Authors: Barbara Fradkin
Once they had completed their instructions to Jones and dispatched him to finalize the warrant, they argued over their approach strategy. Until the warrant was completed and a justice of the peace tracked down to sign it, which might take hours, they hadn't the legal means to apprehend Blakeley. Since it was a Halifax case and McGrath was the officer of record, she needed to swear the affidavit before the
JP
. Technically, nothing stopped them from dropping by for another informal chat with Blakeley in the meantime, but his lawyers and the courts would cry foul if he was questioned
without being informed of the pending changes and given the chance to consult his lawyer. Yet Green feared that even now, two hours after his press conference, Blakeley was already long gone.
In the end, they settled on a compromise. Jones would write up the warrant and accompany McGrath to the
JP
while Green and Sullivan, along with a couple of plain clothes teams, would keep Blakeley's condo under surveillance. A discreet call also went out to the head of security at the airport to delay Blakeley should he try to board a flight.
“Don't you dare start the interrogation without me!” McGrath warned as they all prepared to leave. “Ten years this guy has been inside my head, Mike. I want a chance at him!”
Green faced her reluctantly. Her eyes glowed, and her cheeks were flushed. He understood her hunger, but the interview would be delicate enough without Devine barging into the middle of it. This was not about closure or settling the score. More than nailing the guilty, this was about keeping the innocent alive.
“I know,” he said as he and Sullivan headed out the door. They took the stairs two at a time down to the basement parking lot.
“She's quite the woman,” Sullivan remarked ambiguously as they signed out a car.
“That she is.”
“Are you going to wait for her?”
“Devine vetoed it.”
“She's going to be pissed.”
“I assume she'll be professional.”
Sullivan chuckled as he started the car. “Don't count on it. Where the two of you are concerned, you're way past professional.”
Green busied himself with the seatbelt, hoping Sullivan
couldn't see his scarlet face. How the hell had the man figured that out in the brief hour since he met her? They pulled out of the parking lot in silence and headed up Catherine Street, both of them staring at the road ahead.
“Nothing is happening.”
“Oh. Right.”
Green risked a glance. A smile played at the corner of Sullivan's mouth. “I mean, nothing is happening.”
“As long as you keep it that way. Sharon is way more than you deserve.”
“Oy, my conscience. It's good to have you back.” Green gestured as they neared the intersection of Kent Street. “Now can we keep our minds on this case, before we stumble upon this guy totally unprepared?”
Ablaze in the slanting rays of the sinking sun, Blakeley's condominium high-rise looked deceptively serene as long as one ignored the three media vans parked outside. Green and Sullivan slipped out of sight on a side street and coordinated the surveillance as unobtrusively as possible. They placed an officer at each of the exits, including the underground parking garage. A check inside revealed Blakeley's Lexus
SUV
still parked in its spot, but Green dismissed it as irrelevant. If Blakeley was leaving the country, he would hardly leave his car at the airport as a billboard announcing his travel plans. He would leave it at home, hoping it would serve as a decoy for at least a day or two.
As Green predicted, a phone call to Blakeley's apartment from an unlisted number went unanswered. Even if the man was at home, he would be crazy to answer his phone with all the media camped outside. Green and Sullivan accessed the high-rise across the street and selected an apartment on the twelfth floor.
“You're the third person in the past hour who's asked to get into my place to spy on them,” the tenant replied when they knocked on her door. She was shouting through the door over the blare of the television, but she sounded more intrigued than distressed.
“But we're the police, ma'am,” Sullivan said. “We won't take long.”
“We just need to ascertain that the Blakeleys are safe,” Green added, ignoring Sullivan's frown.
She let them in finally. Wrapped in a ratty pink sweater over her pyjamas, she led them into her living room, which was stifling hot and smelled of cat urine. A quick peek through binoculars revealed no signs of movement in the apartment opposite, but the balcony door was open.
“They're there,” Sullivan said.
