Staal turned to Wakamatsu. “You got a camera on your phone? One that can hook to my portable printer?”
Wakamatsu nodded and Staal began to make his plans.
The Campbell home, like most of the others in the area, was a one-level suburbia special, with dark blue stucco and baby-blue trim, built in the late fifties.
The bell didn’t sound, so Staal rapped on the door. A woman answered, but didn’t open the door.
Both Staal and Wakamatsu held up their badges for Mrs. Campbell to inspect through the peephole. Finally, the door opened, but only enough to peek at the strangers at her home. She was in her mid to late sixties, with thick glasses and shoulder length wiry gray hair.
Staal introduced himself and his partner. “Can we come in, Mrs. Campbell?”
“Is this about Nathan’s car, the fire?” Mrs. Campbell asked.
“Yes, Ma’am. Is Nathan in?”
Mrs. Campbell opened the door in a long slow motion. As she did she called to her son, “Nathan! Nathan, the detectives are here about your car.”
The living room was clean, but cluttered with knick-knacks and souvenirs. The carpeting was threadbare and the walls covered with framed photos of Nathan, Mrs. Campbell, and a man who must be Nathan’s father. The pictures of Mr. Campbell were at least twenty years old. The man had left or died when Nathan was still a boy.
Finally, Nathan Campbell appeared in the narrow hallway. He was in his early thirties, around five seven, a hundred and forty pounds, with short brown hair, a shiner under his left eye, and both cheeks bruised.
“Nate, these detectives want to talk about your car,” Mrs. Campbell said.
“Yeah, okay. So, did you catch the prick who torched my car?”
Campbell
was obviously nervous and shifted his weight from leg to leg. Staal made a mental note of his lack of eye contact.
“You ask me, it was that Sean Moore and his gang,” Mrs. Campbell said. “That bunch were no good back in school and nothin’ has changed.”
“Ma’am, can we talk to your son in private?” Wakamatsu asked.
“Just look at my Nathan.” Mrs. Campbell pointed at her son’s bruises. “The lot of them, hittin’ and stompin’ on Nate like that. That’s three on one, Detectives.”
“Mrs. Campbell. Do you mind stepping into the kitchen? Or another room?” Staal asked.
“You should arrest the whole bunch of them. You ask me...”
“Mrs. Campbell!” Staal barked. When he had the woman’s attention, he lowered his voice. “We need to speak to Nathan alone.”
Mrs. Campbell said she understood and retreated to the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Nathan Campbell asked. His forehead shone and his upper lip trembled.
“Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday from eleven AM until about four PM?” Staal asked.
“Um, well, I, ah...” Campbell stammered.
“He was here all day,” Mrs. Campbell called. “Where could he go? His car all burned up like that?”
“Mrs. Campbell, please!” Wakamatsu said. “If you can’t be quiet, we’ll have to take Nathan to the precinct house.”
“Like my Mom said, I was here all day. After the fire crews left, I just played video games on my PC.” Campbell fidgeted and picked at a scab on his chin.
“Did you have any contact with Sean Moore, Byron Becker, or Randy Oake, after the night you fought them outside of the Thirsty Gull? Staal reached into his jacket inside pocket and pushed the send button on his phone.
“No, thank God, I never saw those guys again.”
A moment later Wakamatsu’s phone chirped and he stepped aside to answer it. He recognized Staal’s number on the display and said, “Hello? Hello?” as though no one was on the line. He held the phone up above his head, mumbled something about bad reception, and snapped several photos of Nathan Campbell with the camera function on the device. He snapped the phone closed and said, “So, back in the day, Sean Moore was the school bully?”
“Yeah. He was a jerk.”
“Picked on you a lot, did he?” Staal added.
“I guess,” Campbell stepped back from the detectives.
“It pisses you off—even now—fifteen years later. Doesn’t it?” Staal moved forward.
“Yeah, so...everybody’s got shit from their past.” Campbell’s agitation grew. He looked left and right and took another step backward. Staal thought he might try to bolt.
