“Anything else?” Gooch asked. She, too, had her camera out and was photographing the fax.
“Wait for Wilson, I guess.” Staal had noticed an old timer sitting in a bench across the corridor from the machine. Another senior was just sitting down beside him. Staal took the suspect composites from his kit and walked over to them.
He introduced himself and asked, “How long have you gentlemen been sitting here?”
“On and off all morning, Detective,” one of them answered. “I’m Joseph and that’s Fred.” Joseph wore a hearing aid on his ear, and combed his oiled white hair straight back.
“We walk a bit. Then we sit a spell,” Fred said. He was bald with thick glasses.
Staal held out the drawings. “Does this guy look familiar? He’s about thirty years old. Five-six, hundred fifty pounds, and wears dark clothing.”
Fred and Joe glanced at each other. Joe spoke first. “A chap all dressed in black with a White Sox cap was over at that machine you were looking at. He looked pretty much like how you described.”
“He thumped his fist on the thing, cursed at it.” Fred pointed at the machine.
“Remember anything else about this guy?” Staal asked.
A short pause and then, “Yeah, sure looked like he’d taken a beating,” Fred said.
“A beating?”
“That’s right, Officer. Had a black eye and bruises all over his cheek.”
Staal thanked the men and took down their full names and phone numbers. His phone buzzed.
“Staal,” Barnes said. “We just received a fax, too—just like the others. This time it’s addressed to you, right here at the detective squad room. Fraser and Hayes tracked the Channel Nine fax to a 24-Seven over on Marine drive. Drummond’s people are there now.”
“Shit, Max, can you tell where the fax that came to me is from?” Staal’s heart began to pound.
“Give me a minute to check it.”
“Sure,” Staal said.
“Jack,” Barnes paused. “I had to update IHIT. Corporal Chin is on the move and rolling out your way.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Staal used yellow caution tape to seal off the area. Jesse returned. He said there was only one camera in the area, and he had pulled the video tape that included the last two hours of film.
“Jesse, don’t let anyone touch this machine,” Staal said. “Uniform cops will be here soon and a team from the lab.”
Jesse said that he understood.
Staal nodded to Gooch and they headed for the exit and the Impala. Before Staal climbed into the vehicle, his phone rang again. It was Barnes. The fax sent to the machine at 565 originated at the farmers market across the street from the 24-Seven store on Marine Drive.
Kim’s Market sold the usual produce selection at prices cheaper than grocery stores. It also featured a coffee bar with Internet ready PCs, a copier, and a facsimile machine.
Fraser stood at the coffee bar, passed a composite drawing to the cashier, and opened his notebook. Staal nodded to Hayes and she smiled back. Drummond was dusting the machine for prints.
“You just can’t keep out of this, can you, Jack?” Wilson Drummond said with a sarcastic grin on is face.
“Guess not.”
“Kent is working the machine at the mall.”
“Did we get anything from the 24-Seven machine?”
“Ward is working it right now,” Drummond answered. “I’ll call Kevin in ten and then I’ll let you know.”
“The guy running the store next door saw our guy in black. We have the security tape,” Hayes said.
“Any cameras here?” Staal glanced around the market.
“Nope.”
“This kid,” Fraser tilted his head to the young woman at the coffee bar. “Described our guy. She said he looked just like our composite.”
“Let’s get back to the house and check out these tapes. If we have anything, maybe we can run it on the noon news.”
Corporal Donald Chin stood at the entrance to Market. Next to Chin was Staff-Sergeant Richard Pitman. Pitman was nearly sixty, although he could pass for 45. His hair was cut short, military style, and his height of six foot six dwarfed his Corporal.
“Detective Staal, Sergeant Gooch, perhaps you could have waited for team members to handle this situation.”
“Told you Staal was a fucking cowboy!” Chin said, spitting his words.
“Corporal. Direct the teams investigating these three scenes.”
Rachael caught Staal’s eye with her own, signaling that she would handle Pitman.
