The ferry made two stops before it landed at Long Harbor on Salt Spring Island. He followed the other vehicles off the ferry and out of the terminal. After driving for fifteen minutes along scenic Long Harbor road he made a right on Rainbow Road, through Ganges, a popular tourist area with numerous galleries, souvenir shops, and cafés. The Dreamcatcher was a gallery that sold watercolor paintings, blown glass sculptures, native carvings, and wind chimes. Sara Ann Delleman owned the gallery and most of the exhibits were her creations. He knew Delleman from an earlier time when her name was Sandra Meneghello, and her hobby was beating up teenage boys.
He drove past the Dreamcatcher at 437 Rainbow Road. The shop was closed and in darkness except for a small fluorescent light in the rear office. He had visited the gallery on a previous occasion, posing as an art aficionado, and learned the layout of the display floor. Meneghello had not recognized him. She had talked to him as if he was any other customer, perhaps treated him better than most as he asked questions about the pricey pieces in the shop and made an offer on the most expensive.
He hated that he was forced to make a move on her so soon. Even more troubling, her birthday wasn’t for another two months.
The routine he had used in his previous work had served him well. Now he wasn’t sure of success, or of his freedom when this all was over. He pulled the Caliber to the side of the road. His timid nature was threatening to betray him. He felt weak, worthless, and unable to continue.
“I am strong,” he whispered but his hands trembled. He parked the rental across the street from the Dreamcatcher and lit a cigarette, running his plan for the next judgment through his mind.
He heard singing, looked at the front door of the gallery, and noticed a figure standing outside; it was Meneghello enjoying a cigarette. Perhaps she had stayed late painting, or going over the day’s receipts. Moonlight lit her face and he could see that her face had not changed much in fourteen years; it was still masculine.
Sandra could change her name, become a respected artist and businessperson, but she would always be the monstrous terrorist from the nightmare that was his teen years. She had tormented him, left him bruised and wounded, inside and out. He hated her with a violence that had poisoned his soul.
“I’ll take her tonight or tomorrow.” His voice grew louder. “It does not matter. I am strong.” He clenched his fists.
“I am Damian Knight. Justice will be swift!”
Jack Staal swallowed the last of his pain medication when he and Gooch reached the parking area of 565. It was just after 11PM. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, and it bothered him that he wasn’t at his best. His headache had returned, as had the pain in his lower back and left leg.
Drummond’s people had warned him that a news van was parked out front when they left to process room 208. Staal counted three news rigs set up around the main entrance of West Precinct before he turned along the drive to the motor pool.
“The damn vultures followed us,” Gooch said.
“Might as well get this over,” Staal said, as he stepped from the Impala.
The first reporter to see them was Carla Perkins. Perkins was in her late thirties and worked for Global news. She steamed toward Staal with a cameraman in tow.
“Detective Staal!” She thrust a microphone to his face. “Is it true that a body was found in Morgan Creek? A woman?”
“Yes, that is true,” Staal, said. He hoped to work the media to his advantage. “I can’t identify her until next of kin has been notified.”
Another mic from another reporter. “Is it not also true that the M.O. is similar to the Birthday Boy murder scenes?” Staal didn’t recognize the guy.
“No comment!” Gooch interjected.
“Come on, Detective. The public has a right to know if Birthday Boy is still at large!” Perkins said.
“The evidence suggests that the same person that killed Walker, Haywood and McKay may have been responsible for this crime,” Staal admitted.
“Jack!” Gooch snapped.
“What about Harold Zimmermann? The RCMP arrested him after Eleanor Peck and charged him after he confessed to killing those other women.”
Before Staal could answer, another face barked a question. “Does Zimmermann have an accomplice and is that partner still at large?”
“Is Zimmermann involved at all, or is he just a sick individual who confesses to crimes?” Perkins asked.
“Evidence collected at the Peck crime scene implicated Zimmermann in that crime,” Staal began. “IHIT could find little to link Zimmermann to the homicides. However they did secure a written and taped confession from Zimmermann.”
