His mind wandered to his freshman year in high school. January had been unusually cold and snowy that year. Sean Moore had waited just outside the school grounds, coming at him from behind and knocking him down. Several other guys joined in pummeling him with snowballs, blasting his face with particularly hard clumps of ice until his nose bled and his eyes swelled. He could still hear the gang’s taunts and feel each ice ball strike his body.
“Get him, Byron,” Moore yelled. “Nail his homo ass.”
Knight’s muscles clamped up so tight with anger and frustration that he trembled. He wiped a drip from his nose and was shocked to see that it was blood. He drew in long calming breaths until his heart rate returned to normal.
A new light flicked on at the Newsome home. He heard soft music and a man’s voice. Could it be Gregory Newsome had returned from Paris for his wife’s birthday?
“Or is the whore is cheating on the good captain?” he whispered.
Crawling through the opening, he hesitated for a moment. If he was discovered, he would construct a story about losing his dog, he decided. He pushed forward until he could see directly into the kitchen. The sliding door to the yard was open enough for him to overhear their conversation.
“Why don’t you stay and have another drink?” Nicole said, her voice slurred as if she was drunk.
“I’d better be going, Nicky,” the man replied.
“Come on, Todd. Don’t you wanna do me?” She giggled and staggered forward into Todd’s arms and then knelt before him and fumbled with the zipper of his pants.
“Nicky, this isn’t going to happen. Greg is my best friend and Sheila is yours.” Todd turned away from Nicole and only paused to say goodnight before he headed toward the front door.
“Fine! Your loss, Todd!” Newsome crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator and removed what looked like a bottle of wine. She picked out a wineglass before she stumbled out the sliding door and shuffled toward the hot tub. Her bleached hair was tumbled. Her black dress was cut low in front to show maximum cleavage.
At the edge of the hot tub, she set the bottle and glass down and reached behind her back. A second later her dress slipped to the ground. She wore no brassiere, and didn’t hesitate to wiggle out of her pink G-string panties. Before Knight could get a peek at her pubic thatch, she slipped into the bubbling water.
He glanced at his watch. It was 1:14 AM. He couldn’t believe how seductively Newsome had dressed for her birthday get-together. How she had thrown herself at her husband’s friend. She hadn’t changed at all since her teenage years.
Knight watched Newsome pour a second glass of wine and then down it in one swallow. She began to pour a third, then tossed the glass away and then tipped the bottle to her mouth.
After several long mouthfuls, Nicole placed the half empty bottle at the edge of the tub and leaned back against an inflated headrest. Her left hand moved in a rhythmic motion. She tilted her head and moaned. Faster movements brought louder sounds of pleasure. She grabbed the bottle with her free hand, brought the neck to her lips, took a lasting pull, and then licked the tip feverishly. Tossing the bottle aside, she used both hands between her thighs until her groans grew louder and stopped abruptly with a long sigh. She began to sing to herself.
“Happy Birthday. Hap-py Bird-day to me. Happy bird-day to Nicky.” She reached for the wine bottle and swore when she discovered the bottle was empty.
Knight sat back. Should he call the whole thing off? Was Nicole Amber Newsome just a lonely, pathetic soul like he was, and not the evil monster he had always thought her to be? She’d begged Todd for affection and then masturbated like some hormone-crazed teenager. Her husband was ten thousand miles away and no doubt sleeping with half of his flight attendants.
“Nonsense!” he hissed, shaking his head. “She would still spit on you.”
His heart dropped into his stomach when he realized that Newsome was no longer in the whirlpool tub. She was just entering the pool house. Knight crawled out of the cedar shrubs and dashed for the building.
Inside, it was dim so he pulled out his Taser gun and used the laser sight to help illuminate his way. He found Newsome in the shower, singing loudly with her back to him. He raised the weapon until the red dot of the laser was between her shoulder blades. He was about to pull the trigger and blast twin electrodes into her flesh, stunning her with a 50,000-volt charge. He was eager to try the Taser, but it seemed like a waste of a cartridge, so he changed the setting on the pistol, stepped forward until he was close enough to touch the weapon to her skin, pulled the trigger and touch-stunned Newsome. She cried out and dropped to tiled floor of the shower. Her body writhed, convulsed, and became still.
