An Indecent Death (5 page)

“Sweaty, though.” Karl grimaced.

“Sweaty?” asked Drumm.

Lori glanced at Karl and then smiled. “Shaughnessy is a rather large man, and he seems to have a bit of a ….perspiration problem.”

Drumm snorted. “Really? I’ll keep my distance then. How did he react when you told him she was dead?”

“He was shocked,” said Lori. “And surprised. But he certainly recovered fast enough. He looks like he’s pretty steady. I suppose a principal has to be.” This last statement was almost a question. “What did you think, Karl?”

Wesson smiled. “I think Mr. James ‘call me Jim’ Shaughnessy likely knows more about his staff’s personal life than he is letting on.”

Drumm thought Wesson was probably right. “A good principal always has his ear to the ground. The teachers may not talk to him but the secretary would, or the custodians. No, I think you’re right, Karl – he likely has more he can tell us.”

Karl said, “Another thing. If we’re done with the school for now, I’d like to mention Douglas Madsen.”

“Who’s he again?” asked Drumm.

“Madsen is Terry Noonan’s boss. He’s the operations manager at Hobbes Transport. When I spoke to him this morning, he admitted knowing the victim and he seemed agitated. He didn’t want to talk about it and he was anxious to get away. So I ran a check on him. He’s worked for the company for twelve years, and they’re happy with him. He has a clean record, no arrests, just a few traffic citations. Unofficially, talking on the phone with a couple of drivers – that’s all I had time to speak to – he was rumoured to have been involved with Sarah Noonan. Nothing definite, just gossip.”

Drumm leaned forward. “What did they mean, involved? Sexually?”

Karl smiled. “Yup, sexually. To put it indelicately, and to quote one of the other drivers, he and Sarah Noonan were going at it like a pair of rabbits in back of one of the trucks.”

Drumm said, “Did this guy actually see them, then?”

“No, he didn’t,” Karl replied. “He got it from another driver, a Mr. Jack Melanson. Mr. Melanson has since moved on to other employment.”

Drumm said, “That’s interesting, isn’t it? Most interesting. And then there’s this.” He told the other two detectives what had been discovered at Sarah Noonan’s apartment. There had been no wine bottle in the dumpster at the bottom of the garbage chute, and the garbage hadn’t been picked up since her estimated time of death. None of her neighbours had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, none of them had heard a visitor knocking on the victim’s door. Sarah Noonan’s car was sitting in her spot in the parking garage, and the keys to the vehicle were hanging in her entrance hall.

“So, if she was killed in her apartment, there’s nothing to prove it, except maybe a missing wine bottle?” Karl asked.

“That’s about the size of it,” Drumm agreed. He sat back and drained his beer. The others had finished as well. “Right,” he said. “Tomorrow, Karl, you and I will have a go at Mr. Terrence Noonan. Lori, I want you to speak to Lynnette Cranston again. She might feel more comfortable talking to a woman by herself. And we’ll go from there.”

Home for Drumm meant a little two-bedroom house in an outlying suburb. When he and Emily were together, it was just the right size for two people and a dog. With Emily gone, Drumm sometimes found it too big and lonely but he was getting used to being by himself. Having a Sheltie around certainly helped and it was pleasing to have Will waiting for him when he got home. The dog wasn’t a tail-wagger but he made it clear he was anticipating Drumm’s arrival and wanted some attention. Some ear-scratching and a friendly boxing match took care of that, followed by some kibble and salad. Will loved his salad. If truth be told, Will loved eating everything. Except celery, that is. The dog wouldn’t touch it.

Drumm made himself a quick dinner of pork chops, rice and some mixed vegetables; he used a home-made marinade of beer and a touch of garlic on the meat to bring out the flavour. He wasn’t a gourmet by any means, and he certainly wasn’t a chef. In fact, he ate mostly for fuel, often not caring what went down his throat. He knew what he liked and what he didn’t like; the problem was he often couldn’t be bothered to cook properly for just one person.

And then, before he sat down to eat, and with some nervousness, Drumm measured his blood sugar level. He had purchased a blood glucose meter a few months ago. He’d started to have some strange, new health problems, like getting headaches and feeling hot at odd times. Or he would feel faint and need to get some food into him. Eventually it dawned on him that he might be diabetic. The problem was, that as a police officer, he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be diabetic. It might mean a transfer out of the Violent Crimes Unit, or worse. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could even ask about because if word got out… So he did his research, purchased a meter and started testing his blood sugar level daily, and sometimes three or four times a day. Usually his level was between six and seven, which according to his understanding of the situation, meant that he was pre-diabetic. Except that there was no such thing as being pre-diabetic. You either had the disease or you didn’t. And he was pretty sure that he did. Whatever you called it, his condition could be controlled strictly through diet. He just had to be careful, eat at regular times and watch his carbohydrate intake. He could do that, he thought, and nobody need know. Just now it measured 6.0 and that was good.

