Do or Die (19 page)

*   *   *

“You've got to understand, Mike,” the serologist lectured. He was used to working with Green and was immune to his impatience. This cluttered, fluorescent-lit laboratory, lined with computers, scanners, microscopes and coloured bottles, was his turf. “You're lucky I can give you anything from what I had to work with. It was hot in the garage. The knife was washed clean, and so was the shirt. If it weren't for the engraving on the knife handle and the lousy job the guy did washing the shirt, I'd have nothing but blood, period. As it is, I can give you A positive. The victim's blood type. As for more detailed subgrouping, forget it. The sample's too broken down.”

Green picked up the clear plastic evidence bag containing the knife. It was a dagger with an eight-inch, double-edged steel blade and an ornate, jewel-encrusted silver handle. He turned it over in his hands. “Looks Arabic.”

“Certainly not your average Canadian hunting knife.”

“Anything on the shirt?”

The serologist shrugged. “Hair and Fibre's got it now. Maybe they can tell you more.”

The technician from the Hair and Fibre Division of the RCMP Forensics Sciences Lab was just sealing a little box of
slides and labelling it when Green walked into the lab. He removed his thick bifocals to rub his eyes then gave Green a doleful smile.

“Fastest job I've ever done. Got a call from the Director himself telling me to move it.”

“What did you find out?”

“The shirt was spot-washed with Ivory bar soap. It left a lot of soap residue and didn't get all the blood out. I'd say it was someone who didn't know much about washing.”

“Like a man?”

Winkler shrugged. “Speak for yourself, Green. I'm a bachelor myself. To get blood out, you use cold water, not hot. Heat sets it, and that's what happened here.”

“Well, that's a big help. Odds are already 99 out of 100 it's a man anyway.”

The elderly technician put his glasses back on, scratched his nose and fidgeted with his box of slides. “I do have something else.”

“What!”

“A hair, thick and wavy, dark brown. Found it stuck in the neckline of the shirt. I've sent it to DNA.”

Green searched through his memory of the photos. All three Haddads had dark hair, but the father's was stranded with silver. The younger son Paul had black hair cropped close to his head, but Edward had a thick head of rich black curls.

“How curly? Like a black?”

Winkler shook his head. “Oh no. Caucasian—Italian, Greek maybe.”

“Lebanese?”

“Sure, any person with dark brown hair. The gene pool is all mixed up among those Mediterranean peoples anyway. The Greeks and Romans invaded the Arab peninsula, then—”

Green raised a hand to interrupt the history lesson. “Anything else you can tell me about our man from the hair? Is it enough to give us a match?”

“You bring me a suspect, and we'll see.”

“I think it's time to do just that.” Green picked up the phone, relieved to find Sullivan at the station. “Brian, get three teams together. I want all three Haddads picked up for questioning simultaneously, Pierre and his two sons. And don't tell them a goddamn thing. I want them good and spooked.”

Two hours later,
Green found himself in a small beige interview room face to face with Pierre Haddad. Sullivan sat in the corner, discreetly taking notes. The fat man was stolidly planted at the table, and despite the icy climate control of the windowless room, he was sweating profusely.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mr. Haddad, but this is a very complex case. I'm pursuing a lot of leads, and there's only one of me. I think you can appreciate that, because of the sensitive nature of the case, I'm conducting all the interviews personally. I hope my men have made you comfortable. Would you like a drink or a snack?”

“Nothing,” Haddad snapped. He was trying to sound outraged, but Green sensed panic. He sat down across the table, set a brown paper bag unobtrusively at his feet, and calmly recited the caution. Sometimes that was enough to shake a blustering witness, but Haddad listened poker-faced and then declined a lawyer, saying that he'd done nothing wrong.

Green acknowledged the denial with a slight nod of the head. “Now, Mr. Haddad, in our first discussion yesterday, you indicated that you didn't know the murdered man, Jonathan Blair, and that you knew little about your niece's activities at university. I have evidence to the contrary.” Slowly, Green flipped open a thick notebook, one of his favourite dramatic props. “Is there anything you'd like to add now,
before I question you about that evidence?”

