Authors: David Anderson
fifty-five
Lori was waiting for him at Luigi’s. She was sitting at a table for two, in a back corner of the Italian eatery. Knowing his preferences, she had her back to the door, studying the menu, so she wasn’t aware when he came in. Drumm slid quietly into the chair across from her. “What looks good?”
She looked up and smiled at him. “Just about everything, but it all looks like a lot of calories to me.” She looked him over carefully. “You look like one tired detective.”
“Thanks. You, on the other hand, look as fresh as a daisy. Or a lotus.” Lori did, in fact, appear to be unaffected by the difficult events of the night before and the lack of sleep. She was wearing black slacks and a white sweater; as usual her hair was done up in a bun. “”Have you heard the latest about Dick?”
“Yes. It looks like he’ll make it, doesn’t it? I’m so glad.”
“It’s nice to get some good news, that’s for sure.” Drumm could see their server approaching. “Order me a beer, please, Lori, and something to eat as well. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When he returned, Lori was sipping from a bottle of beer; there was another one waiting for him. He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s Peroni. I thought it appropriate considering the setting. And I’ve ordered salad and gnocchi. Okay?” She smiled at him.
Drumm sipped his beer. “This is good. I’ve never had it before. Don’t usually have gnocchi either. I approve.” He raised his bottle to her.
“What was it?”
It was remarkable how well she knew him, he thought. “6.4, so I’m fine.”
Lori smiled. “Good, then.” She looked away and then back at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Just concerned. Nosy actually, sticking my nose in when I shouldn’t.”
Drumm smiled. “Don’t worry about it. To tell you the truth, it’s a relief to be able to talk to someone about it.”
Their salads arrived.
Drumm asked, “This Buleman guy, you think he’s creditable?”
“I think he’s credible, yes.” Lori smiled and took a sip of beer. “I arranged for him to come in this afternoon and sit down with Harrison. At least then we’ll have a sketch to go by.”
“Good. Those things sometimes work. It’s certainly worth doing. It’s not like we have a lot to go on.” Drumm finished his salad and pushed the plate away.
“What about this Sarah Smillie? She’s a longshot, isn’t she?”
“Absolutely. But right now, she and that Buleman description are about all we’ve got. I’m going to try to find her.” Drumm waited while the server removed their salad bowls. “It’s possible she can fill in some of the gaps on our Arthur Billinger. I still feel like I hardly know who he was. Your muscle man in Danny’s who was scooping him out – and Levine too – Mr. Intense, we’ll call him. If he was the killer, what was it about? He just didn’t like gay men? Is that what this is?”
“Mr. Intense had well developed muscles,” said Lori. “Which could mean he uses a gym. Once I get the composite sketch, I’ll make the rounds of the local fitness clubs, and that boxing place too, and see if anyone recognizes him.”
“Mr. Intense could also work out at home,” said Drumm. Their gnocchi arrived. “This looks good.” He waited while their young waitress departed. “But I agree it’s worth a try to see if anyone knows him. We’ll show that sketch to everyone we can think of. First, though, when we’re done here, I want you to come back with me to Billinger’s house.”
Lori nodded. “Alright. I know you like having a second look. Maybe we’ll notice something new.”
“And maybe we won’t. But I always feel compelled to do it.”
Lori smiled at him. “Compulsions can be good sometimes.”
fifty-six
The yellow crime scene tape had been removed from Arthur Billinger’s house and the deceased teacher’s home appeared as normal as any of the others in the neighbourhood. It wasn’t even a week since he had been killed but the weather seemed to have changed considerably. Drumm remembered there had been geese overhead then but there was no sign of them today. It was much colder and windier and the dead leaves were swirling around as a warning that winter was on its bitter way.
Inside it was chilly and the house smelled musty. He and Lori moved from room to room, reacquainting themselves with the layout. The smashed window in the kitchen had been boarded up, but the broken glass on the floor remained.
In the bedroom, Lori turned the light on and opened the curtains which had been closed to foil nosy neighbours. The bloodstains on the bed and walls in the bedroom were a jolting reminder of what had happened there.
“It’s pretty creepy seeing you holding that thing,” she said.
Drumm hefted the bloodstained Louisville Slugger, still wrapped in its protective plastic coating. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to play the part of the corpse.” He smiled briefly at her. “I just wanted to try something.”
He set the bat down, removed his jacket and handed it to her. “We know the killer stood here.” Drumm had moved right up beside the bed. “It’s dark, but somehow he can see well enough to do the job he came to do.” He turned and looked at her. “Any ideas?”
“Probably his eyes had adjusted. Or maybe there was a light on already. Some people use a nightlight.”
Drumm objected, “We didn’t find one.”
“No, we didn’t. So maybe the killer brought one and then removed it. I doubt that, though. I just think his eyes had adjusted.”
“Me too,” said Drumm. “Although maybe there was moonlight. We didn’t check that.”
Lori made a note. “I’ll look it up.”
