The Dead List (7 page)

Among the houses that looked as though they should have been torn down long ago, there were three or four homes that were holdouts. These were relics – houses that were cared for, even in the midst of the neglect. Older couples lived in the homes, and they refused to move no matter how much their neighborhood changed. They put up with the noises from fights, beer cans and needles thrown onto their lawns, and their cars being broken into. Sometimes they called the police, and other times they closed their curtains and hid away from it all. In his other life, Drake had been brought up among people like these. Back when he was a boy, men settled disputes with their fists, or sometimes in rare instances – a knife. Those times were gone. The new century had brought in a new age, and things were changing. Drake had seen the crimes listed on the incident reports that came in from larger cities. It wasn’t about fighting with fists or knives any longer – it was whoever was carrying a gun. Ryberg had been right the night before. The participants remained the same; just the names of the streets changed. In the forgotten little town of Hope, less than one hundred miles from the American border, it had taken a while, but the stakes were increasing here too. And it was happening in places like Cobalt Street.

The third house they approached was well known to both officers. Banman stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the porch. He clasped his hand over the baton that was hooked to his belt.

Drake stood beside him, and Banman motioned for him to go up.

“Banman, why do they call him Little Tommy?”

“You never met his old man, Drake. Now, he was a big man.”

Van Dyke and Peterson stopped their canvassing and waited on the opposite side of the road, monitoring the scene.

The screen had long since been removed. Drake gave three sharp knocks on the front door and then stood off to the side. The door was opened immediately; a large man blocked almost the entire opening. Two small, beady eyes and a nose poked out of thick tufts of hair that covered the majority of his face. His huge chest boomed forward, tattoos visible on his arms and upper body through a threadbare vest.

He held his forearms against the insides of the door and glared at Drake. He’d earned his muscular frame from years of hard work in the logging camps alternating with years spent in the weight rooms of correctional facilities. The voice didn’t match the man’s glare. A high-pitched sound squeaked from his mouth. “Yes.”

“Mr. Davis, we’re investigating a homicide. There was a body found across the street from your house last night. We wondered if you saw or heard anything unusual.”

“I smelled bacon all night long. That was unusual.” A woman’s laughter came from inside the house, and still the same cold glare as the man spoke in his squeaky voice.

Banman put his foot on the bottom step and tightened the grip on his baton. “Careful, Tommy.”

“Careful or what? This is my house. You’re on my doorstep.”

Drake pushed the mute button on his shoulder-mounted radio, speaking to no one. “Position unit three. We may need assistance.”

The man smiled and stepped back. A faint whiff of marijuana wafted from the other side of the door. Somehow a woman slipped her tiny body beside him in the doorway, her head poking under his huge arm. “He was here with me and we saw nothing. Whatever went down had nothing to do with us.”

Drake spread his legs apart, widening his stance – just in case. “We have video of you at the scene. I can take both of you in for questioning, which will not sit well with your parole officer, Tommy, or you can tell us right here. Did you see or hear anything last night?”

The woman wrapped her thin arms around the big man’s waist, barely able to touch her fingers together.

Tommy’s glare turned his face darker as he spoke. “Heard a bang – a loud bang.”

Banman asked, “Gunshot?”

“No, not a gunshot, just a bang, then Dumb and Dumber out there screaming like two little girls, standing over a drunk guy – found out later it was a dead body.”

Drake watched the man. “Did you see anybody else, Tommy?”

The big man smiled and then dropped his arms – a tattoo of a man on a cross on one and a series of numbers were stenciled down the other. Drake stepped back, ready, but the big arms didn’t move. They kept holding on to the woman. “We were too busy to notice anything else. We were very, very busy.”

The woman squealed as Tommy pulled her roughly in front of him.

“If you think of anything else…” The door closed before Drake could finish.

When they left Tommy’s yard, Banman spoke in a low voice. “The big shooters from the city had video coverage at the crime scene?”