Haddad wiped the sweat which was trickling down his temples. “What evidence are you talking about?”

“Evidence that Raquel's ticket to Beirut was booked at six o'clock on the evening Blair was murdered, not several weeks in advance, as holidays usually are.”

Haddad snorted. “So what?”

“Evidence that Raquel was Blair's girlfriend and his lover for at least two weeks before his death.”

“I told you I never knew—”

“Evidence that you had an argument with Raquel on the steps of the science building at four o'clock, just hours before Blair was murdered. An eyewitness identified you both.”

For the first time, Haddad's bluster faded. He glared at Green mutely.

Green flipped a page. “Evidence that your sons Edward and Paul forcibly took Raquel away from Jonathan at six-thirty, half an hour after you'd booked her plane ticket. They were in the student coffee shop, your sons argued with Blair, and when he tried to help Raquel, they assaulted him. Another student witnessed the whole thing.”

Haddad had turned from flushed to ashen. He seemed about to deny everything but checked himself. The silence lengthened, and Green let him stew. Finally, Haddad glowered.

“Is it against the law to talk to your niece? For her family to take her away from a boy they do not like?”

“Then you're saying you knew about Jonathan Blair?”

Haddad nodded impatiently. “Yes, all right! I knew about him. Raquel is young. Canadian girls—they have more freedom than Lebanese girls. They don't listen to their family. Raquel wanted to be like a Canadian girl, too wild. It's no good.”

“So you forced her to go back to Lebanon?”

“Forced? No. She listened to her family. She knows it is best for her.”

“Mr. Haddad, she was screaming and crying. Your sons had to drag her away.”

“It was because of him! Because he was trying to control her mind. Later, after she talked to me, she knew I was right. I don't care if you don't understand this, sir. Or if you agree or not. Your way is for you. For me and my family, this way is right.”

“As simple as that? You talk to her and she forgets all about Jonathan Blair, her freedom, her future, her dreams?”

“She remembered our ways.”

“And just by chance, Jonathan Blair is stabbed to death a couple of hours later.”

“That has nothing to do with it! I took Raquel away from him. End of story!”

“We have a witness who saw your sons assault him. How do you know they didn't return to finish the job?”

“Because they are good boys! They go to college, Eddie is going to be a lawyer.”

Reaching into the bag at his feet, Green withdrew the plastic bag containing a black shirt and laid it on the table between them. “Do you recognize this shirt, Mr. Haddad?”

Haddad began to shake his head.

“Check it very carefully, sir.”

Haddad turned the bag over, held it up and checked the label. Again he shook his head. “Not my size or my taste.”

“Your sons', maybe?”

A veil of inscrutability descended, and Haddad said nothing for several seconds. Green waited patiently.

“My sons don't wear such clothes.”

Green laid down the bag with the knife. In the silence,
Haddad sucked in his breath.

“Do you recognize this knife?”

“I saw knives like it, but not that one.”

“Where did you see them?”

Haddad recovered enough to snort with derision. “These knives are sold by the hundreds in the tourist shops in Beirut. Even here in Canada, in a Middle East bazaar.”

“So it's a Middle Eastern knife?”

“Bedouin. Not real, of course. For show.”

“Do you own one?”

Haddad's eyes met his coldly. “I do not own that one or any other one. What is this about?”

“Your sons? Surely one of you owns one if they're so common.”

“Not in my family.”

“This knife was found hidden in your garage. It has Jonathan Blair's blood on it.”

The fat man wheezed. “That…that's not possible!”

Green shook his head. “We searched your house this morning. These are what we found.”

Haddad's eyes darted back and forth between the knife and Green's face. Green saw in them the dawning of panic.

“It's a trick!” Haddad hissed. “You put them there!”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you need somebody to arrest. Why not a Lebanese?”

Green leaned back in his chair, quiet and firm. “I operate on facts, Mr. Haddad. Other people may get emotional and jump to conclusions, but I wait till all the facts are in. That's what I'm doing here.” He held up his hand and began to check off on his fingers. “Fact one: this knife is the murder weapon. Fact two: it was found in your garage. I need an explanation.”