After dinner, Drumm took Will for a walk around the block. If he had time, he stretched this walk into half an hour or forty-five minutes or even more. When he was on a case, as he was now, it tended to be shorter rather than longer. But no matter what his other commitments, Drumm always made sure that Will got his exercise. Ideally, a Shetland Sheepdog should be working for many hours every day. Drumm would dearly love to get a couple of sheep for his back yard so that Will could do some actual herding. Unfortunately, municipal bylaws wouldn’t allow it.

Back home, Drumm made the call, the one that had been in the back of his mind all day: Emily. And after all his planning as to what he would say, she wasn’t in. So he left a message, agreeing to getting together for coffee or lunch. The ball was back in her court, the next step up to her.

Drumm poured himself a Corona and sat down for an evening of baseball, Will’s head in his lap. The dog was content but the detective fell asleep in his chair, thinking about wine bottles and truck drivers and teachers.

Karl rose early, not because he was so keen to get going with his day but because he felt so rotten. He’d been up late, again, and he was paying the price this morning. The situation was starting to get the better of him and while he was aware of it, he couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

Showering and soaping his thinning hair, Karl was trying to remain calm. He was still alright. At age thirty-eight, he was in good shape, both physically and financially. Standing six foot two and one hundred ninety pounds, he was an imposing man. But he needed to get back to his morning runs and his workouts at the local military base, where he was accustomed to exercise three times a week. Karl was a civilian, of course, not military, but members of the public were allowed to use the base facilities, which were superior to those offered by the local fitness clubs. It was worth the extra drive, but he hadn’t been there for weeks. Financially he had been doing well. He owned his own home, had a retirement savings plan and drove a leased Honda Acura. He was putting all that in jeopardy, though, with what he was doing, and he knew it. He was going to stop. Soon.

Karl’s routine was to shave after his shower. Lathering up his face, he started thinking about what he could do. If he was quick, he could squeeze in a session before work and then, if things went well…

He looked himself over carefully in the mirror, wiping off the last of the shaving cream. Blue eyes, good skin, square jaw, pretty good six-pack, muscular arms – this was all good. He wished he didn’t have that mole there on his cheek, and his hair… damn, that pissed him off. It had started going in his early thirties and no matter what he did, his hairline kept going up and up. Pretty soon he’d look like a cue ball. How many women found that sexy?

Time to get a move on. He was going to stop what he was doing, he promised himself, but not just yet. No, not just yet. Karl started to get dressed.

Long hair consumed so much time – maybe she should cut it short? Lori Singh’s morning routine was well under way. She liked the look of her hair. Dark and shiny, it hung appealingly down to her shoulders. The problem was it took so long to wash and dry it. No wonder so many female police officers had short hair. Fortunately, on work days she was able to put it up into a bun, even though it was still wet. Lori sighed. For now she’d keep it long because she knew she looked better that way, but one day it would get to be too much effort and off it would go. She continued to examine herself critically in the mirror.

Counting in her head, Lori calculated that this was the third time that she had worked with Drumm, but the first murder. On the first two cases, she had only been marginally involved. She had spoken to him a few times, that was all, certainly not much to go on. There were plenty of rumours about Drumm at the station, of course, and lots of stories also, as was true of every detective. There was gossip that his girlfriend had left him and that he was taking it hard, but Lori saw no sign of that. There were numerous funny examples of his using the wrong word. She had looked it up: malapropisms they were called. But no one said he didn’t get the job done or he was lazy. Drumm was respected by his peers as a good investigator.

As she often did, Lori wondered what her colleagues thought about her. She knew it was a sign of insecurity to speculate about it but she was determined to fit in and do well. All her life she’d had difficulty working in a team. It wasn’t that she was argumentative or bossy or a poor listener or anything like that. She’d always excelled in school; learning came easily to her and it wasn’t hard for her to get top marks. She discovered, though, that others saw her as a know-it-all and a show-off. It took her years to realize that this was jealousy and envy on their part but by then she had become quiet and introverted. She even went through a stage where she tried to hide her abilities in order to fit in, and deliberately done badly on assignments. She laughed to herself. What a stupid idea!

She tried to walk a fine line at work. She wanted to be known as a skilled, reliable and effective detective, yes, but she was not going to come across as a brash smartass, someone with all the answers. Quite often when working on a case she could see the right way to proceed before the others could, but she was still learning how best to put forward her ideas in the right way, without offense. And sometimes, she discovered, it was best to say nothing at all, and let someone else take the lead.

An image of Karl Wesson popped into her head suddenly. She quite liked him even if he did have a tendency to take her for granted. Karl had been on the force much longer than her and she knew he was well-respected. It wouldn’t be bad at all if she could model her style on his. Although, Karl seemed not quite himself lately, and she wondered if something was bothering him. She knew that he was concerned about going bald, that was obvious. What a ridiculous thing for a man to worry about, she thought. But surely that wasn’t what was wrong with him now. It must be something else. Lori gave it up and hurried to get dressed for her work day.

