Staal looked around the kitchen and quickly picked an empty case of beer bottles off the counter. He crossed to the open door and tossed the case down the stairs. Staal hoped the clash of glass would startle Campbell enough for cops to get down to the basement without drawing gunfire.
A second after the bottles hit the concrete basement floor, Staal was at the foot of the stairs waving his Glock across the open area. The eight cops used their powerful Mag-Lite flashlights to light the dusty basement, but there was no sign of Campbell. The basement was smothered in stored junk.
“Fuck!” Staal said. “Campbell wasn’t here when I talked to him.”
“What? He was here, Jack.” Gooch asked. “Campbell just slipped away?”
“He must have call-forwarded this line to a cell or something. He couldn’t have gotten out of the neighborhood so fast.”
“I don’t know, Jack,” Gooch said. To McCloud she asked, “How soon did you arrive after the call came in?”
McCloud looked down at Gooch with an agitated look on his face. “Hartley and Kasson were first on the scene.”
“Hey, Red,” Gooch said to Hartley. “What was your response time?”
Red Hartley had started with the HPS in the early 70s. He had seen many changes in that time, including the hiring of the first women patrol officers. He had lost his wife to Cancer, his hair to old age, and his patience for cops hired and promoted only to fill a quota of minorities.
“What are you saying, Sarge?” Hartley was clearly pissed off. “That me and Dave screwed around before we rolled on this?”
“No, Red, nothing like that. We just need to know how long after the call came in you got here,” Gooch said. Staal always marveled at her ability to cool a situation.
David Kasson walked over to where his colleges stood. Kasson had the body of an athlete and the looks of a soap star. “We were close by, Gooch. Coffee time. Dispatch said it was a possible homicide suspect, so we hauled ass. We rolled up here less than five minutes after we got the call.”
“All right, so we’re talking about six maybe seven minutes after I talked to Campbell,” Staal remarked. “Okay, yeah. Lots of time for that little shit to bolt after I called.”
“Jack?” Gooch was looking at him. Staal could tell she was assessing him and his comments about patrol response time. He nodded his was okay.
“If we’d seen anyone running or spinning tires, we would have stopped them,” Hartley added.
“There’s a Ford sedan in the garage. We’ll have to check with the DMV to see if Quinn had any other vehicles,” Staal said.
“You hear that?” Hartley said.
Staal heard a muffled bang-bang. “Yeah.” He walked around the basement slowly, holding a hand up for quiet. .
“There it is again,” Kasson said.
“Shhh. Duncan Quinn! Are you here?” Staal called.
Bang-bang.
Staal noticed that the north wall of the basement was boarded up. He hurried to the wall. “Shine your lights over here!” He pounded on the wall twice with his fists. Bang-bang, came the response. “Shit. Everybody look for a pry bar or something to pull this crap off.”
Within a minute, McCloud and Fraser were using hammers to pry off the boards and Staal crammed a crowbar repeatedly into the mishmash of plywood. Kasson used an electric drill to remove the drywall screws that held the entire barricade together. Three minutes later, the barrier came down and Staal was picking at the door handle mechanism with a small screwdriver, as the knob was gone.
“Got it.” Staal hauled the door open and quickly flipped on his flashlight. His nostrils met with a stench of human feces and urine. He starred into the horrified eyes of Duncan Quinn.
“Somebody call an ambulance? Sit tight, Mr. Quinn. We’re Hanson Police. You’ll be all right.” He peeled the duct-tape off Quinn’s mouth, then pulled out a penknife and went to work on the tie-straps binding his arms and legs.
Staal used his light to check Quinn for injuries. He noticed that Quinn’s wrists were bruised and swollen. There was a deep cut above his left eye, with a dried blood trail down his cheek. Staal was no medic, but he was certain the man had no broken bones.
“I’ve got some bottled water,” Hamilton said from outside the cellar.
“You want a drink, Mr. Quinn?”
Quinn nodded slightly.
Staal popped the cap off the water and held it to Quinn’s lips. Quinn slowly took a sip, then gripped the bottle tightly, and finished it in two long gulps.
