Five Minutes Alone (28 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Ron McDonald—no relation to the clown, as he said the day they came to arrest him—is a man who got away with murder. The clown joke is something he used on his doorstep, again at the station, and again in front of his lawyer, and for Schroder the joke went from being not funny, to really not funny, to making him want to toss Ron out the ninth-story window.

Cops can be like fishermen, reeling in criminals, sometimes letting the smaller ones go in order to catch the bigger ones, and the bigger ones they’ll take photos of and put up on display. And of course there is always going to be the one that got away. For Schroder, the one that got away was the Christchurch Carver. But he’s not the only big fish to have gotten free.

Ron McDonald murdered his wife.

It was seven years ago. McDonald had been working late. He was a mechanic who owned his own workshop. He finished installing a secondhand gearbox in a twenty-year-old Honda, cleaned up, locked the shop, then drove home to find his wife of eight years, Hailey, lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of her own blood. Taken from the house were jewelry and cash. It was a high-risk killing for not a lot of gain, but these things happened, and Schroder knew there were many people who would kill for less. Sometimes crimes evolve. For example, a guy breaks into a house thinking it’s empty, but it’s not. He sees a good-looking woman in her thirties who, on any other day, wouldn’t even give him the time, but on this day she’s in a house he thought was empty and he thinks to himself
W
hy not?
The two big words right up there with
What if?
and
Why should?

So he attacks her. He thinks she’ll do whatever he asks, only she
doesn’t do that at all, and then there’s a struggle and then before he knows it he’s stabbed her once, twice, a dozen times because she really, really shouldn’t have said
no
like that.

That is the scene Ron McDonald came home to. A scene where the blood had reached the edge of the room on one side, where it was pooling in the grouting between the tiles everywhere else. He screamed. His neighbors heard him scream, and one of them came rushing over. Ron was on his knees in the blood trying to stop what was still inside Hailey’s body from leaking out, but it was too late. When the police arrived he couldn’t speak. They escorted him into another room and an officer helped him out of his bloody clothes and into new ones, and the entire time Ron just stared ahead, something inside of him having snapped.

The case was assigned to Schroder. It was a horrific scene, and he pictured himself coming through the door. A
Hi honey, I’m home
then seeing his wife’s blood everywhere. Most scenes he pictured the victim as somebody he loved. He couldn’t help it. The other thing he couldn’t help was thinking right off the bat that McDonald was guilty. He thought that because of probability. Because of statistics. Statistics dictated that nine times out of ten a dead woman in a house was dead because of somebody else who lived there, or somebody she was involved with. This looked random, yes, especially because all the missing cash and the jewelry. However, he also knew that making planned look random didn’t take a lot of work. Random happened a lot in this city, but so did planned.

When McDonald came around enough to talk, he told them what happened. He was a mechanic. The secondhand gearbox. The drive home. What he found here. It wasn’t long into their talk that McDonald told Schroder that, when he found the man or men who had done this, he wanted five minutes alone with them. Schroder slowly shook his head, apologized, and said as much as he would love to do that, the world didn’t work that way.

The following morning he started working on McDonald’s alibi. Did he have one? No, he didn’t, because there was nobody at work to verify he had been there. There was a record that the alarm was
set at nine p.m., but he could have driven home, killed his wife, driven back to work, and set the alarm. He began to dig deeper. McDonald and his wife weren’t happy. Often they argued.
She was afraid of him,
her father had told Schroder.

Did you ever see him display any behavior that was scary? Or abusive?

No.

Did she?

She didn’t say it, not like that, but I could tell.

If she was that scared, or you were that worried for her, why not contact the police when it first started happening?

I wish I had,
he’d said.
I just thought I was being a silly old man for thinking those things, but now look at me. I’ve become the stupidest old man in the world because I did nothing. When you find the guy who did this, can you do me a favor?

There was nothing at the house to suggest McDonald was a guilty man. The blood on him was explained by trying to help his wife, but even then the blood was only on his hands and knees and feet, all parts that came into contact with the ground and his wife. There weren’t splatters and arcs across his chest and neck. If he killed her, he didn’t do it in the clothes they found him in. If he killed her and drove back to his work, he could have disposed of his clothes along the way.

They interviewed McDonald’s staff. Had they seen anything suspicious? No, none of them had. But then they found out that one of the men had come back to work at eight p.m. because he’d left his cell phone there.
The alarm wasn’t set, and Ron’s car wasn’t there, but the work stereo was on and his tools were out. It looked like he’d just popped out for a few minutes. He’d do that occasionally. We all would if we were hungry. There’s a service station about two minutes away. Nobody is going to break into the shop and steal all the tools in only a few minutes,
he’d said, which Schroder knew wasn’t as unlikely as the guy seemed to think. People steal things much quicker than other people think possible, because they practice, practice, practice.

So Ron McDonald hadn’t been at his work when he’d said, and when questioned where he had been, he said he’d been at the service station getting a snack. Did he have a receipt? No. How did he pay? Cash. What time was he there? He couldn’t be sure. Sometime around eight, maybe. How long was he gone? Five minutes at the absolute most. Or maybe ten. Who served him? He couldn’t remember. What did he buy? A can of Coke and some bags of crisps, plus a couple of heated sausage rolls. Did he drive or walk? He drove. It wasn’t far, but he didn’t feel like walking.

