A Striking Death (3 page)

five

Cameron Garmand was not French Canadian, as it turned out. At least, he did not speak with any trace of an accent, and he told the two detectives that his surname was pronounced to rhyme with “hand”.

“Art and I had a date this morning for coffee. We got together most every Tuesday at Tim Hortons. A bunch of us retired teachers have been meeting there for more than a year now.” Garmand, Drumm and Singh were standing behind the police tape on Arthur Billinger’s front lawn. “I called him last evening to make sure that we were on for today. So, when I rang his bell this morning and there was no answer, I was surprised.”

Lori Singh was writing in her notebook. Drumm studied Cameron Garmand. He saw a man in his late fifties dressed in baggy blue jeans and a checked shirt, holding a black jacket which he had removed in the course of the conversation. He had thinning grey hair, bags under his eyes and the typical paunch that most middle-aged men sported. He was five feet eleven at the most, and so he was looking up at Drumm, as most people did.

“You’re a retired teacher, Mr. Garmand?” asked Drumm.

“We both are – were. I used to teach in the intermediate division, Art was my French teacher.”

Lori Singh looked up. “So you were going to meet for coffee with some friends and he didn’t answer the doorbell. What did you do then?”

Garmand gestured to the side of the house. “I went around the side there because I thought maybe Art was outside. Sometimes he does a little gardening while he’s waiting for me. But I didn’t see him at all.”

“Let’s take a look,” said Drumm. He led the way around the side of the house. The grass was short and patchy with unraked leaves crackling underfoot. “Is this where you came to then?” At Garmand’s nod, Drumm went on, “What did you do next?”

“I was going to go right around the back but then I looked in the window and I saw him… he was lying on the bed.” Garmand stopped because they could all see that the body was still there and that there were various people working in the room. “It was pretty obvious that something was wrong. So I went back around to the front and called 9-1-1 on my cell.”

“What time was that?” interrupted Singh.

“That would be just after nine, I guess.”

“Go on,” said Drumm.

Garmand shrugged. “Not much more to tell. I waited on the front walkway; the first cops – cop, actually – showed up a few minutes later. We came around here and looked in, then went back around to the front. He told me to wait and then he tried the door. He went back to his car and got a crowbar and jimmied open the door. He went in and came back out a minute or so later and by then the paramedics and more police were starting to arrive.”

Drumm said, “Did you go in the backyard at any point?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Let’s go back around the front,” said Drumm.

Back at the front of the house, Garmand asked, “You haven’t actually said, Detective Sergeant. Art’s really dead, isn’t he?”

“To be honest, sir, we aren’t sure who is on that bed, but whoever it is – well, yes, he’s dead. And we have no reason to think it’s anyone other than your friend.” Drumm paused. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” said Drumm. “Were you two close?”

“Colleagues, rather. Retired colleagues. Aside from this coffee get-together thing, we didn’t see each other much.”

Lori said, “It seems odd that you would call ahead and then pick him up. Why wouldn’t you just meet at the coffee shop?”

“Oh, we usually did that. But I was bringing over a leaf blower that Art wanted to borrow. His place is on the way, more or less.”

“A leaf blower?” Drumm asked. “Where is it then?”

“It’s in the trunk.” Garmand led the way to his car and opened the back of his car to show a Black and Decker cordless leaf blower. “All charged up, ready to go.”

Drumm nodded. “Mr. Garmand, Mr. Billinger’s wallet lists a Louisa Billinger as next of kin. Do you know who she is?”

“That would be his sister. He has her listed as next of kin?” Garmand looked surprised.

“Yes. Why? Is there something strange about that?”

“Well, no, I guess not. She
is
his sister. But she’s in a nursing home in California. She has dementia, I think. He didn’t talk about her much, only mentioned her a couple of times to me. But I know he told me she didn’t know who he was anymore. So I don’t think there would be much point contacting her.”

Drumm asked, “Is there any other family?”

“His parents were dead, I know that. And he was never married, not that I was aware of. Art rarely mentioned family to me.” Garmand suddenly looked uneasy. “Are you going to ask me to identify his body?”

Drumm looked at Singh quickly, then back to Garmand. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.” He paused. “We’ll want to talk to you again, Mr. Garmand, but that’ll do for now. I’m sure you’re pretty shaken up. We’ll be in touch.” Drumm gave Garmand his card. “If you think of any other family members, please get in touch with me.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s it,” said Garmand. The two detectives watched him get in his vehicle and drive away.

six

“You can’t meet me for lunch? Again?” Emily’s voice was chilly.