Drake kept walking to the next house. “No, they did not, but I thought I saw the woman there. Tommy, no, I’d have recognized him, but I think she was there. So I bluffed.”

“At least we got him to talk. Usually Tommy doesn’t say jack to us.” Banman marched down the sidewalk as he spoke. Drake wondered how long it would take for him to report to Sergeant Thiessen on
his
interview with Tommy.

There were two relics on Van Dyke’s side of the street and two on Drake’s. He knew those were the only places where they might learn something. After short discussions with a couple of bleary-eyed residents in a basement suite who smelled as though they’d just woken up, they finally reached one of the homes that looked like it didn’t belong.

The house had a carefully cut lawn and tidy garden. They didn’t have to knock; the door opened as soon as they reached the top step.

A thin, elderly man propped the screen door open with his foot and held the main door ajar. He smiled at Banman and Drake as they reached the landing. “Officer Banman, and I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, young man.” He shook the officers’ hands as Drake introduced himself. “I’m sure you’re not here about the theft complaint I made last month, are you?”

Banman took off his hat and wiped a few strands of hair back across his balding head. “I’m sorry, Tony, we’re not.”

The old man interrupted him before he could continue. “I know that, Officer. You’re here about the man on the ground, aren’t you? Come in, I don’t think I can help, but it’s always nice to have a police presence in the neighborhood.”

As Drake had suspected, Tony Hempsill had lived in the same house on the same street since he married his wife fifty-three years ago. He lost her two summers previously, and as the three men sat in his living room, he explained that his kids wanted him to move into a seniors retirement home.

“I won’t go. Miriam is in this house; it’s all I have left of her. So I stay here and listen to the foul language and have bottles smashed on my front path while the drug addicts break into my shed. You know they stole a set of tires for a car I’m not allowed to drive anymore. I had them stored out there. Tires… what the hell do they want with old tires?”

They let the man tell his story, and even though he wasn’t talking about what had happened down the road and across the street from his house, Drake welcomed the break from having doors closed in his face. And he was less intimidating than Little Tommy Davis.

Banman wasn’t as patient. He prodded the man, trying to hurry him along. “Tony, did you hear anything last night, or see anything? A man was found dead just across the street from your door.”

“I didn’t see a thing. I use the bedroom in the back now. I keep an eye on my shed from the window just in case the thieves come back. Padlock won’t keep them out, and you boys have too many important things to attend to, so I sleep in the spare bedroom so I can watch it myself.”

They shook the man’s hand and thanked him. When they made it back to the street, Banman pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “I need two minutes Drake. Just let me have a smoke and call the wife.”

He pulled out his mobile phone. Seconds later he was asking his wife if she’d booked their holiday, and without waiting for her answer, he asked how much it was going to cost.

Drake wandered up to the old man’s house again and stood on the top step. He turned and looked out at the area that was still taped off from the night before. After staring for a moment, he wandered around the back. The shed was metal and set a few feet away from the old house. It looked out of place and didn’t blend in with the rest of the yard. He pulled on a shiny, new padlock and gave a push on the door. Nothing moved. When he turned, Mr. Hempsill was standing by the back door.

“I saw you last night under the streetlamp, talking to the other one – the commander.”

“You know Sergeant Thiessen?”

The old man sighed wearily. “From neighborhood watch meetings and Sunday services too, of course. We tried – me and old Thurston down the street. We wanted to help the police, get some community involvement, and stop the break-ins, the noises. That doesn’t work on this street though. We were the only ones who came to the meetings; none of the other neighbors cared.”

The old man had an earnest look in his eyes. His children may have thought he was ready for a seniors home, but there was nothing wrong with his mind.

Drake nodded at him, understanding. “It was your neighbors that you needed protection from.”

“We knew that, but we tried anyway. We thought maybe we’d rally them, get them questioning their conscience, but they don’t have any. There’s no accountability. They drink and smoke all day and terrorize old men and women at night.”

“Sir…”

“Tony, Constable Drake, call me Tony.”