Drumm said, “Doesn’t matter. He could see and that’s what counts.” He turned back to face the bed. “So he stood here and…”
With two hands, Drumm slowly elevated the plastic-wrapped bat, lifting it over his head. He stopped and turned to Lori. “He would have done it like this, but you see the problem?”
“You’re too tall.”
“I’m too tall. If I try, I’ll hit the ceiling on the way up.” He looked carefully at the white-painted ceiling above them. “And I don’t see any marks on it.”
Lori said, “So he was shorter than you. How tall are you, anyway?”
“Detective Singh, I am a manly six foot one, and I am too tall to have committed this crime. Unless I did it on my knees.”
“No way,” said Lori positively.
“No way, indeed,” Drumm agreed. “Nobody would go down on their knees and then swing downwards like that. Especially twenty or thirty times.”
“Which means,” said Lori, “that a shorter man did it. Maybe my height. Give.” She reached out and took the bat from Drumm. They exchanged positions.
Standing beside the bed, she carefully raised the bat until it was fully extended behind her head. It cleared the ceiling by a couple of inches. She struck downwards, stopping the bat just above the bed.
“How tall are you, Lori?”
“I am five foot four, sir.”
“Just the right height, too,” said Drumm. “So our killer is five foot four or shorter. That’s helpful.”
“Worth coming out here again, that’s for sure.”
Drumm slipped on his jacket while Lori closed the curtains again. They went outside and spent a fruitless few minutes prowling around the yard before Drumm had enough. “There’s nothing else to see. And we’ve got better things to do.”
Lori looked at her watch. “It’s time I was going anyway. I want to be there when Buleman arrives. You’re going after Sarah Smiles? What kind of name is that anyway?”
“Smillie,” he corrected, but he knew she was teasing. “I am going to try. The school district offices aren’t open so it won’t be easy.”
They were at their cars by now. She asked, “Will we get together later?”
“We’ll see.”
“Right.” She got into the Prius and he watched her drive away.
fifty-seven
Lori enjoyed watching Harrison Wojtek work. She didn’t often get to see him in action so she tried to observe him whenever she could. He wasn’t actually an employee of the York Police Services as there wasn’t enough demand for his services. Harrison was a professor at York College for the Fine Arts and was called in on a contract basis as needed.
Wojtek had already started with Buleman when she arrived. His technique was first to make the witness comfortable, and Lori could see that he had already succeeded. The artist had a charming grin and a self-deprecating routine that he used to good effect, and Buleman was laughing at one of Wojtek’s witticisms.
She watched as Wojtek listened carefully to what the bartender had to say, and then he began drawing. He asked for more details, listened with his head cocked to one side and put his pencil to work applying the added information. Occasionally he would show Buleman what he had done and then erase and draw again as needed. Wojtek was a quick worker, but even so it took the better part of an hour to come up with a drawing that Buleman accepted.
She noticed that the bartender looked doubtful when he gazed at the finished product, but he nodded as if to say it was close enough. Lori knew that most witnesses were keen when they started but increasingly sceptical as the session wore on. And she knew that sketches done like this were unreliable, but without a photograph, it was the best they could do.
The drawing showed a young man with short hair and just the beginnings of a receding hairline at the temples. The eyes were close set and the eyebrows thick and rather fierce-looking. With those and compressed lips in a downward curving mouth, Harrison had succeeded in capturing an intense-looking suspect. Whether it was an accurate drawing or not remained to be seen.
She thanked the bartender and the artist for coming in and complimented them both on their efforts. Then she hurried to make copies.
Coming back from the machine, she saw that Sue Oliver had begun the formal interrogation of Matthew Wilson. There was a crowd outside the interview room watching the monitor. Lori took a few minutes to observe as well.
She already knew that this would be a slam dunk case, unless Wilson recanted his confession or pleaded mental incompetence or some such baloney. He had admitted to attacking Detective Richard McDonald in front of numerous witnesses, and he had told the police where to find his weapon. It had been a spring-loaded knife, similar to a switchblade, and it had been found dumped in a garbage can at a shopping plaza in Barrie. There appeared to be blood on the blade and there was more blood on Wilson’s clothes. Everyone involved was confident that they had the right man, and this was an open and shut case.
Wilson had legal counsel with him, a weary-looking lawyer that she didn’t recognize, with a look of resignation on his face. Lori didn’t blame him as his client was committing legal suicide right in front of the attorney’s eyes.
Sue Oliver was leading Wilson carefully through the events of the evening before. The accused was answering all the questions in a dull monotone of a voice. Lori watched long enough to realize that Matthew Wilson was not the most intelligent of young men; he was barely coherent in fact. It also appeared that he had a thing for older women, and he had come across Celeste Chappell just as a matter of chance.
Lori shook her head. What a random world it was. Dick McDonald almost losing his life because of the actions of this moronic peeping tom. She badly wanted to stay and watch the rest, to see exactly why he had knifed a cop, but she had to get going. She would have to find out later.