Drumm decided that the safest course was to ignore her tone. “No, I’m sorry, Em. Something has come up. A murder, actually.”

“Well, but can’t you sneak away for half an hour? You have to eat, don’t you?”

“I could probably do half an hour, yes, but it would be more than that. You know it would, with the driving and so forth.” Drumm was sitting in his car outside Billinger’s home. He was watching the activity around the house, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel, impatient to get back to the job at hand.

“Fine.” Emily was huffy now.

“Maybe we can do lunch tomorrow, Em. Things will have settled down a lot by then.”

“I’ve heard that before, Nicky.”

“I know, Emily, I know. I’m sorry this has happened.” Then he had an inspiration. “I was looking forward to hearing all about what’s new with your agency. And it’s time you gave me a tour.”

It worked. Emily was mollified. “You really want a tour? I can arrange that. When?”

“Em, let’s try for tomorrow. We’ll talk about it tonight. See you later.” And Drumm disconnected, wondering if he’d managed to fix things again for now.

He and Emily had an interesting relationship.
Interesting
was one way of putting it, he thought. They had lived together for almost a year and at times, it had been wonderful. He loved Emily’s passion, her sense of humor and her quick mind. The sex was great. But they argued, a lot, and the arguments became worse. She wanted him to give up being a detective, something he just couldn’t do. Eventually she left him and he’d had a hard time dealing with it. Just when he’d learned how to cope with her absence, she convinced him to get back together. She had changed, she said, received counselling, and she knew herself better. She accepted Drumm for what he was and she needed him.

So Drumm, despite his reservations and unable to help himself, allowed Emily back into his life. In the spring she moved back in with him, although as he’d told Mark Chappell, they hadn’t been seeing much of each other lately. But things between them were better than they had been before, although Emily still had the distressing habit of getting upset whenever his police work interfered with his personal life. Which it often did.

As happened frequently, Drumm wondered what to do about Emily. He had patched things up for now, again, but what was the likelihood of long-term success for their relationship? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to think about it now.

seven

Much later in the afternoon, a weary and somewhat shaky Detective Sergeant Drumm was back in his office. He was weary because of the hours spent looking over Billinger’s home and property, and the interviews conducted with his neighbours. It took time to canvass a neighbourhood, a lot of time, and even though Drumm and Singh had help, it was a tiring task to talk to so many people. And, none of them had seen or heard anything useful at all.

Drumm was shaky because he was diabetic, and in the hurly-burly of getting his investigation started, he had neglected to make sure he ate properly. He was a fortunate diabetic, he knew, because he could control his condition with careful monitoring and attention to his diet. But today he had done neither, and his blood sugar had plummeted. Drumm carried a glucose meter; just now, when he checked his level, the reading was 3.7. That was low and it accounted for his weakness and shakiness. His lips were a bit numb too, and that only happened when his blood sugar was seriously out of whack.

Munching on some cheese, followed up with crackers and a banana, Drumm wondered again if he should mention to someone with York Police Services about his condition. He loved being a detective and he didn’t want to give it up. Could he carry on in the Violent Crimes Unit with diabetes? He was afraid the answer would be “no”, so he continued to hide his situation and fret. Not even Emily knew about his disease.

Drumm was starting to feel better. He was able to focus more clearly on his notes. Not that there was much useful in them yet. Between him, Lori Singh and the uniformed officers, they had spoken to eighteen neighbours on Arthur Billinger’s street. Most knew the man, at least enough to say hello to, and some a little better than that. All were shocked to hear of his death, and some were openly fearful that they might be next. As far as noticing anyone approaching Billinger’s house, a strange vehicle on the street, noises or headlights in the night, nobody had seen or heard anything unusual.

Arthur Billinger’s phone records were checked and there had indeed been a call from Cameron Garmand the previous evening at 8:32 p.m. That was the unfortunate teacher’s last telephone conversation, as far as they could tell. Billinger only had a landline and no cellphone, at least none that they were able to find. So, sometime between 8:32 p.m. the previous night, and nine o’clock this morning, a person or persons unknown smashed in Arthur Billinger’s door, and then smashed in his head. And none of his neighbours had seen or heard anything suspicious.