Knight turned off the shower and used a towel from a nearby rack to dry off her face. He quickly retrieved the duct-tape and zap-straps from his backpack. In less than a minute, Newsome’s hands were tied behind her back and her mouth was taped shut.
He sat next to Nicole and ran his hand down the length of her thigh. His thoughts were in turmoil. He wanted to run from the building and leave Morgan Creek. He couldn’t forget the past, couldn’t pardon Newsome, but his old feelings for her remained in his heart.
“A childish crush,” he said aloud. Newsome jerked, her eyes opened and she began to struggle against her bonds. He fumbled in the backpack for the tools of sentencing.
“I thought you were different, Nicole. I thought you liked me back in school. Remember those times you talked to me in homeroom? You told me about your mother’s boyfriend, how he looked at you, how he tried to get with you when he was drunk, and how horrible it made you feel. I don’t know why you shared those things with me. Maybe because I seemed so non-threatening.” He stood and walked around the shower room. “I cared about you. I felt bad for you.”
“Then your friends tricked me.” His voice grew agitated. “You watched them do what they did to me. You could have stopped them—could have helped me.” His heart pounded and his body warmed with rage. “But no, you joined in and helped Meneghello do those things to me!”
His hands were trembling and his breaths came in gasps. He saw the terror in Newsome’s eyes. Tears flowing down her face. She worked feverishly to roll away from him.
He knelt and cupped his face in his hands. “I’m Damian Knight. I’m strong,” he murmured.
“I’m Damian Knight. I’m strong,” he said more loudly.
“I am Damian Knight. I am strong!” His voice increased in volume. “Justice will be swift.” He leaned close to Newsome’s left ear and whispered, “Happy Birthday, Nicole. It’s a good day to die.”
Glancing at his watch, Staal couldn’t believe how late it was. 1:30 AM. It had been a busy night.
Fraser and Hayes had stopped at Izzy’s Ark, the pet shop. Israel Bandali, the proprietor, acknowledged that Campbell worked the occasional evening and weekend as a stock boy and janitor at the pet store. Bandali reluctantly admitted that Campbell received pet supplies instead of a paycheck, and therefore Bandali had no address on record. Izzy knew that Campbell paid his bills from the proceeds of several newspaper routes and that he was quiet and kept to himself.
Staal and Gooch studied the time line and bounced numerous ideas as to where Campbell might be hiding. Staal left several messages on Irene Campbell’s cell phone voice mail to no avail.
Barnes and Wakamatsu worked the television stations and were able to secure airtime on Global and CTV’s late news broadcasts. The story lead the eleven o’clock news and called Nathan Campbell a Person of Interest in the Sean Moore homicide, included Campbell’s Drivers license photo and informed the public of a toll-free tip line.
Now two hours after the broadcast, the phones remained silent, and Staal stood and said, “Did anyone get anything?”
Wakamatsu was the only detective who didn’t shake his head. “Michelle Grant, a clerk at Safeway near the lake, says a guy who meets Campbell’s description was a customer twice in the last two days.”
“Cameron and I will check her out in the morning,” Barnes said.
Staal nodded and wrote the address of the grocery store in his notes. He didn’t expect much from the evening airings, but this was disappointing.
Gina Hayes rose from her position at the table and set a clear package of four compact discs in front of Staal. “Almost forgot about these. I stopped by Ballard High, Campbell and Moore’s high school, and borrowed these student-record discs from 90 through 96.”
“Good thinking,” Staal said, as he inserted the disk from 1995. He ran a search for Nathan Campbell and quickly found his information. Campbell had received A marks in Chemistry and Algebra. The info included the teachers’ names.
“Gina, could you search his teachers’ names?” Staal asked. “We should call them and see if Campbell has been in contact with them lately.”