As she headed out to her car, Lori glanced at the list she had compiled, planning the best route to take. The names of twelve fitness clubs were on the paper, as well as the York Boxing Club and the Base Borden Fitness Centre.
Wojtek’s sketch would be released to the media as “a person of interest that the police wanted to speak with in connection with two recent murders.” Sometimes doing this kind of thing was helpful. More often than not, though, it led to dozens, if not hundreds, of false sightings that required a lot of police time and used up valuable resources. With so few leads to go on, however, Chappell had okayed the move. He had looked exceedingly harassed when Lori sought him out for permission.
“It’s worth a try,” Chappell had said. “You’ve don’t have much else. What’s Nick up to?”
Lori explained about Sarah Smillie. Chappell had looked at her in disbelief. “Someone Billinger walked with years ago? Tell Drumm to get over to the Dairy Queen and find a box of straws. He can grasp at them as well.”
Lori could hardly blame Chappell. He was under a lot of pressure. She’d heard this afternoon via the grapevine that now the police union was about to go after the Staff Inspector because he had sidestepped normal safety regulations. She shook her head. Who would want to be a staff inspector?
The Base Fitness Centre first, she decided. The Prius started up smoothly and she glided quietly out of the parking lot.
fifty-eight
Sitting in his car outside Billinger’s house, Drumm was listening to Nellie Furtado’s
All Good Things Come to an End
while he thought. He had used his phone to do a search of all the Smillies in the city of York; there were eleven in all. He was able to reach six of them; Sarah Smillie rang no bells with any of them. At two of the numbers he had left a message asking to be called back. The remaining three he would have to try later.
His mind wandered. Why
do
all good things come to an end? Entropy. Fate. Karma. Who knew? He shoved thoughts of Emily firmly away and forced his mind back to the task at hand. Sarah Smillie.
He tried the three numbers again. Still no answer. Drumm pulled out his wallet and found the business card of Janet Millbrook from the school district offices. She answered promptly.
“Detective Sergeant Drumm, Ms Millbrook. York Police Services, VCU. You remember me, I hope?”
“I do, indeed, Detective.” If Millbrook was surprised to be contacted on a Saturday afternoon, she was doing a good job of hiding it. “What can I do for you?”
Drumm explained about his fruitless search for Sarah Smillie. “I would like to speak to her but I can’t find anyone who knows her. I need to see her personnel records to see where she went after teaching at Prince Albert Senior Public.”
“The offices are closed on the weekend, Detective.”
“Yes, I know. But I still need to see her file. Now, I can try to get a judge to issue a warrant to search the school district records. But that will take a lot of time, and I would just as soon find an easier way. Which is why I thought of my favourite Superintendent of Human Resources.”
Millbrook laughed. “You sweet talker, you. Did that work on the secretaries when you were teaching, Detective?”
“Sometimes,” Drumm admitted.
“Unfortunately I don’t have a key, Detective.”
“But you know who does, right?”
“I can probably get you in, yes. Let me make a few calls and I’ll get back to you.”
“I have a better idea. I’ll meet you at the Taj Mahal in half an hour.”
“Make it an hour, Detective. I have things to do first.”
“Forty-five minutes, then. I appreciate this, believe me.” Drumm disconnected before she could protest.
It was actually fifty minutes before Janet Millbrook showed up with the keys to the building. Drumm had occupied himself calling the three numbers again – still no answer – and had fielded one return call from a Smillie who knew nothing about Sarah.
Millbrook let them in and went straight to a security panel to turn off the alarm system. “That was one of the things I had to do before I came. Find out how to disarm this thing,” she said. She led the way upstairs to her office.
Drumm found the silence in the normally bustling building to be very odd but it didn’t seem to bother Millbrook.
“So, you didn’t find talking to Arthur Billinger’s principals helpful?”
“I’ve only managed to get to two of them so far. And the farther back I go, the less likely I think the chances are of them being any use at all.”
Millbrook led the way into her offices. “Please sit down, Detective. Back in a minute.” She was back in nine minutes, carrying a sheet of paper. “Got it.”
Drumm read it over. “Timmins!”
Millbrook smiled. “I’m afraid so. She transferred up there right after her stint at Prince Albert. It doesn’t say why.”
“It hardly matters, I guess. But…Timmins.” He stood up. “Right. Thanks so much for doing this. I owe you one.” Drumm was already heading out the door.
She called to him. “So are you going to have to drive up to Timmins then?”
He turned and frowned at her. “Geez, I hope not. I hate Timmins.”
Back at his car, Drumm stood outside and thought. He had found Sarah Smillie. She might prove to be helpful, she might not. Timmins was at least an eight hour drive to the north. He looked at the overcast sky and shivered. It would be much colder up there. And what would Chappell say if Drumm buggered off up north, chasing a will-o-the-wisp of a hope? He
knew
what the Staff Inspector would say and it would hardly be polite. Better to call her first and see if this Sarah Smillie even remembered Arthur Billinger. Then he could go from there. Yes, that’s what he should do.