“Who did this to you, Mr. Quinn?”
“A former student of mine—from the mid nineties—Nate Campbell,” Quinn gasped.
“How long were you in here?” Staal helped Quinn to his feet and helped him to a ratty couch in the center of the basement.
“I believe this is the second night...I’m not sure.”
“Have you had any past contact with Campbell, Mr. Quinn?” Gooch asked.
“I haven’t seen him since his graduation.” Quinn leaned forward on the couch and covered his face with his hands. “I—I pushed kids like him to do better, you know? To put down the vid-video games and get active—to fit in.”
Gooch signaled the patrol officers to leave the area. Quinn broke down and began to cry.
Staal felt a new level of hatred for Nathan Campbell. Three dead women, Sean Moore, and now this poor man reduced to a weeping, trembling mess. His only crime was spending a career passing on his knowledge of teamwork, camaraderie, and physical fitness to hundreds of teenagers.
Gina sat beside the teacher and placed her arms on his back and shoulder. “It’s okay Mr. Quinn. It’s over now.”
While Hayes worked to consol Quinn, Staal called Wilson Drummond and informed him that his talents were needed at the Quinn residence.
“I hardly knew him,” Quinn said, wiping his face. In the distance, the ambulance siren wailed. “He was only in a couple of my classes. I don’t understand this.”
“He’s not well, Mr. Quinn,” Staal said. He was about to ask Quinn if there was anyone that he could call, when he heard Gooch’s cell-phone ring. Something about the hollow chirp-chirp of the tone told Staal that it wasn’t good news.
Gooch told Max Barnes about Duncan Quinn and then she listened for about a minute before she spoke again. “Okay, Max. We’ll roll as soon as the ambulance arrives. Yeah, Fraser and Hayes are here with me and Staal.”
Suddenly, Staal felt nauseous again. He knew that he would soon have the displeasure of working yet another one of Nathan Campbell’s murder scenes.
McCloud’s booming voice invaded Staal’s thoughts. “Paramedics are right behind me.”
“Kenny, Gina, Jack. We got to go,” Rachael Gooch said.
Outside, the three detectives stood on the front lawn waiting for Gooch to relay what she had learned from Barnes. Staal broke the silence. “Birthday Boy?”
“Yeah,” Gooch said.
“Shi-it!” Fraser added.
“Amber Newsome-Wright,” Gooch’s voice sounded mechanical. “Over in Morgan Creek.”
The Impala’s engine roared as Staal drove hard under lights and sirens. He was familiar with Morgan Creek and he knew normally the community would be in darkness at 4:30 AM. However, Staal saw that several homes were already lit as the residents were roused by police activity.
“Does Barnes have IHIT rolling?”
“No, Jack; not yet. I think Barnes is tired of dancing to that tune. He’s going to hold off for as long as he can.”
At the main gate of Morgan Creek, Staal pushed the intercom button and said, “Hanson Police.” Once inside the entrance, Staal stopped at the security hut. The guard stepped up to the Impala and nodded when he Staal flashed his badge.
“Already have three units up there at 44,” the guard said. The man looked familiar to Staal. He had to be over sixty with gray hair and a trim build. Most likely, he was a VPD retired. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“You’re Andy MacNaughton, right?” Staal remembered him. He was career uniform and a good cop.
“Yeah. You’re Travis Staal’s son?” MacNaughton said, smiling.
Staal nodded. “Andy, I need you to keep this as quiet as possible. Tell the media and any nosy residents that you don’t know what the hell is going on. If a reporter pushes you, tell him to call HPS media relations.”
“I heard that. Tell your Dad I said hi.” MacNaughton stepped aside and waved Fraser on, as well.
Staal drove along Morgan Creek Way, a street that ran the circumference of the complex. The homes of the Creek were just as he remembered, with spotless windows and siding, short-cropped bright green lawns, and shrubs clipped into topiary birds and animals. He made a right turn on Dominion Avenue, another on Creekside Drive and stopped at number 44.
A pair of patrol unit Impalas and an unmarked Crown Victoria, all from East Precinct, were parked near 44 Creekside Drive.