“Tony, did you see or hear anything before you looked out at us under the streetlamp? If you can remember anything it would really help.”

The old man contemplated for a long moment and then shook his head. “I was just watching my shed.”

Drake thanked him, then made his way around the front of the house. “I’ll keep my eye out for your shed when I pass, Tony. I’ll do my best, and if you remember anything, give me a call. It’ll be just between us.”

The man closed the door without answering.

The remainder of the houses produced similar results. Doors were closed after a few terse answers, and the other relic on Drake’s side of the street contained an old couple who were so deaf they should have been communicating by sign language. After a few comical minutes where Banman and Drake knew they would get nothing from them, they thanked the couple and continued on their way. When they met with Van Dyke and Officer Peterson at the intersection they exchanged the same stories. The house Mr. Hempsill had referred to as “Old Man Thurston’s” had produced no information. He had a sleep apnea machine that he plugged in at night that drowned out the sound of the outside world. Van Dyke and Peterson encouraged the old man to keep that information to himself in case his home was burgled, but he just shook his head in disgust and said it didn’t matter.

“It’s like they’ve given up. The creeps have won.” Brandon Van Dyke was the only officer in the force, perhaps even the country, who could keep a straight face and refer to drug addicts and criminals as creeps. Banman chided him for it and wandered back to one of the squad cars, dialing his mobile phone once again.

Officer Peterson pulled her hat off and ran a hand through her curly hair. She smiled at Van Dyke. “You need to toughen up your vocabulary, Brandon.”

Van Dyke watched her with a curious expression. “Why?”

Peterson looked at Drake for support and then raised her arms in the air as she made her way back to the cruiser. “Maybe you’re right, Brandon. Just keep being you. Maybe you’re right.”

Drake fell in beside Brandon as they followed the two officers, and he spoke so that no one else could hear them. “Brandon, one of the guys you talked to last night, the one who found the body, was a Van Dyke: Anton. Do you know him?”

Brandon’s face went as serious as it had when he had viewed the body the night before. “I know him, John, of course I know him.”

Drake stopped before reaching the squad cars and held his arm in front of the younger man. “Where do you know him from, Brandon? Is he family? Do you know him from church?”

“Yes, he’s family. He used to be my brother, John, but now he’s nothing.” His innocence and friendly demeanor disappeared. He spat out the word and then said it again. “Nothing.”

Drake began to speak, but Brandon interrupted him, clenching his teeth together. “I need to get to a bathroom. It’s happening again. I’ll see you at the station.”

Before Drake could follow him, Banman called out. “Hey superstar, you’re wanted back at the detachment. Ryberg is waiting for you.”

He ignored the comment and climbed back into the driver’s seat of the police car as Banman got in beside him. Ryberg must have located one of the men from the list. His status was about to be upgraded again. Brandon Van Dyke, with Sophie Peterson in the passenger seat, accelerated the car the few blocks back to the station, hurrying to get to the bathroom. Drake cruised behind at a conservative speed. He was surprised at how excited he was. Maybe he’d be an investigator for more than just a few hours this time.

Drake almost walked into Pringle as they passed each other at the front door of the detachment. The investigator was once again wearing his long, dark-brown corduroy sports jacket. It contrasted oddly with his tan pants. Drake changed his mind; he didn’t look like an insurance salesman after all. Instead he looked like an oversized model who had just wandered off the pages of a 1976 clothing catalog. He turned when he saw Drake and stood at the open door. “Did you find any joy on the street of dreams?”

“Maybe. Tommy Davis, built like a mountain, major priors, did a stretch for attempted back in the day. He says he heard a bang, but won’t elaborate. And an old man who I think knows more than he’s letting on.”

Pringle had his own version of Ryberg’s eyebrow question mark. He gave Drake a tight smile that wasn’t really a smile and made a sucking noise with his cheeks. “Are you going back?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Let me know if you need a passenger. We had to release your friend Franco – half the town alibied him. They were all sitting in his living room watching the hockey game. Even his mother was with him.”