The Dead List (23 page)

Myron began to object, but Ryberg cut him off. “It’s fine. Trust me. You’ll get your shot. I need you watching from the observation rooms. We’ve gone cowboy here, picking up all these people.” He kept looking at Myron, ignoring Pringle and Drake. He wasn’t accusing; he was noting the facts, just like in their strategy meetings. “But that’s okay, we’ll follow this through. I need you observing and making sure we do everything right.”

It seemed to appease the young man. The noise had subsided, but there was still movement everywhere. Veronica stood off to the side, waiting for one of the officers – any of them – to acknowledge her.

Drake took a chance. He was right; he had to be. “I have some additional information. We might want to chat before going in.”

Sergeant Thiessen was yelling again, to no one in particular. Ryberg’s eyes lit up, and his eyebrows angrily merged together in the middle of his forehead. He leaned toward the three officers and spoke in his strong accent, gritting the words out between his teeth. “Okay, give me two minutes to sort out this….” He almost said it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t call the sergeant a name. “Two minutes, then we meet in the hallway briefly, briefly.” He looked toward the interview rooms. “Then we take door number one.”

Ryberg marched toward Sergeant Thiessen. Both of the senior officers’ faces seemed like they were about to explode. The precinct sergeant looked like he had just returned from vacation and had neglected to apply sunscreen. With his blond hair and flaming red complexion, he could have lit up half the town. Ryberg walked past the sergeant and pulled him toward his own office. “Come.”

Veronica tugged on Drake’s arm. She talked faster than he’d ever heard her speak. “Both Vancouver dailies, you name the TV or radio station, major interest from the US, and they all keep asking for our media liaison officer.”

Drake tried to calm her down while watching his two superiors. Sergeant Thiessen’s office door was open; the two of them stood just inside the room. Thiessen raised his finger and pointed at Ryberg as he tried to speak. The old investigator put a hand on each of Thiessen’s shoulders, not letting him talk, and stared into his eyes. He didn’t have to yell. “You need to make a call.”

Thiessen was sputtering, trying to object.

At the front desk, one of the men in suits kept asking to see to his client. The watch commander sprang up and jumped around to the other side of the counter, facing him down – almost physically holding him back.

Drake turned to Veronica. She looked like she was going to cry.

Ryberg was speaking firmly again. “No, you have to make a call. Make the ten twenty-one, Sergeant. Phone Johnson.” He stood closer to Thiessen now, their faces almost touching. Drake could barely hear him. “We have procedures for situations like this. You know that. Make the call, or I will.”

Thiessen was retreating – sitting down at his desk.

Drake spotted Sophie Peterson at the counter, signing in a patrol car. He placed his arm gently around Veronica’s shoulder and called to his colleague, “Officer Peterson, can you help us.”

Still chewing her gum, she walked through the maze of bodies and desks to reach them.

“We need your help. Can you help Veronica liaise with the media for a while, just for a while? Standard statements and we’ll update when we know more.”

At first she didn’t understand. “So this morning I’m a car-buyer, and now I’m dealing with reporters? And I still don’t know why.”

Drake began to open his mouth, and then Sophie saw Veronica’s face. “Okay, okay, I got it.”

Veronica turned over a pad of paper. “I have thirty new emails in the past thirty minutes asking about our multiple homicides. They want to know why we keep finding dead bodies, and whether the killings are related. Thirty emails – how do they even know what happened?”

Sophie nodded and told her it was going to be okay. As the two women walked away, Ryberg strode toward Drake, the situation with Sergeant Thiessen obviously resolved. Whatever call had to be made was either made or the threat from Ryberg had been sufficient. Thiessen was in his office and the yelling had ceased.

Without slowing down, Ryberg nodded toward the hallway that led to the interview rooms. “Follow me.”

Myron had disappeared again. Pringle stood to one side with Drake on the other. Ryberg glared at the two of them. “Apparently, one of the several suspects you two picked up this morning is crying his eyes out like a little baby. Unlike any of the guilty men I have arrested over the years, this man is not asking for a lawyer; he is asking for his minister. Now, as succinctly as possible, tell me again why this car salesman is in our interview room.”

