A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (32 page)

“Then nothing for fifteen years? Or were you doing your killing someplace else?” John Winters studied William Westfield. The man was smiling slightly, pleased with himself as he calmly described the destruction of a life, of many lives if you considered Cathy Lindsay’s husband and children. His eyes were an attractive and unusual shade of pale blue, but they glowed with such malicious pleasure that they brought to Winters’ mind a line from the saga of Beowulf, as the hero encounters the killer, Grendel:
two dots of fire against a veil of blackness
.

“No more killing.” Westfield explained. “I retired, so to speak. My mother died, and I went to Florida to settle up her affairs. When I got back, somehow I didn’t feel like killing any more. I’m sure you want to know all about my mother, but I don’t want to talk about her. She wasn’t my mother anyway. I was adopted. My real mother, whoever she might be, was, my adoptive father never failed to remind me, a slut and a dirty whore who couldn’t keep her legs shut and threw me away like a discarded tissue.” Westfield’s mouth was open, ready to continue with his story, his self-justification, his self-pity, but no words came out. His jaw moved; he stared across the room without blinking, directly at Molly Smith.

Her blood ran ice cold.

Winters began to rise.

“Give him a minute,” Doctor Singh said. “His brain is, in lay terms, not firing properly. The pathways are becoming blocked as the tumor grows and his brain is searching for another route to form the words.”

“My adoptive father moved around a lot,” Westfield continued, as if there had been no interruption. “He had trouble keeping a job. He constantly fought with his co-workers or ran into trouble for smacking his wife. He knocked me around too, when the mood came on him. She could have stopped it. She could have stood up to him. But she didn’t. He died in a bar brawl in Flagstaff. Fellow followed him into the parking lot and shot him in the back. No tears from me. She wept buckets, of course. Such a good man, she told everyone at the funeral. Not that many people bothered to show up.”

Smith’s fists were clenched. She tried to wiggle some blood back into her fingers without anyone noticing. Brutal father, passive mother. Why did that always turn out to be the woman’s fault?

Why did other women have to die for it?

Westfield let out a gasp of pure pain. He lifted his hands to his head. He rocked his body back and forth and moaned.

Doctor Singh leapt to his feet. “I’m afraid this interview cannot continue.”

“Very well,” Winters said. “I have all I need for now. About all I can stomach too.”

Smith stepped forward, ready to take Westfield back downstairs. Lock him up for the night. The cells in the police station were not intended to be comfortable. A steel bed, no mattress, no blankets. A toilet in the corner, a camera overhead.

“My situation has gotten a lot worse in the past two weeks.” Westfield lowered his hands and eyed them through narrowed eyes and spoke through teeth clenched against pain, his face slick with sweat. “I wouldn’t be able to maintain a stakeout or make that walk through the woods any longer. With Margo, I had to sit in my car until she came out of her house.”

“What happens now?” Doctor Singh said.

“Mr. Westfield will be taken to the hospital,” Winters said, biting off the words. “As you pointed out, we can’t care for him here.”

Molly Smith almost swallowed her tongue.

“No, not the hospital,” Westfield said, his voice stronger as the pain passed. “I’ve a room waiting for me at the hospice, right, Doctor? You’ll send someone around for my things? I don’t think we locked the door behind us. I’d like a few pieces of art. The new sketches in particular.”

“You’re going to the hospital,” Winters said. “I won’t disrupt the patients—the deserving patients—at the hospice by putting you there. You’ll have a guard on you, round the clock. And be secured to your bed at all times.”

“You can’t do that,” Westfield protested. “I’m dying. I deserve to be at the hospice.”

“You deserve,” Winters said, his composure breaking, “to be in hell.”

Westfield turned to his doctor, “Tell them,” he shouted. “Tell them what we arranged.”

“I can give you the care you need at the hospital as well as anyplace else,” Singh said, his voice dripping with disgust. “And that only because my oath requires me to do so.”

“Detective Lopez,” Winters said, “Escort Doctor Singh and his patient to the Trafalgar hospital. Westfield is to be restrained at all times. Tell Staff Sergeant Peterson to arrange a twenty-four hour guard on him. Constable Smith, cuff him.”