Drumm rubbed his eyes and yawned. The other calls that Billinger had made and received would be checked, of course, but nothing appeared abnormal at this stage. The phone numbers were local and there weren’t many of them. Judging by his telephone records and his neighbours’ comments, Arthur Billinger had led a quiet life. He went to bed around eleven thirty or twelve most nights, it appeared; at least, that’s when his neighbours said his lights usually went off. He had been wearing blue pajamas.

Drumm looked again at the one interesting statement they had obtained. When asked if he knew of anyone who disliked Arthur Billinger or held a grudge against him, Richard Carlson, three houses over to the west had furrowed his brow and said, “You might want to speak to Mike Bailey. I don’t think he liked Art much.” Carlson was in his seventies, Drumm judged; he was a widower who lived alone. Questioned further, Carlson could only say that he had heard Bailey speak disparagingly of Arthur Billinger.

“What do you mean?” Lori Singh asked.

“Well, he and I spoke a few times about Art. Mike, I mean. Mike thought he was gay. He asked what I thought about having a “fucking queer” living on the street.” Carlson looked uncomfortable and then apologized. “Sorry, those were his words, not mine. I liked Art. Mike didn’t though.”

“Where does this Bailey live?” Drumm asked.

Carlson pointed to a brick house across the street. “That’s his place there, number 32. He won’t be home now, though. He works in construction.”

They all looked at the nondescript house with an untidy front yard. Then Lori Singh asked, “
Was
Arthur Billinger gay, Mr. Carlson?”

Carlson looked troubled. “I don’t know. Maybe. He lived alone and I never saw a woman going in there. But that doesn’t mean he was gay. Besides, who cares? Art was a good guy. I liked talking to him.”

And that was about all the useful information they were able to gather from the canvass. Maybe something would come of it. For now, Mike Bailey was their only suspect. Or maybe “person of interest” would be more accurate, Drumm thought. They hadn’t yet been able to track Mr. Bailey down and speak with him. Perhaps when they did, he would confess to a brutal murder and this case would end up being a slam-dunk. Somehow Drumm doubted that would happen.

eight

Lori Singh, cruising along in her pale green Toyota Prius, was humming to herself. She was having a good day. By rights she shouldn’t be, having viewed a horribly gruesome crime scene just that morning. And she felt sorry for Arthur Billinger, really she did. But it was such a nice day, and she was enjoying her job and the responsibilities she had been given. It was a good day to be alive.

She was coming back from a talk with Mike Bailey. She had tracked him to a new subdivision on the city’s west end where he was working on one of dozens of new homes. It was a typical new development, with houses in various stages of construction, piles of debris and gravel and heavy equipment everywhere. The streets, though paved, were caked with dirt and lined with tradesmen’s vehicles. Lori had found Mike Bailey’s white panel van parked in front of a partly-finished two-story home. His truck was dirty and had a magnetic sign stuck to the driver side door that announced, “Mike Bailey Drywall”.

Lori found their person of interest inside, in what looked like a family room. He was in the process of applying drywall compound when she identified herself and asked to talk to him.

“Sure,” Bailey said. “Just let me get the rest of this mud on? It’ll only take a couple of minutes. But I need to do it before it hardens. Okay?”

“Alright, Mr. Bailey. I’ll wait outside. But be quick, please.”

Bailey joined Lori at her car about ten minutes later; she was surveying the activity at the job site, leaning against her now dusty Prius and enjoying the afternoon sun on her face. Bailey was a tall, burly man with reddish-brown hair, cut short. Lori noticed specks of white stuck in it over his left ear. He was wearing well-used overalls and a dirty red lumberjack shirt underneath and he was sweating in the cool afternoon air. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about a murder, sir. One of your neighbors – Arthur Billinger.”

“A murder? Billinger? You mean he’s dead?”

Mike Bailey appeared to be genuinely surprised, Lori noted. His eyes had widened and he had stopped trying to get drywall mud off his hands. He stared at her.

“We think it’s him, yes, sir. He hasn’t been positively identified yet. But we’re pretty sure it’s him. And it looks like he was killed last night some time. We’re asking all the neighbors if they heard or saw anything suspicious last night. Did
you
?”

Bailey was shaking his head. “Last night? No…no, I don’t think so.” He paused. “What happened? You said he was murdered? Was he shot, then?”