Pringle corrected him. “Cell, he’s in a cell.”

Drake didn’t wait for Ryberg to react. “I have a contact, a street person who says he saw a red car slowing down on Cobalt the night of Robinson’s murder, and someone tossing a body out.”

Ryberg responded quickly. “A street person – is he credible?”

“I believe so, yes. A red car was also outside one of the houses on Cobalt last night and the driver was visiting with the old man I interviewed – the one who I think has more information, but wouldn’t talk. That’s Tony Hempsill. I had him pulled in too, as well as Brian Stam.”

Ryberg didn’t seem to know how to react. He looked at Pringle and then back to Drake. “And the red car belongs to this Brian Stam, this salesman?”

“Yes, the timing for the murder makes sense. I saw him at the dealership when I was there this morning. He could easily have had time to drive out and see Rochfort and then return to work. And I think the old man can help us too. I think he saw something, and I want to know who was visiting him last night. If he can concur on the red car, we might be able to trace it back to Brian Stam.”

Ryberg bit his lip and began to turn toward interview room one. Drake stopped him. He was in this deep; he might as well give him all of the information. “I went over the recordings of the interviews this morning.” It felt like it had been a week ago. “There were two words that kept coming up – money and group. I believe the men were part of a group that involved money.”

Ryberg snapped back at him. “Yes, yes, Myron told me about the firewood operation. I don’t see the relevance.”

Myron was back, coming in halfway through the conversation, just like at the murder scene. “Well actually there may be some relevance, but not quite in the direction we were searching. My contact at the bank mentioned in his fax that if I wanted information on other policies to follow up with him. So I did. The company that sold Frank Wilson the policy that allowed him to retire early signed him to another insurance policy five years ago. I’m waiting to hear back from the agent who sold it to him. I can’t figure out what he was insuring, but the other names on the policy are Michael Robinson, David Parker, Derek Rochfort, Monica Brown, and Trevor Middleton.”

The watch commander was calling his name from the front counter. “Drake, I need you please.”

Ryberg pushed his finger hard on Myron’s chest. “On it. Now. I want to know what this insurance policy is all about.”

The watch commander wouldn’t let up. He called again.

Drake left the men and walked to the front of the station. A man in a T-shirt and blue jeans picked up his camera. He began to aim it at Drake, but the corporal heaved himself up from behind the counter, showing his full six and a half feet of height, and the camera was put back down.

The watch commander stepped off to the side and motioned for Drake to come over. He stood close to him, speaking quietly. “I have Tony Hempsill here. Even if I had an interview room I wouldn’t put him in it, Drake.”

Drake began to interrupt, but the man kept going. “Tony is an old friend. I put him in the lunchroom. I don’t know what you want with him, but do not keep him waiting, Constable.”

There were too many connections in a small town – far too many.

Ryberg called to him. He was standing at the entrance to interview room number one with Pringle.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just hold him for a little while.”

Ryberg briefly gave him some instructions, and then Pringle held the door open. Ryberg seated himself at the small table and Drake sat beside him.

Frank Wilson did not look well.

He was sitting upright and twitching – his youthful pose from the first interview a distant memory. His lawyer was local; Drake had dealt with him on an assault case a few months previously.

Pringle had his twelve o’clock scowl plastered across his hard face. With his arms folded in front of him he looked like a disgruntled bouncer at closing time. Myron was ensconced in the observation room, probably holding firmly to his notepad.

The lawyer began to speak immediately. “Gentlemen, my client…”

Ryberg raised his hand and pulled his seat slightly away from the table. “Do not speak. I have two men dead, and I haven’t decided if your client is withholding evidence or if he is responsible for two murders. But, before we leave this room I will find out.”

It worked. He drew Wilson out right away. He spoke quickly, and ignored his lawyer’s pleas for him to remain silent. “Now listen to me. I’ve lost a friend. Two friends. Why would I kill them? Why?” He moved forward, and his chair scuffed along the floor. Pringle dropped his arms and took half a step toward the table.