Chapter Forty-two

“You going to tell us what the hell’s going on, Sarge?”

Smith and Winters, along with a good number of officers, stood at the windows watching as William Westfield, his doctor, Ray Lopez, and Dave Evans got into a patrol car and drove down the dark, abandoned street.

Winters grimaced. “Can’t blame you for being mad, Ingrid.” He turned to face the group. “All of you. It’s a damned crying shame. Doctor Singh told me William Westfield has stage four glioblastoma. Meaning a brain tumour that’s eating him alive. He has, at the most, a couple of weeks to live. The tumor was detected three months ago and he refused treatment, claiming he’d rather die than drag on for at best another year. The doctor’s been trying to get him into the hospice. Westfield said he had a few matters to take care of first. I guess we know what that means.” Winters looked as if he wanted to spit on the floor.

“It means he gets off scot-free,” Ingrid muttered.

“Saves us the cost of a trial,” Ron Gavin said. “Saves us having to sit in court and listen while some expensive lawyer explains to the judge that his client’s misunderstood.”

“Sick bastard,” Adam Tocek said. “In more ways than one.” He stood beside Molly Smith, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, the closest they’d allow themselves to get while in uniform.

Her face was pale, her mouth tight, and her eyes blazed with so much anger they reminded Winters of her mother. “He killed Cathy Lindsay for nothing at all.”

“Pretty much. He’s right. We never would have caught him if he hadn’t gone after Margo. Whoever cleaned up his house after he died might have turned in the shotgun. Might not. He would have been remembered, by the police anyway, for a killing that remained unsolved.

“Be that as it may, we still have jobs to do. The Chief’s at the mayor’s office now, preparing a statement. Ron?”

“I pulled in a few favors, got someone out of bed to run tests on that shotgun. To my eye, it’s the one that killed Mrs. Lindsay. We’ll get confirmation pretty soon. Alison’s still at the scene. Just because the guy confessed doesn’t mean we can pack up.”

“Thanks for coming in everyone. If Ron doesn’t need you, and you’re not on duty, I guess you can go home now.”

They began to move away, muttering and shaking heads.

Adam Tocek gave Molly Smith’s shoulder a squeeze and said, “Talk to you tomorrow.”

Winters should have been elated. He should have been ready to go out and celebrate.

Instead he was just sad. What a goddamned waste. Cathy Lindsay, her husband, her kids. Everyone caught up in this because of some smarmy bastard who wanted to be remembered as a killer smarter than a bunch of small town cops.

Right now he wanted nothing but to go home, but first he’d pay a call on Gord Lindsay. The guy deserved to know they’d caught his wife’s killer. He’d drop in on Mark Hamilton tomorrow and apologize.

Winters turned to Molly Smith. “You did good today. I’ll mention it to Al.”

“Thanks. Why don’t I feel good?”

“It’s not up to us to feel good, I’m sorry to say. We did our jobs. We caught the bastard before he could do any more damage.”

“Does it matter? He’s going to be dead in a couple of weeks anyway, you said.”

“Look at it this way. Suppose some other woman offended him tonight or tomorrow. Took his parking space, cut him off with her grocery cart. Didn’t bring his meds fast enough in the hospice. And he decided he had one more score to settle.”

Smith’s radio crackled. “Five-one?”

“Go ahead.”

“Sergeant Peterson is asking if you’re going to hang around the office for the rest of your shift, or intend to get back out there.”

“Message understood.”

Winters gave her a small grin. “I suspect you’ll be spending the rest of the night answering questions.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Chapter Forty-three

Mark Hamilton studied the object in his hand. Cold metal gleamed in the flickering glow of the gas fireplace.

The lights in the house were turned off, leaving only blue and yellow firelight to see by.

All he needed.

The radio blasted out heavy metal, cranked up loud. There’d been another shooting in Trafalgar, and earlier the reporter had called in from the scene, breathless, excited. In the background, sirens, people panicking.

Would the cops be here soon? Knocking down his door, breaking in, guns drawn, boots pounding on the floorboards?

He hadn’t killed anyone, didn’t even know the person they were saying had been shot this time. But what did that matter? Once again he had no alibi, no friend to say they’d been tossing back a beer together after work or watching a game on TV.