As IHIT members took over the scene, Staal stepped outside and waited for Gooch. He hoped that Rachael wasn’t taking any blame for his tactics. The Integrated Team was not known for a quick dispersal to crime scenes, and trace evidence would have been lost if the three fax machines were not sealed.
Michelle Dionne stepped into the coffee room where Staal, Fraser and Gina were running theories. Dionne announced that Staal and his people were to be included in the security tape viewing. Staal smiled. Rachael Gooch must have woven some diplomatic magic at the market during her chat with the Staff Sergeant in charge of IHIT.
Two VCRs and TVs were set up in the conference room. At least ten members of IHIT were already seated around the table. First, the tape from the 24-Seven began. Staal found empty seats near the rear of the room. Gooch operated the controls of the video machines. The convenience store tape was snowy and jumpy.
“I think your tape is useless for a broadcast, Staal!” Corporal Chin said.
“Yeah, you’re right, but here’s our guy,” Gooch said, glaring at Chin.
“That’s him. The little prick. Maybe Dawson can clean it up a bit,” Staal said. Annette Dawson was the audio-visual expert on staff, and if she couldn’t clean up the picture, nobody could.
“Here he is again,” Gooch said. “This looks good.”
The guy in black—Damian Knight, as he wanted to be called—moved into view and began to run a fax through the mall machine. He stopped to take a quick look around the area, and then pounded his fist on the machine. Gooch re-ran the tape and paused it at the frame that best showed the suspect’s face. She held the composite up next to the screen.
“Let’s have Dawson dub this tape right now.” Pitman said. “Clean it up and burn it to compact disc.”
“Yeah, I’ll set it up,” Hayes said.
“Good, make at least a dozen copies.” Pitman stood as he spoke. “I’ll set it up with Nancy Collins at the CBC. Chin, make some calls and find out who else will run this. Let’s rock and roll, people! I want this on the noon news!”
The television distracted Knight from the Internet chat room. His online conversation with three other guys about the latest Star Trek movie had lost his interest. He pushed away from his desk and glanced across the room to the TV. It was a commercial for yet another energy drink. He would have to try the new product before it went off the market.
A newsbreak came on and hinted that there was a late breaking story. He was searching for the remote when the screen filled with a copy of the facsimile he had sent to the newspaper people and the police. His face heated as he searched wildly for the remote. It had disappeared.
He leapt from his seat and stood in front of the Panasonic set searching frantically for the on-off bottom. His panic blossomed until he finally found the switch. Before he could dissolve the broadcast, though, he saw a grainy still of Damian Knight operating the machine at the 24-Seven store. The newswoman said, “More on this story at noon!”
“Oh, shit!” He hammered the set with his palm, once, twice, until the screen grew black. He stood breathing in long deep breathes.
The work of a Soldier of Justice would always attract media attention. This was clearly an aspect he needed to get accustomed to. “It’s okay,” he whispered.”
He turned and his gaze moved to his bureau’s top shelf. He saw a bottle of hand cream, a model of the U.S.S. Enterprise and a Venus flytrap plant under a plexi-glass globe. His eye paused on the bottle, but then he changed his mind and shook his head. He opened the top drawer and removed a small foam container. He lifted the dome, placed the lidless container beside the plant, and lowered it again. Several flies flew out and he waited until one became ensnared in the plant.
Knight could hear sirens in the distance, probably fire trucks. Downstairs the phone rang; his Mom’s line. The sirens wailed closer, the phone clanged louder and he clamped his hands over his ears.
“Mother, answer the phone!”
Outside, he heard the hiss of truck airbrakes, and a deep-voiced man barking orders. His room flashed red and blue, red and blue. His mother screamed.
“Nate. Your car’s on fire! Your car’s on fire!”