The interview room at the station was a good size but when a large man like Terry Noonan filled it, it seemed smaller. He was seated behind the table with a can of Coke in front of him. Noonan was wearing the same grubby jeans and black jacket as the day before.

“Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm, Mr. Noonan,” Drumm introduced himself. “And you know Detective Wesson here. Thanks for coming in.”

“No problem.”

“And thank you for identifying your wife yesterday,” Drumm went on. “I know it must have been a hard thing to do. Now, when was the last time you saw her alive?”

Terry Noonan paused for a moment. “About a week ago, I guess. I met her after school one day last week.”

“Why?” asked Drumm.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re separated, aren’t you? Why would you get together with her?” Drumm was watching him steadily. Karl Wesson had a notebook and pen out, ready to take notes.

“Well, we get along. We’re separated, yes, but we still talk. It’s not like we hate each other.”

“So, what was the meeting about? You have no children, so you weren’t discussing custody issues. What did you talk about?”

Noonan settled back a little in his chair. “I just met her in her classroom, Tuesday, I think it was. I was trying to get her to end the separation, if you have to know. I want – wanted – us to get back together.”

Drumm asked, “And how did she react to that?”

“She would hardly listen to me! Said she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She was pissed that I’d come to the school.”

“Had you done that before?”

“Yeah, once or twice. I wasn’t supposed to but we’re married, for Chrissakes. I should be allowed to talk to my own wife. The principal didn’t like it though.”

“Jim Shaughnessy asked you not to?” Drumm asked.

“Not me, no. He told Sarah she shouldn’t be having personal conversations in the school. He heard us once before, I guess, and he didn’t like it.”

“Where were you Friday evening?” Drumm asked, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

Terry Noonan was looking hard at Drumm. His neck was beginning to redden. “You think I killed her?”

Karl Wesson spoke for the first time. “It’s a question we have to ask, Mr. Noonan. Your wife is dead and we need to figure out who did it. We need to ask a lot of questions of a lot of people. Now, where were you?”

“I was home, watching the baseball game. Twins won it, 3-2.”

“Anyone with you?” Drumm asked.

“No.” Noonan’s voice was low.

“What?” Drumm hadn’t heard his answer.

“I said ‘no’!” His voice was loud. “And I know how it looks!”

Drumm contemplated his suspect. “Have you got a temper problem, Mr. Noonan?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Noonan demanded.

“Detective Wesson?”

Karl read from his notebook. “Nine years ago, assault and battery. Man named Eric Pittman. You broke his nose and two ribs. Beat the shit out of him actually. You did six months for it.”

Noonan flushed. “Bastard deserved it. He was drunk and looking for a fight. He got one. That was nine years ago! I did my six months and I’ve done nothing since!”

Drumm continued. “I repeat, do you have a temper problem, Mr. Noonan? Anger management issues?”

“I do not have anger management issues!”

“Detective Wesson?”

Noonan’s head swiveled to look at the other detective as Karl once again read out from his notes. “A year and a half ago, in November, Sarah Noonan called 9-1-1 and said her husband was assaulting her.” Karl looked at him. “That would be you, Mr. Noonan. She had bruises on her arm. You were drunk.”

Noonan started to speak.

Karl interrupted him. “And three months after that, your wife called 9-1-1 again. That time she said you had hit her in the face and thrown her around.”

Noonan looked down at the table, then up at Wesson and Drumm. They were staring at him unwaveringly. “I’m not proud of what I did, okay? I was drinking too much and she pissed me off something fierce. So, yes, I hit her and I grabbed her and I may have pushed her too. I can’t remember too much about it now.”

Drumm asked, “And what did she do that got you ‘pissed off something fierce’?”

“She wouldn’t let me touch her! She’s so effing hot and she wouldn’t let me near her! A man’s gotta right to enjoy his own wife, doesn’t he?”

Karl said, “Not by assaulting her. No, he doesn’t.”

“She never filed charges! We got over it and moved on. We loved each other.”

“Until she left you, isn’t that right, Noonan? Until you hit her again and she finally had the sense to get out before you killed her.” Drumm was speaking in a tight, controlled voice. In fact, he was angry. Creeps like Terry Noonan who beat up their wives offended him. He’d met too many of them.

Noonan said, “So that’s what you think? You think I killed her? Am I under arrest? If not, I’m getting out of here. I’ve had enough of this!”

“Just a few more questions, Mr. Noonan, if you please,” said Karl.

“No! No more questions. Either charge me or let me leave!” Neither detective said anything. “That’s what I thought.” And Terry Noonan stood up, pushed his chair back and angrily left the interview room.

Drumm looked at Karl. He sighed. “That went well, didn’t it? It’s always nice to spar with a wife-beater.”