“Now why would you say that? Did you hear gunshots?”

Bailey shook his head. “No, no gunshots, I just wondered how he was killed. You said murder – it was the first thing I thought of.”

“He was beaten to death, sir. With a blunt object.” She deliberately looked him up and down. “By a very strong man.”

Bailey was now staring hard at her and had moved closer. Lori noticed for the first time how intensely blue his eyes were. His body language had changed, too, she thought. The stillness of his posture and his unwavering gaze had changed him from a competent tradesman to a menacing figure. He was intimidating but Singh was determined not to let her unease show. She stared up at him in return, her arms crossed, and her almond-shaped eyes narrowed against the sun. She was going to appear relaxed, no matter what.

“You think I killed him! Why?”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Bailey. But you didn’t like him, did you?”

“No, I didn’t like him.” Bailey had relaxed a little but he was still holding himself erect and still. “He was a fag. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”

“You think he was gay, Mr. Bailey? Why?”

Bailey snorted. He had relaxed noticeably now and Lori was relieved, although still determined not to show her discomfort. “You could tell just looking at him, for God’s sake, the way he walked. And by that fairy way he talked too.”

“You talked to him often then?”

Bailey snorted again. “Not bloody likely! I don’t like queers.”

Lori asked, “Why don’t you like gay men, Mr. Bailey? Any particular reason?”

Bailey had stared at her like she was crazy. “They’re unnatural, that’s why. A man is supposed to be with a woman.” Then he was looking at her differently. “Preferably a pretty woman.” Now it was his turn to look her up and down. “Like you.”

Lori tried to ignore what he had said but she felt herself blushing. Damn it, she thought. “Were you home last night, Mr. Bailey?” she said, aloud.

“Depends what you mean by last night,” he said. “I was here until eight o’clock or so. Then I went home.”

“That’s a long day. I assume you start early in the morning.”

“I was here by seven, so yeah, it’s a long day. We don’t get paid by the hour, it’s by the house, and the faster I get a house done, the more I make. See?”

“Yes, I see,” said Lori. “And do you live alone?”

Bailey leered at her. “Yes, I do, but even though I work a lot, I can always make time for you.”

“Mr. Bailey, I am not all interested in you. Not. At. All.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “What I
am
interested in is finding out if anyone can vouch for your whereabouts last night. And I might find it amusing to get you down to the station right now and ask some more questions because you’re not cooperating. Lots of questions.” She smiled at him. “You might find it difficult to finish your house then, hmmm?”

Bailey scowled at her. “I’m cooperating! And no, nobody can vouch for me.” He thought for a few seconds. “Unless one of my nosy neighbours saw me come in. Ask them.”

“We’ll do that. And you can be sure we’ll want to talk to you again.” Lori moved around to the driver’s side of her car. “Thank you for your – cooperation.” And she had smiled sweetly at him, got into her car and drove away.

And here she was now, heading to a meeting with her boss and feeling pretty fine. It was nice to be admired, even if it was by a homophobe like Mike Bailey, and she was quietly pleased with the way she’d stood up to him, as physically imposing as he was.

It was good to be working with Drumm again, too. They’d gotten to know each other much better working on the recent murder of a local schoolteacher, and Lori felt comfortable with him. It was more than that, actually, if she were honest with herself. She admired him and was attracted to him, despite the difference in their ages. At thirty-one she was eighteen years his junior but what did that matter? He was good-looking, with that touch of grey at the temples and he was fit and trim for his age.

More than that, he was capable and efficient, kind to his colleagues, and understanding. Lori had basically told him off during the investigation of that last case, half expecting to be disciplined or reassigned, but he had thought about what she said and then come back to tell her he agreed with her. You had to love a boss like that. And there was that quirky habit of his of using the wrong word sometimes. Like, he would say “peculiar” when he meant “particular”. Malapropisms they were called, and his constant use of them and seeming ignorance of doing so was both disconcerting and appealing at the same time.

Lori had chafed under his use of her on that last case, feeling that her talents were not being utilized properly. So she was gratified that he had sent her to interview Mike Bailey alone. Six months ago she would have been with someone else, and most likely, reduced to the role of a second pair of ears and glorified secretary. This was much better.

Yes, things were looking up. Lori was still humming as she pulled into the station parking lot.