Haddad ran his tongue over his trembling lips. “I don't have to talk to you!”

“That's right, you don't. However, if you're innocent as you claim, what do you have to lose by explaining things? On the other hand, if you are not innocent, then I suggest you terminate this discussion right now and get yourself a good lawyer.”

“You're twisting things!” Haddad bellowed. “I'm a good Canadian! I obey the law, I teach my sons to obey the law. If the knife was in my house, someone put it there!”

*   *   *

The sons displayed none of the initial cool of their more worldly father. They had grown up soft and safe on Canadian soil, used to nothing more violent than the everyday rivalries of the schoolyard. Paul, the twenty-year old, made an initial stab at bravado, accusing Green of harassment and threatening the entire police force with a lawsuit. Green rolled his eyes.

“Aw, shut up, Paulie. Do I look scared? We're talking about a serious crime here.”

“I don't know anything, man!” Paul protested. “I don't even know why you got me here.”

“Well, I'm thinking of charging you with assault. You and Eddie. That charge is as good as in the bag. I've got witnesses, you've been ID'd. Six-thirty, student coffee shop. But I'm working on a bigger charge. Murder. And I don't give a damn if you talk to me or not. I'm just being polite, giving you a chance to tell me your side of the story.”

Paul was staring at him, jaw agape. His olive complexion lent a greenish tinge to his pallor and one eye twitched spasmodically. Green could almost see his thoughts racing for cover.

“I—I demand to see a lawyer or talk to my father. You can't
do this. I don't have to tell you anything!”

“That's right, you don't. As I said, I'm just being polite. I mean, if you didn't kill him, you might want to tell me about it.”

“Tell you about what?”

“About your shirt.” Green laid the black shirt on the table. “Funny place for it, hidden in the garage.”

“That's not my shirt!”

“What do you take me for, stupid? Of course it's yours. Just your size. Your taste, too.”

“I never saw that shirt.”

“So it's your brother Eddie's? Is that your story?”

“No—no! Nobody has a shirt like that.”

“You check everything your brother buys?”

“Of course not! But black…I mean, Eddie would have a fight with mom over that. She wants us to look, like, geeky at college. To impress the profs.”

“You were ID'd at the coffee shop wearing a Metallica T-shirt, so I guess you buy them anyway.”

Paul's face fell as he saw the trap. “Well, yeah, sometimes. We put them on when she's not around.”

“So Eddie might sneak it off before he gets home and hide it in the garage?”

“Naw, naw! Are you kidding? Eddie's not a wimp, he wouldn't give a fuck what Mom thinks.”

“You own a knife, Paulie?”

The youth blinked in surprise. “Yeah?” he ventured warily.

“What type?”

“Swiss army knife. Got it a couple of years back.”

“What for?”

Paul shrugged. “Nothing! For fun. Just to have a knife, you know.”

“Your parents know about it?”

“Naw. Dad would freak. Dad's into all this non-violence shit.”

“Eddie own a knife?”

“I don't know.”

“Sure you do. Every guy likes to boast. That's why you got yours. Now what does Eddie's look like?”

Paul grew sulky. “He used to own a hunting knife, in a leather sheath. But I don't know if he's still got it.”

“What about an Arab knife? They're beautiful and part of your heritage.”

“Yeah.” Paul's expression darkened. “Eddie had one of those once, and Dad took it away. Threw an absolute shit fit.” He shook his head as if at the folly of the older generation.

Green laid the bagged knife on the table. “This it?”

Paul turned the knife over in his hand curiously. “Looks a bit like it. I can't remember. Where'd this come from?”

“It was hidden in the garage along with the shirt.”

“Well then, maybe Eddie—” He froze. The knife fell with a clatter.

“Maybe Eddie what?”

“Nothing! You're trying to trick me! You want me to finger my own brother! I'm not saying one more fucking word and if you—” He had turned purple, and tears threatened. “You can't prove a fucking thing!”