left to right in the order they were murdered. The board assigned to Eleanor Peck was set aside because she hadn’t been killed and was not a Birthday Boy casualty. Sean Moore’s board sat between Walker and Newsome.   

Staal used colored yarn to emphasize evidence that connected the cases. He used a red stripe to demonstrate trace evidence that linked McKay, Haywood, Walker and Sean Moore. A black thread explained that a denim fiber was found on both McKay and Walker. A green tracer marked the wood fiber present in McKay and Walker. After adding blue yarn to illustrate a common weapon, the stun gun, and a yellow for the footprints found at the McKay and Moore scenes, he posted a 9x11 legend sheet showing which each color represented.

Staal stood back. He knew that correlating the evidence in this manner would not help him catch Campbell. It did, however, help keep all the evidence in mind, and along with the timeline-chart would be invaluable in getting a conviction if Campbell came to trial.

The timeline included names of witnesses, who did what to whom and when, beginning with the McKay murder on March 23, and continuing to July 10 and the Newsome murder. The line included thirty-eight sheets and was taped along the north wall of the room, covering almost twenty feet.

“Fucking beautiful!” Staal sat down at the table in the center of the room, and spread crime scene photos, evidence cards, the ‘Birthday Boy’ fax machine note, and the messages from Campbell during the Best Western hotel diversion.

The IHIT teams were communicating with their counterparts on the Gulf Islands. Staal was convinced that Campbell was nowhere near the island chain that stretched from a few miles off Vancouver Islands’ east coast and south into the U.S. where it was called the San Juan’s. It felt like a diversion. He got up from the table and walked to the coffee room. With a hot cup of the swill that passed as java he sat and re-read the hotel messages.

“Where are you, Campbell?”

Staal felt fatigue overwhelm his entire body. He wanted to be anywhere but West Precinct. He needed to be at home, asleep with Gina at his side and Gilbert curled at his feet purring too loudly. He put his head on his crossed arms and closed his eyes. How long had it been since he had last slept? It felt like years.

Sleep took him quickly and he drifted to a dark room. He heard paper rustling, something moving nearby. Then he heard it; a child sobbing softly. It was so dark he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. The sobbing grew louder, became a piercing wail, until he was forced to cover his ears. He breathed through his nose because of the stench, a cocktail of urine and feces, both human and rodent.

He knew that the child was in that room. He struggled to find it, bumping and tumbling over unknown objects. The screaming continued, and his frantic search went on until he heard a voice call to him.

“Jack. Jack, there’s a call for you,” Gina Hayes said urgently.

“What?” He lifted his head from his arms and wiped drool from his face.

“Some guy calling from Japan says he knew Sean Moore, Nicole Newsome, and Nathan Campbell back in school. He sounds legit, Jack.”

The phone line was silent when Staal first spoke. “Detective Staal here,” he said. The details of his dream faded away, except for the whimpering child.

“Morning, Detective, this is Charles Lipton speaking. I, um, I knew Nicole Wright, Newsome, I mean. I also remember Sean Moore and Nathan Campbell.”

“You went to school together at Ballard High?” Staal asked. He ran the compact disc of students and quickly found Charles Lipton. He graduated in ‘95, the same year as Moore, Newsome, and Campbell.

“Yes, in 1994-95. The other women that were killed—what are their names?”

“Stephanie McKay, Gabrielle Haywood, and Kimberly Walker.”

“Yes...Steph and Gabbie and Kim,” he paused. “They went to different schools, but I saw them a few times at parties back in early 90s. After grad, over the years I’d bump into them occasionally—you know how it goes.”

“Yeah, sure.” Staal sat up straight and flipped on the phone-system’s digital recording device to tape the conversation. You knew these women back then, Mr. Lipton?”

“I knew of them, but we were in different circles, you know. But, they were tight. Had a gang. I remember that most of all. The clothes and the hair. They called themselves Vince’s Girls.”

“Mr. Lipton. Are you saying that all these woman knew each other back in 1993-95? Because we could find nothing to connect McKay to Walker, and so on. We looked in the Ballard School records and the year books...there are no photos showing these women together.”  

“They knew each other, Detective; they were best friends. They were outsiders—hardly anyone knew them but...they met at work—an oriental restaurant. I can’t remember the name.”

“We checked with Revenue Canada, Charles. There’s no record of any of them working together.”

“The owner, he paid them all under the table, Detective. They all worked there and they all had a history of sexual abuse.” Lipton paused. “Mostly by family members.”

“How do you know all this, Mr. Lipton? If you only knew
of
them?”

“Back in 2005, it was our ten year reunion. Amber-Nicole was the only person I recognized there and vise-versa. We got to talking and ended up going together for about nine months. We broke up about the time I left for London.”

“What the hell is this Vince’s Girls shit?”

“Remember the hair metal band,
Black Hed
, from the late 80s and early 90s, Detective?”

“No, I don’t.” Staal kept jotting notes as the conversation continued.

“They were like
Motley Crue
and
Kiss
, but they never made it big like those bands. Anyway, Vince Black and Tommy Hedley led the group. The girls adored Black, and thus the name, Vince’s Girls.”

“Jesus, Lipton. Why didn’t you come forward sooner? I mean, shit, we could have, we could have—ah, shit!”