So they went to the service station. There was surveillance footage. They checked it. They watched it around eight p.m. They went forward an hour. They went back an hour. They went forward two hours. They went back to that morning. They found McDonald there in the morning, they saw other staff there on and off, but nobody in the evening.

He spoke to McDonald again. This time McDonald wanted a lawyer. He was informed about what they had found. McDonald shook his head, then had a twenty-second conversation with his lawyer in hushed tones, his lawyer shook his head once, then nodded twice, then it was over.
The fact is my client hasn’t been completely open with you,
the lawyer said.
For the last month my client has been having an affair, and this is where he was on the night his wife was killed.

They followed up the affair story, of course they did, but this was a story they had heard before with other suspects and other crimes, and one they would hear again. The problem was it was a good alibi. They couldn’t shake it.

Still, there was a case against McDonald and it was building. A neighbor had seen him park his car a block away, then walk the rest of the way to his house around eight p.m., where he spent fifteen minutes and then walked back to his car. How good a look did the neighbor get? A good look. But it was eight o’clock, it was the middle of winter, it was dark. Could it have been anybody? No. It was Ron. Most definitely Ron.

Then they got a warrant for the workshop. Schroder took a team
of people to tear the place apart. It was in Ron’s car that they found the clothes he had been wearing. They were soaked in blood. They had been balled up into a black rubbish bag and they had been stuffed into the trunk beneath the spare wheel.

They arrested Ron. They stood up before a judge. And it was dismissed before it even got to trial. There wasn’t enough evidence. Not without the bloody clothes. The bloody clothes weren’t evidence. And why? Because the warrant had been for the workshop and the cars parked on the premises, and Ron’s car had been in a driveway owned by the neighboring auto repair shop. It was a technicality. That was all. But the law is built on technicalities. In the future, other detectives would call this
Schrodering.
They never thought he knew, but he did know, and it pissed him off, more so that he had messed up than the name they gave it.

The police would have to come up with more.

Only there wasn’t any more, and other people were dying in the city, other people were running free and, somehow, Hailey McDonald and her killer husband slipped through the cracks.

Until now.

“I didn’t kill her,” Ronald says, and he’s bleeding from the right side of his abdomen where Schroder shot him less than a minute ago. He’s crying too. Big fat tears streaming down his face.

Schroder keeps the gun pointed at him. “Yes you did. I know you did.”

“You’re making a mistake!”

“You lied to us.”

McDonald is on his knees. He’s looking up at Schroder. “I was just trying to hide that I was having an affair,” he says, clutching at the wound, then poking a finger into it as if that will stop the blood from leaving and the Reaper from coming. His face is going pale.

“And you were seen entering your house.”

McDonald shakes his head. “That wasn’t me.”

“Do you remember what you asked me?”

“Please don’t do this.”

“Answer the question.”

McDonald is still shaking his head. “What? What question?”

“I asked if you remember what you asked me.”

“What? I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

“The night we first met. You asked me if you could have five minutes alone with the person who killed your wife,” Schroder says. “Well, consider this getting exactly what you asked for.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

We get back from the hospital and there’s a basket on the front doorstep. There’s a red-and-white checked cloth over the top of it, and I lift it to find an assortment of muffins, a dozen of them maybe. I show them to Bridget, who looks happy at the gesture, then a little less happy when I tell her they’re from Rebecca.

We’re eating dinner when my cell phone rings. It’s the third time it’s rung, and the last two times I reached down and ended the call without answering. I’m in the process of doing it again when Bridget tells me that it’s okay, that it may be important.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her.

“Just answer the phone, Teddy.”

So I pick up the phone and see it’s Rebecca, and I’m still tempted not to answer it, but then I’m always tempted not to answer it.

“Hey,” I say. “You calling about the newspaper article or about the fingerprints?”

“Neither,” she says. “I’ve got some bad news.”

My first thought is
Schroder.
Schroder has done today what he’s done the last two days, and we’ve got another crime scene.

“Another dead rapist?” I ask.

“I said bad news,” she says. “It’s Hutton.”

“What about him?”

“He had a heart attack this afternoon. The doctors seem to think it’s to do with all his weight loss and dieting and running that he’s been doing.”

“Shit, is he going to be okay?” I ask, and Bridget stops eating and looks up at me.

“No,” she says. “He didn’t make . . . He died, Theo.” She starts to cry. “He died half an hour ago.”

“Oh shit,” I say, and the world sways a little and I can feel my dinner moving around in my stomach, ready to leap north. “Where are you now? At the hospital?”

“I’m at home. His wife is with him at the hospital, but I just got the call from the superintendent to tell me what happened. He said he’s been trying to get hold of you. I can’t . . . you know, I can’t . . .”

“Believe it?” I ask, and I rest my elbow on the table and hide my face in my palm, eyes closed, and there I can see Hutton as I saw him last as we stood outside Kelly Summers’s house.