The lawyer again. “Sergeant, if you’re going to charge…”

Ryberg ignored the lawyer and continued focusing on the old logger. “You know what, Mr. Wilson? I have an opportunity for you. Either you or one of your friends is going to win the lottery today. Do you have the winning ticket? Do you have something you’d like to tell me?”

Wilson was sweating; he shook his head defiantly as he talked. His words were joined together, like one long word. “There’s nothingtotell. Nothingtotell.”

Ryberg leaned back, signaling to Drake that it was his turn.

Just like before, the words came easy to him. As per Ryberg’s instructions, he disclosed a little bit of information. “Mr. Wilson, Frank, we’ve begun to assemble the facts. We know about your illegal firewood business. We know about the insurance policy. Either you or one of your friends is going to fill in the few remaining gaps in the story.”

Wilson interrupted and pointed at the two officers. “I told you. I told both of you that there was a murderer in this town. I demand protective custody.” Wilson had watched too many cop shows. Even his lawyer seemed bemused. He put his hand on his client’s shoulder, but Wilson aggressively shrugged it off. “You’ll get nothing from me until you can guarantee my safety.”

Ryberg continued sitting back, signaling that Drake should continue. “We haven’t charged you. Yet. My advice to you is that you answer our questions and help us with our inquiries.” Drake paused, trying to gain the man’s trust. “Who do you think killed Mike and Derek? Who killed your friends, Frank?”

It didn’t work. He was cockier now. He folded his arms and looked around the room, mouthing the words like a spoiled child. “Nothingtotell. Nothingtotell.”

Ryberg was getting antsy. He shifted in his seat but still leaned back, affirming that Drake should keep asking questions.

Drake knocked his knuckles on the table. “Focus, Frank. You need to focus on us. Why do you think you’re in danger? Who do you think is going to hurt you?”

Wilson laughed. He nodded and shook his finger at the two officers. “Not so fast. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you the name, but I need to know you’ll protect me.” He glanced at his lawyer and then back to Drake. “I need to know I can trust you.”

Ryberg looked like he was going to lunge at him. His face contorted, and he raised his voice. “Mr. Wilson, you’re just about to run out of friends. You have five minutes to tell me what’s going on here. Because if you don’t, somebody behind one of these doors will. Five minutes – think about it.”

He was up quickly. Pringle and Drake followed him out the door, leaving Wilson alone with his lawyer.

Myron met the three of them in the hallway, ready to jump into the appropriate observation room. Ryberg’s fists were clenched at his sides, and his accent became more pronounced with every word he uttered. “I can’t believe what he just asked me. I cannot believe this man.” No one answered him.

The investigator looked at the closed doors and the names on the whiteboards. “Okay, eeeny meeny miny mo. Let’s go to liar number two.”

Parker’s lawyer was being delayed at the front counter. The sales manager jumped up when they came in. Ryberg immediately told him to sit. They assumed the same positions – Pringle and his scowl at the door, Drake and Ryberg seated at the table.

Ryberg had somehow calmed himself. He had a serious, solemn tone as he spoke. “I offer you the same deal I have offered your friend, Mr. Parker. Tell me what you know about two recent murders, or I will stake the balance of my career on getting you sent away for a very long time.”

Parker rubbed his chin and seemed as though he was unable to speak. Sounds came from his mouth, but they could not have been described as words. The overhead camera and spider microphone were doing their job this time. Both men were intimidated – scared. Parker continued to make strange noises, without speaking.

Ryberg didn’t wait for him to get the sentences out. He interrupted and began asking questions.

“Where were you this morning when Officer Drake visited your dealership?”

“I was not available…” He began to choke. He leaned backward and slapped the palm of his hand on his chest, as though he were trying to catch his breath. “Derek is dead. He is, isn’t he? He’s dead?” It was a question. “How could he be dead? There’s no reason. This should not happen.”

Ryberg leaned back and silently glanced at Drake. The bold sideburns that crested around Parker’s cheeks shook as he moved his head from side to side, trying to deny that anything had happened.

Drake felt as though he had fallen into a groove. Even without Ryberg’s instructions he instinctively knew what to say. “Where were you this morning, Dave? Were you out at Trailco? Did you go to see Buttons?”