He was already at the window watching angry flames lick the hood and roof of his Nova. Thick black smoke reached skyward. Firefighters strung out a hose from a ladder truck, charged the line, and adjusted the nozzle to a wide fan. The man on the hose had a grin on his face as he waved the spray across the vehicle. A colleague raised an axe and smashed the driver’s side window. Hose-man stuffed the line into the passenger compartment, thoroughly soaking the interior. White steam rose from his car and swirled in an updraft.
He moved from the window, closed his eyes, and blocked out the sounds from the street. He heard the pathetic buzzing from the insect wedged in the pocket of the flytrap.
“Nate! The firemen want to talk to you,” his mother called.
His mother had already served iced tea to two firefighters in the living room by the time he walked reluctantly down the stairs. The first was the square-jawed giant who had leveled the axe through his car window. The other was a black woman who reminded him of an Amazon.
“You are the registered owner?” Square Jaw asked.
He nodded.
“The arson investigator is on the way,” Amazon said. “It seems likely that this fire was deliberately set. Do you know of anyone who might have done this?”
He didn’t answer.
“Sir?” She paused, her brow creased in query.
“I um—I don’t know. I just got the thing in April.”
“Anyway, it’s a total loss,” Square Jaw said, moving for the door.
“Please wait for the arson investigator to arrive. He’ll have more in-depth questions.”
The firefighters left his home. He looked out the window at his Nova. A wispy haze was still rising from its charred hulk. The paint was almost all gone, the tires melted, the windows shattered, and it stunk with a burnt chemical smell.
He could hear his heartbeat thump in his ears. He clenched his fists. “I’m going out—on my bike.”
“But, Nate, the fire lady—person, said to wait for the investigator.”
“I’ve got—I’ve got things to do, Mom.”
He had lied when he said he didn’t know who might have torched his car. It was Sean Moore. It had to be. Moore had burned a teacher’s car back in junior year for failing him in Biology. If he had done it once, he could certainly do it again.
He jogged across the front lawn, made a quick right, and headed for the garage. Inside the car park, he checked the pressure of his bike tires and then climbed the workbench beside the washer and drier. Between two boxes, on the top shelf, was his special backpack. He stuffed a blue and red blanket into the pack and then slung the bag over his shoulder. A minute later, he rode north up Blanchard Avenue.
He had already discovered Moore’s daily routine. He’d made sure of it after their altercation at the Thirsty Gull.
He rode hard and fast all the way to a vacant lot about a block from Moore’s home. The lot featured a narrow creek with two inches of murky, stagnant water. Near the edge of the creek, he gathered wet mud in a pile a foot and a half wide and five feet long. He fashioned the soil as if he was making a sand mermaid at the beach and then covered the form with the blanket.
He glanced at his watch. Sean Moore would be there in thirty minutes to walk and toilet his dog. Moore would pay for destroying his Chevy; there was no doubt of that. Everyone who had done him wrong would meet with justice. Damian Knight was the judge and jury, and the sentence would be severe.
He pulled on a baseball cap and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. It wasn’t the outfit but it was enough to hide his identity from Moore. Knight then sat down beside the blanketed silhouette and waited until he heard Moore approach, talking to his dog. Moore would follow the animal as it sniffed and defecated along the creek. When his target was within ten yards, Knight stood up and spoke.
“Hey, I think maybe I found something. A dead body, I think.”
“Shit! No way.” Moore moved quickly to where Knight stood. “Where, man?”
“Right there. Under the blanket.” He worried that Moore might recognize him despite his disguise, but so far it seemed to be working.
“Jesus, there might be a reward or something,” Moore said. He knelt to pull back the sheet.
When Moore bent over, an area of bare skin opened up between his jean-jacket and sweatpants. Knight grinned at Moore’s ass crack. He reached into the pack and pulled out something that looked like a VCR remote control. He moved quickly toward Moore and stabbed the remote at the exposed skin on Moore’s back. There was a bright electrical flash and z-zap! Moore’s body arched and doubled back until he fell onto the creek bank. Knight stood over the motionless Moore and smiled when Moore’s body convulsed.