“What the hell is going on here?” Mrs. Campbell appeared from the kitchen.
“Mrs. Campbell. Sean Moore is dead,” Wakamatsu said.
“Drank himself to death, I’m sure.” She moved to her son’s side.
“No, ma’am. He was murdered and left in vacant lot near his home,” Staal said.
“Surely, you don’t think Nathan had anything to do with a murder?” She looked into Staal’s eyes and saw his answer. “Oh, good Lord! Nathan wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s a gentle man, loves animals.” Her anger grew, “He’s never been in any trouble in his life! He’s a good boy.”
“Mom!”
“Mrs. Campbell, in a homicide investigation it is standard procedure to talk to everyone who had any recent involvement with the victim.” Staal said. “Nathan does have a history with Sean Moore.”
“That’s enough. I won’t stand here and listen to anymore of this nonsense. Please leave!” She gestured at the front door.
In the Impala, Wakamatsu linked his phone to Staal’s printer. “Got two nice ones.” He handed the 8X10s to Staal.
Staal nodded. “So what do you think of Campbell?” He set the prints on the dash.
“I think he looks good for Moore’s murder.” Wakamatsu put the printer back in the pouch and waited for Staal’s reply.
“Yeah, he’s our guy. I’m going to show these around Moore’s neighborhood near the crime scene. I want you to head back to West Precinct, draw up a search warrant request form and then find Judge Wanamaker. Tell him we have a witness that puts Campbell in the area around the time of the murder, and fill him in on the history between Campbell and Moore.”
“A witness?” Wakamatsu asked. “You’re that confident?”
“Yep, somebody must have seen Campbell wandering about that neighborhood earlier when he stalked out Moore’s routine, or even yesterday. I’ll call you as soon as I have a credible wit.” He paused. “If Wanamaker’s in a half-decent mood it should be enough to get a search warrant.”
“Okay.”
Staal regretted his cockiness when he had knocked on the door of eight homes on 84 North, the street of the vacant lot, to no avail. The ninth house was the smallest home on the block. From the front it looked much like the Campbell residence, although in much better condition. The yard and shrubbery was impeccably groomed, the stucco bright white and the wood trim freshly stained.
Staal pushed the doorbell and the door opened, revealing a man.
“You the police?” he asked. He was at least eighty, with thick white hair, and clear blue eyes. He had a thin, muscled build and a strong jaw line. If Mel Gibson were thirty years older, he would look like this gentleman.
“Yes.” Staal introduced himself. They shook hands.
“I’m Barnard Segal. Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Over in the lot?” He nodded toward the green space across the street.
“Yes, Mr. Segal. A body was found near the creek earlier today.”
“Jesus Christ! A murder?” Segal asked.
Staal nodded.
Segal invited Staal to come in and sit at the couch in the living room. The room was tastefully decorated and free of clutter. Staal could see nothing that would lead him to believe a woman lived with Segal.
“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary lately, Mr. Segal? A stranger in the neighborhood, perhaps?” Staal took out his notepad.
“As a matter of fact, I have seen a stranger.” Segal rubbed his chin.
Staal nodded for him to continue.
“This guy, in his thirties—maybe late twenties. He came running out of the lot, looking all suspicious. Then he jumped on a bicycle—he left it at the street lamp—and tore out of here like all hell was after him!”
“What time would that be, Mr. Segal?” Staal clicked his pen open.
“Around noon—yesterday, and call me Barney.” Segal smiled.
Staal removed six photographs from his inside pocket and set them in front of Segal. Five of the shots were of cops; the other was of Nathan Campbell. “Do you recognize any of these men, Barney? Take your time.”
Segal removed reading glasses from his sweater pocket and put them on. He quickly pulled one photograph from the group and tapped it with his right hand. “That’s the guy I saw yesterday. I’m sure of it.”
“You see him any other time in the past?” Staal put away all but the picture of Campbell, and set out three other shots of the suspect.