“Not necessarily. This is a military man. Creating a diversion would be second nature to him.”
Sullivan snorted. The tenant was listening with unabashed fascination. “Do you want to station a policeman to watch from here?” she asked. “Just in case?”
Green had to fight a smile. The woman has been watching too many cop dramas, he thought. But to his surprise, Sullivan nodded. “That would be very helpful, ma'am. I'll send someone up shortly, and I'd like to thank you for your cooperation.”
She batted her eyelashes. Sullivan, at six foot four with broad shoulders, merry blue eyes and a full head of bristly blond hair, cut a commanding figure that still attracted women, even when he didn't turn on the Irish charm. Unlike Green, however, his own gaze had never strayed from the farm girl he had loved since he was sixteen.
Back out on the street, they settled into their car to wait for word that the warrant had been signed. Green chafed at the
forced inaction, his thoughts racing over the case. What had he missed? What else should he be doing in the meantime?
He phoned in to Gibbs, who had drawn the unfortunate task of remaining at the station to coordinate the flow of information. “Any word from Wallington and Connors about Weiss?”
“Nothing, sir. No one is home at the ex-wife's house, and they've batted zero with all his known associates. He doesn't have many friends, it seems.”
Or those he does have aren't talking to us, Green thought grimly. “Anything else new?”
“We're still waiting for Weiss's phone records, but Charbonneau and Leblanc have the search warrant for his house. They want to know if they should go ahead.”
Green stared out the car window at the front door of the condominium. No one remotely interesting had passed in or out in the last fifteen minutes. God, he'd forgotten how tedious stake-outs were! He would give anything to join the search of Weiss's house, to poke around in the man's private closets and get a glimpse of the man's secrets. But the warrant for Blakeley's arrest could come any second, and this was where his skill and authority were needed.
Besides, he wouldn't miss Blakeley's arrest for the world. Reluctantly, he said “Tell them to go ahead and keep me posted every step of the way.”
When he hung up, Sullivan cocked a questioning eyebrow at him. “Anything important?”
“The search of Weiss's house.”
Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Control freak.”
Green opened his mouth to defend himself, but the ringing of his cellphone interrupted him. Jones's voice came through. Two simple words. “Got it.”
“Meet us at the station,” Green said, and before Jones
could mention Kate McGrath, he hung up and nodded to Sullivan. “Time to rock and roll.”
“Are we going to notify Devine?”
Green was already out of the car and activating his radio to alert the others on the stake-out. “Once we have him in custody.”
They were just heading across the street towards the front door when a cab pulled up, partially blocking their view. At the same time, the front door opened and a man emerged wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses despite the sunset shadows, and a bulky raincoat that hid much of his shape. But there was no mistaking his squat, powerful frame and the white hair sticking out beneath the cap.
“Shit, it's Blakeley!” Sullivan sprinted back to the car, revved it up and hurtled it forward across the lawn to block the cab's exit. Simultaneously, Green dashed towards the back of the cab, yelling into his radio for the officers to converge. Blakeley stopped with his hand on the rear door handle and looked up, surprise changing to horror at the sight of Green.
The media leaped out of their vans and raced across the lawn, scrambling to get their cameras and microphones in position. Green cursed. What a goddamn circus, all to play out on the six o'clock news. Devine's worst nightmare.
He grabbed Blakeley's arm and leaned in close to his ear. “John, for your own sake, please come with me to the car up ahead. The less we give the media to talk about, the better.”
He felt Blakeley stiffen and pull away as if to resist. Then the man sized up the descending hordes, glanced at Sullivan's unmarked car, and all colour fled from his face. Wordlessly, he acquiesced. Heads down, the two of them hurried down the drive, dodged the microphones and ducked into the back seat of the car. Once they were inside, Green slammed the door and heard it lock into place. Sullivan hit the accelerator, and
the car slewed out into the street, leaving the media behind.