“Did you check for Haywood, Walker and MacKay...just in case the Mounties got inaccurate info?” Gooch asked.
“U-huh. They never went to Ballard. I looked through yearbooks for ’88 through ’97 as well. Nothing.”
Staal noticed that Campbell received high marks in every class except for Physical Education, in which he’d gotten an F. Duncan Quinn’s note said, ‘Nathan has not achieved even the lowest levels of fitness and is routinely absent from class.’
He looked up Campbell’s junior year and realized that the same teacher, Duncan Quinn, had given him a C-, the lowest passing grade.
Staal remembered his P.E. teacher, Mr. Gore. Gore the Gorilla, Gore was the school football, basketball, and track coach, and had little or no time for those kids who weren’t physically endowed. If Duncan Quinn was anything like Gore, then Quinn could be a possible Campbell target.
Staal picked up the phone at his desk and called 411. He received a number and address for Quinn. He stood and crossed the office to the coffee machine. He poured a cup, took a sip, and decided to call the retired teacher despite the fact that it was just after two AM. He thought about Quinn receiving a call so late...the guy would be pissed. But if Campbell had Quinn in his sites.
At his desk, he dialed Duncan Quinn. The system rang three times, then paused, and rang twice more before a voice answered that seemed remotely familiar.
“Yes,” Staal began. “I apologize for such a late call, but is Duncan Quinn there please?”
“Who is this?” the man demanded.
“It’s Detec-” Then it hit him. “Campbell?”
“Staal?”
Staal snapped his fingers to get the other detectives’ attention and said, “Hello, Nathan. How are you tonight?” The line went dead before Staal finished his sentence.
“Campbell is at Duncan Quinn’s place.” He shouted the address, and dialed the Patrol Watch Sergeant and asked him to send patrol units code three to Quinn’s neighborhood, and for the units to wait for the detectives. Code 3 was without lights and sirens.
Staal drove Rachael Gooch in the freshly repaired and painted Impala. He didn’t believe for a minute that Campbell would still be at Quinn’s home when the patrol units arrived, still it might be the break they had been looking for.
Duncan Quinn’s home reminded Staal of Irene Campbell’s before her son burned it to the ground. It was a one level, wood and stucco ranch style house, dating to the early sixties. Three patrol cars were parked half a block from the home. The neighborhood fell under the jurisdiction of East Precinct, so Staal didn’t anticipate knowing the officers as well as he would his colleagues from West. Staal and Gooch would enter through the front door with two uniform cops and Fraser and Hayes would take the rear with two more uniforms.
At the front door of Quinn’s, Staal nodded to Gooch as well as Constables Hamilton and McCloud. Grace Hamilton was a second or third year cop, who had a reputation for working by the book. Harris McCloud was even larger than Fraser at six-six, 260. He was a fifteen-year veteran, whose bitterness from missing numerous promotions was as renowned as his former drinking problem.
McCloud carried a battering ram that Staal doubted the big man would need to break the peeling gray door down. Staal adjusted his Kevlar vest, checked to see that the others were wearing their bulletproof armor and then said into his phone, “You guys set?”
“Yeah, on three,” Fraser answered.
“Two, three—GO!” Staal yelled.
McCloud took one swing with the ram and broke the deadbolt from the doorframe.
Staal and Gooch drew their weapons, as did the officers. Gooch entered first, followed by Staal and the others.
“Nathan Campbell! Hanson Police!” Gooch bellowed.
Gooch and Staal moved through the living room, dining room, and made their way toward the kitchen. Fraser, Hayes, and patrol officers Hartley and Kasson had already left the kitchen for the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
Hayes returned to the hallway less than a minute later to report that the bedrooms were clear. Staal pointed at the door to the basement. Hayes nodded.
Staal reached to grip the doorknob, and as he flipped open the door, he swung himself out of the line of fire. Gooch made her move through the door, but Staal, thinking it was too dangerous, stopped her. Somebody had mentioned calling in the SWAT team earlier, but now it was too late.