“We just saw him yesterday. How can people just leave the world like that?” she asks. It’s a naive question coming from somebody in Kent’s position, but it’s still a good question despite that. It happens every day.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I don’t know. He rang in sick this morning, remember? I guess . . . I don’t know. I just don’t know. But he’s gone, Theo. He was a good guy. A really good guy.”

“He was a good guy,” I say, and Bridget is looking at me with concern. She knows somebody has died.

“He has a couple of kids,” she says.

“I know.”

“I feel like I need to do something, you know? Like if I can just figure out what to do we can change what happened. Like he’s dead right now, but by the time we go into work tomorrow it’ll all be okay, and he’ll be there.”

“It’s always like that,” I tell her.

“The case is yours,” she says.

“What?”

“That’s why the superintendent has been calling you. To tell you you’re leading the case now.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You. He thinks you’re up to it. He also agrees the bald man is the real deal. He walked away from Grover Hills, and we think he helped Summers. We got a list of Roddick’s known associates and compared dental records. We got a name on the fourth
body at Grover Hills. Robin Walsh. He was a known associate of Matthew Roddick. He picked the wrong night to try and help out his buddy. The Five Minute Man picked them all off. You like the name the media gave him?”

“Not really,” I say, but it’s better than calling him
Carl Schroder.

“The medical examiner retrieved bullets from the bodies. They’re out being tested, and three handguns have all been found at Grover Hills. Something will match up,” she says.

“Bound to.”

“I still can’t believe Hutton is gone,” she says.

“What happened with Kelly Summers’s house? You find any prints?”

“Plenty.”

“And Dwight Smith’s?”

“No. But what we did find were a lot of clean surfaces. I mean, there were no prints on the windowsill. There were hardly any in the bathroom. Somebody cleaned up.”

“Kelly looked like a tidy woman.”

“Nobody is that tidy,” she says. “But, you know, there’s nothing there now to suggest it went any other way than what Kelly said in her letter, and now that you’re leading the case I guess it’s up to you what we do next.”

She asks how Bridget is, and I update her, and then we hang up. I break the news to Bridget about Hutton and she cries, and I feel like crying too. She knew Hutton—not as well as she knew Schroder, but enough to feel the impact of his loss. Here one moment and gone the next. Life. Sunday we were working overtime together. Today he’s sick. Later in the week we’ll be going to his funeral.

When my phone rings again I know it’s going to be either Kent or Superintendent Dominic Stevens, and for a moment—just a brief moment—I think they’re ringing to update me on news, there’s been a miracle, hallelujah, and Hutton isn’t dead after all. But it’s neither of those. It’s Schroder.

“I need your help,” he tells me.

“No,” I tell him, and then I hang up.

“Who was that?” Bridget asks.

“Somebody I’m trying to avoid,” I tell her.

My phone starts ringing again. I give it a few seconds, and then I tell Bridget to give me a minute and I walk into the lounge and take the call. This time I don’t say anything. I just let him speak.

“You’re going to get a call soon. There’s been another body,” he says. “You remember Ron McDonald? He was the guy who kept laughing about not being related to the clown, the guy who—”

“I remember him.”

“Well he’s dead now, and there’s a problem. This is the second case now that I was lead detective on, and that means there are going to be questions. You need to keep me out of it.”

I’m pacing the lounge, my grip so firm on the phone that if I did right now what Hutton did today, they’d never be able to pry it out of my hand. They’d have to bury me with it.

“Jesus Christ, Carl. You’ve totally lost it.”

“We’re in this together now, Theo.”

“Hutton died today,” I tell him.

“What? How?”

“He had a heart attack. Just came out of nowhere.”

“That guy has been a walking heart attack for the last ten years.”

“You could at least feel sorry for him.”

“I wish I could. But if it helps I do feel something. I know that it’s a shame. And I also know that you’re going to do what I ask unless you want to risk jail or the death penalty. Are you replacing Hutton as the lead?”

“Yes.”

“Then this should be simple for you,” he says. “Now, Theo, this is very important. I left something behind.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I left one of my cell phones behind when I killed McDonald. There shouldn’t be any prints on it, but there may be a print on the SIM card. It must have come out of my pocket during the struggle,
which means it’s probably on the floor. I need you to take care of that for me.”

“Why don’t you take care of it yourself?”

“Because I can’t go back there. It’s too big a risk,” he says.

I sit on the couch and hang my head and stare at the carpet. “So you want me to wipe down the SIM card?”

“No, Theo, I need you to retrieve the phone and bring it back to me.”

“How about I just turn us both in instead?” I ask, and I mean it. I think. “I have to stop you, you do understand that, right?” The voice from earlier comes back, and it says
What about now? Now do you want to think about what you don’t want to think about?
No. No I don’t.

“No. You won’t, Theo. I know you won’t. Has your wife given you the news?”

“What news?”

“Then she hasn’t. And when she does you’ll know you’ll never turn yourself in. Hell, if I wanted to I could make you come along with me next time, and you know what? Maybe I’ll do just that.”

“You’re losing control,” I tell him.

“No. I’m finally in control. Don’t you see that? For the first time since wanting to make a difference in this city, I finally can.”