A patrol cop standing at the front door of number 44 took one look at Staal and Gooch and stepped quickly inside before Staal could figure out whom she was.
Before Staal could enter, Detective Tyler Bronson, and Sergeant Joyce Fennel emerged from the hallway and Fennel moved toward Staal and Gooch. Bronson and Fennel were from the General Investigations Section and had responded to the call.
The four detectives exchanged pleasantries and Fennel began. “Drummond took one look at this and said it was Birthday Boy. The word from Inspector Ross is that you guys will work this until the Team takes it over. Drummond will call when you can take a look.”
“Drummond’s here?” Staal asked. He couldn’t see the FIS unit van. “How the fuck did he get here so quick?”
“Will lives here, Jack—in the Creek,” Bronson said. “He was here before me and Fennel.” Bronson was an old school detective. Severely overweight, you could hear his wheezing before you saw him. A few years ago, he was the Sergeant in the Major Crimes Section, until he resigned his rank and went back to catching cases in General I.
Fennel was African American, and in just six years had made detective and replaced Bronson as Sergeant of G.I. Most believed she would make Inspector by the time she was forty.
Fennel and Gooch stepped aside to talk about the case, which left Bronson and Staal alone for a minute.
“So, Staal. Rumor has it that you didn’t buy that Zimmerman shit, right off.” Bronson lit a cigarette and offered one to Staal. “I, for the record, am glad that this one is yours, Jack.” Bronson paused to give his belt a heave up. “With the Mounties screwing things up and all the media heat—you can have it.”
“Yeah, thanks, Ty.” He dropped his cigarette and stepped out the butt. Gooch signaled him that Drummond had given the green light. “Next fucked-up-mess is yours!”
Staal and Gooch walked through the front door of number 44.
“Her friends called it in, Jack,” Gooch said.
Staal nodded.
“Dropped her off around one—then went back to talk to her around two.”
“We have their names?”
“Uh-huh. They’re still here.” She looked at her notes. “Todd and Shelia Gates.”
Fraser and Hayes would begin a door-to-door canvass as soon as Barnes and Wakamatsu arrived. Staal wasn’t sure if Barnes’ idea to personally work in the field was good or bad. It definitely was rough for Wakamatsu, but as long as Barnes left the decisions to him, Staal thought he could tolerate the Staff Sergeant’s intrusion for now.
In only two hours on scene, Drummond had a pathway marked with crime scene tape, leading from the rear sliding deck door to the pool house. The taped path kept foot traffic from destroying any trace evidence before Drummond’s technicians could comb and mark it as clear. Both Gooch and Staal paused in the short trimmed grass, not at all eager to witness the most recent Campbell carnage. Staal couldn’t believe how exhausted he felt, and he was certain the other cops would notice he was limping.
It was obvious what had happened in the yard; an empty wine bottle and goblet still sat on a portable table, where Jim Tomlinson would dust it for prints. Newsome had taken a dip in the Jacuzzi and Campbell had waited to ambush her in the pool house.
Inside the house were a sauna/steam room, change area, toilets, and four shower stalls. The prostrate naked form of Newsome lay in the first glass-walled shower stall. There was little doubt of cause of death, as ligature marks could easily be seen around her neck, and her skin had a bluish tinge, suggesting that she had asphyxiated. Protruding from her anus was Campbell’s signature, an eight-inch piece of branch that he had probably found in the cedar shrubbery on the property.
“Jack, Rachael. Glad you could join us,” Drummond said when he noticed the detectives stepping up behind him. “Detectives, meet Amber Nicole Newsome-Wright.”
“Kind of close to home, Will?”
“Too close.”
“Anything interesting?” Staal said.
“Other than that?” Drummond gestured to the signature stem. “Campbell is either getting careless or cocky.”
“How so?” Gooch said.
“Got prints this time.” Drummond waved his hands as if latent prints were everywhere. “I got a perfect thumb on the shower tap. Then almost a complete hand on that bench over there,” he pointed to a changing area seat. “Then another complete and a few partials on the tile next to the body.”