“Does Zimmermann have a partner in crime?”
“I don’t believe so,” Staal said. “I believe our killer works alone.” He noticed several more news trucks pulling up.
“If Zimmermann didn’t kill Walker and the others, then who did, Detective Staal?”
“I believe that Harold Zimmermann is a copy-cat,” Staal said. “He never meant to kill Eleanor Peck and so she survived. Zimmermann is a rapist, and as you probably know, has been convicted of sexual assault twice before.”
“Answer the question, Staal! Who is Birthday Boy?”
Deter Hampton from CTV news pushed forward toward Staal. “Detective Gooch. Your department has requested that my station, in fact all these stations, run a profile, in heavy rotation, about a Nathan Campbell. Is Campbell involved—is he Birthday Boy?”
“We have a warrant,” Staal noticed Gooch’s hesitation to field the question, “for the arrest of Nathan Campbell for the murder of Sean Moore, and for the hit-and-run attempted murder of a police officer.”
“Is it not true?” It was Pierce, the freelancer, the reporter that had lied to Staal about the FBI working a shadow investigation. “That you, Detective Staal, and Sergeant Gooch are building a case against Nathan Campbell, as Birthday Boy?”
“We can’t confirm or deny that at this time,” Gooch responded.
Staal noticed that at least five TV cameras were taping, most likely running a live feed to the respective news broadcasts of each station. “Nathan Campbell!” Staal said loud enough to attract the cameras. “You’re a pathetic little puke. You’re a wimp. You still live at home with your Mommy.” Staal pointed to a camera. “You ran me down from behind with your car because you’re a gutless coward.” He looked directly into the nearest lens. “I’m right here, Campbell. You want a piece of me? Take your best shot!”
Rachael Gooch stepped close to Staal and took his arm while she spoke into his ear. “What the hell are you doing?” She led him away from the media gang, through a door into West Precinct and down a narrow hall and into an empty office.
Once he was seated, Gooch said, “Jack! What the fuck was that? You’re calling Campbell out?”
“I’m thinking that if Campbell is busy getting pissed at me, then maybe, just maybe, he’ll make a mistake and come after me instead of his next victim.”
“I don’t know, Jack. It’s risky. You might have pushed him too far. Who knows what he might do?”
“Maybe it will slow him up for a bit. Just enough for us to figure out his next move.” Staal ran his hand over his forehead. “If he’s thinking about killing me, instead of someone like Kim Walker, then we might just be able to catch up to him in time.”
Staal found Fraser and Gina Hayes at the MC table, still answering phones from the late news tip line. Gooch headed for Max Barnes’ office.
“Nice work, Jack,” Fraser said, when he hung up the phone. “Maybe that little prick will come after you instead his next vic.” He smiled. “Love to get my hands on that bastard, you know?”
“Thanks, Kenny. Where’s Waku?”
“Cameron’s here somewhere,” Gina said. “Hey, Jack. You’re up.” She pointed to the TV in the corner of the room.
Staal looked up at the screen and saw himself goad Campbell like Hulk Hogan challenging the Giant to a looser-leave-town match at the next wrestling pay-per-view extravaganza. The female news anchor gave her own take on Staal’s outburst, calling it unprofessional, testosterone charged bravado.
“Just trying to save one of your sisters, lady,” Staal said. He had copies of the two notes from Campbell spread out on the table. He clicked off the TV.
“Ken, Gina, take a look at these notes from Campbell. This one,” Staal pointed to the first note. “Took us to the Regency Hotel over in Abby. I got the room number, 208, from it, too. The second one was taped to the chambermaid. I think it might tell us where he went—or it may be a decoy.”
Fraser read the note in his bass voice. “Good work, Jack-o. You are a topnotch investigator. Unfortunately, I’m that much better. What, did you stop for some Mickey-D’s? Anyway, I’m checking my list, and I have to get my motor running. Perhaps you and the boss lady need a vacation—mom says cruises are great. Lot’s of food, drink and salty fresh air. You need a hobby Jack. My Dad liked to gulf. Try fishing for Salmon or perhaps you’d prefer something bigger...like a whale?”