Segal only took a few seconds before answering. “Sure, I saw him about three weeks ago along the creek in the lot. He walked up behind me and damn near gave me a heart attack. Asked me for a light.” Segal said that was the only other time that he saw Campbell.
“You look after things in the neighborhood, isn’t that right, Barney?”
“Sure, I see anything peculiar and I call you people.” Segal looked puzzled.
“Did you call us about the stranger? Either time?” Staal knew that if there were a call it would be in the records at the 911 callcenter.
“No, I didn’t call. The guy was strange, but he wasn’t doing anything wrong that I could tell.”
“Do you know Sean and Sherry Moore?” Staal asked.
“Sure. They moved in around five or six years ago?”
“How about Tim Cartwright?” Staal made up the name to test Segal.
“No, I never heard of him. You sure he lives around here?”
Staal ignored Segal’s question. “The Moores. Anything you can tell me about them?” That puzzled look from Segal again. “Rumors, gossip from around the neighborhood and that type of thing.”
“No, nothing like that. It—It wasn’t Sherry Moore. The one that was murdered, was it?” Segal looked like he might break down.
“No, it was Sean Moore.”
“Aw, shit, no!” Segal got up from the couch, and then sat down again. “Moore was a good guy. Did some plumbing work for me and only charged me for parts. Aw, shit!” He covered his face with his hands.
Staal let a minute pass before he asked if Segal would be willing to come in and make a witness statement at the precinct house. He mentioned the possibility of a future viewing of a suspect line up and testifying at a trial, if necessary. Staal wanted to know if he could rely on Segal as a credible witness in the case.
“Detective Staal, I’ll do what ever you need me to do if it will help you put the bastard that killed Sean away.”
“Thank you, Barney.” Staal gave Segal his card and told him he would be in touch.
By the time Staal finished the canvass of North Chestnut, a light drizzle had begun to fall. He opened his phone and dialed Wakamatsu.
“Yeah, Jack, any luck?” Wakamatsu asked.
Staal told his partner about Bernard Segal.
“I should have never doubted you, Jack.”
“I got lucky with both of them.”
“Both?”
“Yes. Jennifer Dubois,” Staal gave an address. “Out walking her dog, saw Campbell building his sand maiden. She kept her distance, but is certain it was him.”
“Both of them picked Campbell from a photo line-up?”
“Yeah. Dubois is a little freaked, but I think I can persuade her to come in to write up a statement. Anyhow, get working on those warrants and round up some back-up. Call me when you’re ready.”
Nathan Campbell sat in the driver’s seat of Mathew Houghton’s Pontiac Sunbird. He was parked in Houghton’s driveway.
“Three fucking fire trucks! Shit,” he said when a third rig rumbled up his street and stopped across from the driveway. He shook his head in frustration.
Twenty minutes earlier he had packed two large suitcases of clothing and necessary items. Next, he went to the shed behind his house, retrieved a five-gallon fuel can, and carried it to the back door. He splashed gasoline around the sun deck, down the stairs, and emptied the can in his mother’s kitchen. He used the can to prop open the door and stood at the bottom of the stairs. Fumbling in his pockets, he produced a book of matches, tore one out, lit it, and then turned the match on the entire book. He dropped the blazing matchbook in a puddle of fuel and quickly turned away.
Over the drone of the trucks’ diesel engines, he could hear the fire chief bark orders to his men. He hated setting his own home on fire. It was unfortunate, but necessary, to destroy any evidence of his work. He noticed that the black smoke of the fire was slowly giving way to gray steam as water began to extinguish the flames. This setback would not alter his task. His duty was clear.
However, moving on the Moore mark had been a mistake. Detective Staal was too close, and now the entire mission was in jeopardy. If only the police could understand that he was on their side. His targets were rapists and killers, and worst of all, they were still living as free citizens years after committing their vicious crimes. Instead of persecuting him, the cops should be thanking him. Police work was hampered by rules and regulations and the media scrutinized their every move. He worked above the law and his judgments were permanent; they would never face appeal.