“I didn’t come forward sooner because I only heard about the murders tonight.”

“What? It’s been front page news for months, all across the country—all across the continent, Lipton!” Staal knew he had to keep calm. If this guy hung up. “I apologize for my tone, Mr. Lipton. It’s been a long night.”

“I understand. It might be front page news in North America, but not here in Japan.”

“I see. You travel a great deal, Mr. Lipton?”

“Yes, I’m a consultant. When companies are in trouble, with say, a hostile take over looming, or bankruptcy on the horizon, I go in and clean things up.”

“Okay, I understand.”

“I just completed an eight month stint for an international electronics firm here in Tokyo. I found myself with a few spare minutes tonight, so I turned on the tube. I put on the CBC for the heck of it, since I’m coming home soon, and the main story was about Nicole’s murder and all that Birthday Boy stuff. I saw you, Detective Staal, talking about Nathan Campbell. I remember that little creep.”

“This information is going to be very helpful, Mr. Lipton. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there is. The leader of Vince’s Girls isn’t one of your victims. Her name is Sandra Meneghello, but when I last saw Nicole she said that Sandra had changed it. Nicole didn’t know her new name.”

Staal could hear the emotion in Lipton’s voice when he spoke about Nicole Newsome. Staal waited for Lipton to gain his composure, wrote Sandra Meneghello on a sticky note, circled the name, added FIND HER, and handed the message to Gina Hayes.

“Detective Staal, I think I know why Campbell is doing these things. Most everyone was so mean to the guy. Especially Sean Moore. There was a rumor back in school that the girls tried to kill Campbell; they beat him up one night at a party.”

“I always believed there was some connection, a motive from the past,” Staal said. “Please go on.” His heart was pounding and his fatigue had vanished.

“When Nicole and I were together, I asked her about it. The real story was far worse than those rumors.”

Charles Lipton’s voice was heavy with disgust. Nathan Campbell was walking home after finishing his paper routes and took a shortcut through an overgrown vacant lot. The lot was a favorite bush-party hangout for Vince’s Girls.

Campbell
, distracted by thoughts of the birthday celebration his mother had planned for him, walked right in on the Girls’ LSD and booze bash. Nicole knew it was Nathan’s birthday. Meneghello convinced Campbell that she would perform oral sex on him for his birthday. 

Campbell
had his pants down when Meneghello punched him in the face. At first the girls only stripped him naked, threw his clothes in the mud, and colored his body with make-up. Meneghello took it a notch further when she urinated on him. 

Campbell
jumped to his feet, knocked Kim Walker down, and tried to escape through the woods. Meneghello wasn’t finished with Campbell, though. She caught up to him, tied her belt around his neck, and dragged him back to the clearing. She used her strength and size to hold him down. She pulled the belt tighter as she rained punch after punch down on Campbell, and told the others to join in the beating.

Walker and the others spat on, kicked, punched, and threw beer bottles at Campbell until he was bloodied and bruised. Nicole begged Meneghello to stop, and Meneghello relented. She rolled off Campbell, and signaled the group that it was time to go.

“Campbell, the stupid shit,” Lipton said, “called them all dikes.” Charles Lipton paused for half a minute. “Meneghello lost it then. Just fucking freaked.”

“Let me guess,” Staal said. “Meneghello raped Campbell with a broom handle or something, strangled him with the belt until she thought he was dead, and then, last but not least, she planted a piece of branch into his anus, as a victorious army would plant their flag on conquered soil.”

“Yes, Detective. They left him for dead. But how did you know?”

“It was just a...” Staal was about to lie. “That’s what Campbell did to each of his victims, Mr. Lipton.”

“Sandra was a time bomb back then, they all were. Meneghello’s father got drunk and stoned one night when she was twelve or thirteen. He raped her repeatedly for several hours while the mother was at work. Nicole’s foster-brother fondled her when she was a child. All of them had stories.... They all went to group therapy in ’94 or ’93.”

“We investigated that angle, thinking that the women might have used the same therapist as adults,” Staal said. “Mr. Lipton, are you certain that you can’t recall Sandra Meneghello’s new name?”

“No; I never knew it. She’s an artist. I heard at the reunion that she was selling her work in a Robson Street Gallery. I don’t believe she’s still there, because Nicole and I looked for the gallery when we lived together in 2006.”

“Do you know of any family?” 

“I think her mother still lives in Hanson.”

“Is there anything else you can think of, Mr. Lipton?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

Staal thanked Charles Lipton and gave him his cell number in case he thought of any other information. He hung up, looked at Hayes, and asked her if she had anything on Sandra Meneghello.

“Sandra Angela Meneghello is now Sara-Ann Delleman,” Hayes began. “There’s no record of marriage. Her last local address is also the address for James and Lisa Delleman. Mrs. Delleman was once Lisa Meneghello. James is deceased.”    

“That was fast, Hayes,” Staal said with a smile.

“The Internet, Staal, perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Gina grinned.

“You going to enlighten us about your phone call, Staal?” Gooch said.

“Yeah, Jack. You want us to friggin’ guess?” Fraser said.

“In a minute. We need to find this Delleman woman. She’s next on Campbell’s hit list!”