“The next victim works at McDonalds?” Gina theorized.
“That’s too easy,” Fraser said. “The cruise means something, man.”
“Yeah, I know, but what?” Staal said.
“He thinks he’s better than us, Jack. Better than you,” Fraser said.
“Yeah,” Staal nodded. “The thing about the list. I think he has a list of the victims. Carries it around with him. Crosses people off when he kills and adds more as he goes.”
“Uh-huh,” Fraser said. “‘You and the lady boss take care,’ means that you and Gooch are on the list now.”
“Yep. Get my motor running...it’s from that song, umm. Get your motor running—get out on the highway.”
“The little prick is running somewhere,” Fraser said.
“Mom likes cruises...going by ferry?” Gina said. “To a fishing resort?”
“Yeah,” both Fraser and Staal said.
“A beach resort somewhere—with whale watching tours nearby,” Gina said. “Maybe a bed & breakfast.” She picked up the note. “Look how he spelled golf. G-u-l-f. Like Gulf of Mexico...or the Gulf Islands.”
“I think you’re onto something there,” Gooch said, as she returned to the homicide table. “Start an Internet search using everything you have going, Gina. Look closely at the islands.”
“I don’t know,” Staal said. “Campbell could have us chasing our butts, while he’s still here stalking or killing his next.”
“It does seem too easy,” Gina said. “Why the hell would he want us to know where he is?”
“Yeah,” Fraser said. “Campbell never tipped us before.”
“It won’t take anything to run all this through Google and see if anything comes up,” Gooch said.
“You’re right, Rachael,” Staal said. “We don’t have anything better.” He took a deep breath before starting again. “Campbell went to school with Newsome and Moore, and was a student of Quinn’s. I have always believed that these women knew each other in the past. I’m certain that Campbell has some sort of history with each of them.”
“We need to talk with Newsome’s husband,” Gooch said.
“The husband is grounded in Paris, and supposedly can’t fly until he gets grief counseling,” Gina said. “He’s catching a flight home tonight.” She poured coffees around the table.
“Maybe we should take a look at the book store and that pet shop again,” Gina offered. “Really lean on those guys. Somebody knows Campbell’s hangouts, his routines.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Fraser said. “These phone-in tip lines are getting nothing but every asshole with a short guy beef.”
“I want to go back and have another chat with the Campbell sisters,” Staal said. “The twin, especially. She might know something about the gun she handed us.”
“It’s quarter after one,” Gooch said. “We all might as well try and get some rest and then hit all these angles with a fresh head in the morning.”
Cameron Wakamatsu stepped up to the table and took a seat. “Got three things. First, Drummond says all his preliminary testing from the Newsome scene points to Campbell. He’ll have some DNA in a couple days. Second, Inspector Ross wants Gooch and Staal in his office and man, is he pissed! Oh, and third, I just saw a couple of Teamers in the hallway.”
“Shit!” Staal swore.
The IHIT members had already taken up positions in Ross’s office when Gooch and Staal walked in.
“Detective—Sergeant,” Ross said. “You both know Constable-Detectives Preston Woolworth and Hayden Berger-Johnson.”
“Sure,” Staal chirped.
Berger-Johnson and Woolworth could pass for brothers, twins if it wasn’t for the slight age difference. Both were just over six feet and around 200 pounds with cocky, holier-than-thou attitudes.
Staal wanted to grab Berger-Johnson by the lapels and smack him. What was the deal with the hyphenated name? Pretentious bullshit.
“I said,” Berger-Johnson spoke, “this message suggests that Campbell may be bolting to the Gulf Islands. But we have a wit that puts him in Langley—we’re looking into that tip—running the security tapes at a grocery there.”
“We’re not certain the Islands are the place to look,” Staal said. “Besides, where do you start?