Blakeley whipped off his sunglasses and stared out the back window. “Animals!” he snarled. “I haven't had a moment's peace since the press conference, and just when I'm trying to give them the slip, you show up! That's going to look just great.”
“Where were you headed?” Green asked. Surreptitiously, he was studying Blakeley's clothing, trying to determine if he had a weapon hidden. This operation was going fabulously. The abduction of Blakeley by the local police was going to lead on the national news, and here he was stuck in the back with a known killer who had been neither searched nor handcuffed, and who possessed more than enough skill and nerve to shoot him and take Sullivan hostage to make good his escape. Sullivan's eyes met his in the rearview mirror, telegraphing the same thought.
“Back to Petawawa,” Blakeley replied, oblivious to the interchange. “Leanne has already gone.”
“They'll find you there.”
“Yes, but at least there I feel as if my prison has more space.” He swung on Green as if the word prison had triggered an association. “What were you doing at my place?”
“Actually . . .” Green leaned forward, thinking fast. They were just nearing the turn-off onto Elgin Street. Traffic was light, and there were few people around. “Brian, could you pull over when you get a chance? There's something I should do.”
Sullivan's gaze caught his again in the mirror, and he nodded slightly. Just before Elgin, he turned into the drive behind Friday's Roast Beef House and stopped the car in the alley, effectively hemming Blakeley in between the stone wall of a Church and the brick building next door. Both detectives climbed out, and Green saw Sullivan's hand move towards his gun. Blakeley remained in the back seat, suddenly wary.
“Could you step out too please, John?”
He didn't move, and for one brief moment Green feared they were going to have a gun battle in the middle of downtown Ottawa on a Sunday afternoon. Another great lead for the news. Then Blakeley climbed out and backed away uncertainly, his fists clenched in an instinctive fighter's stance.
“What's going on, fellas?”
“Turn around and place your hands on the vehicle,” Green said.
Blakeley stared at him, first with incomprehension, then horror and finally resignation, His hands fell limply to his sides. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. “You're arresting me.”
“Hands on the vehicle, John.”
Blakeley turned to lean against the car and stood impassively as Sullivan searched and handcuffed him, then began his recital. “John Blakeley, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Daniel Oliver on April 9â”
To Green's surprise, Blakeley shut his eyes and bowed his head. “Daniel Oliver. Yes.”
“I am required to warn you thatâ”
“I always knew that would come back to haunt me.”
“John,” Green interrupted, “it would be better if you didn't speak until you've been formally processed and had a chance to consult an attorney.”
“I don't need an attorney. I want to explain.”
And I sure want to hear your story, Green thought, but not like this. Not standing in a back alley where you can later claim you were threatened or coerced into admitting a pack of lies. “The faster we get through the formalities, the faster you can explain the whole story to us,” he said.
When they reached the police station, the media had already arrived and were lying in wait outside the entrance to
the police parking lot. Blakeley ducked his head as the car zipped past and drove down the ramp into the prisoner's bay, where Green handed Blakeley over to the duty sergeant for fingerprinting and processing. Blakeley looked wan and beaten, a shadow of the warrior they had met only hours earlier. He complied with orders like an automaton.
“Bring him up to the video interview room as soon as possible, Sergeant,” Green said before heading upstairs to prepare for the interview. He was expecting to do battle with attorneys, political spin doctors, the military and his own superiors in his attempt to get the truth out of John Blakeley, but he was wrong.
Nothing could have been easier.
Sept. 14, 1993. On the road, Sector South, Croatia
.
I'm trying to write in the
APC
and it's noisy and hot as hell. We're on the move again and this time it's big. The whole company is together and we're going to a place called Medak, where the Croats grabbed a whole lot of land inside the
UN
pink zone and nearly got a bunch of our guys in Charlie Company killed. It was the same offensive we experienced the other day but even worse up at Medak because they rolled their tanks in and took over a bunch of Serb villages. Now the politicians are at the table again, making up another new ceasefire deal
.