He’d come home from the police station a few hours ago, dropped off by the pleasant young woman. In the old days, he would have flirted with her, asked if she wanted to go out for a drink. Now, he muttered thanks as he got out of the car, and then he headed straight downstairs to run for an hour, lift weights for half an hour.

It hadn’t helped. All he could think about was going to prison.

Prison and Corporal Fred Worthing, dying in the dust so far from home.

Mark stroked the gun. Smith and Wesson J Frame. Small. Big enough to do the job.

He hadn’t lied to the police. Sergeant Winters had asked if he possessed a long gun, a rifle or shotgun. He hadn’t asked if Mark had an unlicensed, restricted weapon like a handgun. Which was a crime in itself.

He’d bought this revolver when he returned from Afghanistan. Ready to do himself in when it all got too bad.

Then, to his considerable surprise, he’d been accepted at university as a mature student. His mom had been so proud. The revolver had been tucked away in the back of the closet, mostly forgotten. But nothing could be forgotten forever. Over the months and years following the incident, he’d often dreamed that Fred was standing silently in the swirling dust, beckoning, telling him to be a man. To do it. To eat his gun.

To join him in hell.

Mark Hamilton owned one bullet. He didn’t need any more.

He lifted the gun. He opened his mouth. He tasted it, tasted the bitter, cold, harsh metal against his lips. His mom would never know he’d stopped coming to visit. He had enough to keep her in the home as long as she lived. He bit down on the barrel, closed his teeth onto it. He swallowed, fighting against his throat, which had closed against the intrusion. His finger twitched, sought the trigger.

“This just in!” The radio exclaimed, cutting Guns and Roses off in midnote. “Trafalgar City Police have made an arrest in the killing of popular teacher Cathy Lindsay. They report that the same person was allegedly responsible for this evening’s coldblooded attack on Mrs. Margo Franklin. Chief Constable Paul Keller has this to say.”

The Police Chief said something about an arrest, about good policing, about the two shootings being linked. Then over to the mayor to chatter about a safe community and a good place to live and raise a family.

Mark didn’t want anyone from the school to find him in his living room with his brains spattered across the back of the chair, so he’d stuck a note on the front door, warning them to call the cops and not come in.

“Now,” the radio guy said, “back to the scene of this evening’s shooting. Lorraine Quinn reporting live.”

“Thanks, Warren. I’m with Michelle Jenaring, a student at Trafalgar District High who heard the shots from her house and was one of the first to arrive. Michelle, what’s your reaction to the news?”

At first all Mark could hear was crying. Then the girl gulped and said, “I’m so glad. So glad it’s over and they’ve caught him. Now our lives can go on. I’m so looking forward to going to school tomorrow and hugging everyone. I was going to go into computers but after seeing how that doctor saved the woman’s life, I’ve decided to switch to medicine.”

The reporter thanked her and went to talk to more people.

Michelle Jenaring was in Mark Hamilton’s precalculus class. She wanted to get a degree in math. Her family didn’t have a great deal of money, and her older twin brothers were already in university. Michelle was on track for several good scholarships and Mark planned to write recommendations for her.

Thursdays he had the grade twelves right after lunch.

Would they have found him by then? Would a somber principal come to the class and tell them, tell Michelle, that their teacher had decided life was not worth living?

That hopes and dreams and ambitions were an illusion. They’d all be better off dead.

What would happen to Michelle if she didn’t go to university? What would happen to that brain which loved nothing more than solving a math problem?

He pulled the revolver out of his mouth. He took his finger off the trigger.

He spun the chamber and took out the single bullet. He got up from his chair and went into the kitchen. He studied the bullet for a long time, twisted it in his fingers, examined it. So small. So inert.

He dropped it into the sink where it landed with a clatter of metal on metal.

Mark Hamilton turned on the tap. He gave the bullet a nudge with his finger and pushed it into the drain.

It disappeared.

Tomorrow, he’d take the revolver around to the police station. Hand it in.

Maybe he’d see the pretty blond policewoman again. He’d smile at her and hope she’d smile back.

Then he’d go to school and teach math.