Dead of Knight (42 page)

“Yes, I performed CPR to the best of my ability until the EMTs arrived, but—it was too late.” Staal cleared his throat to cover the hitch in his voice.

Finally, Ross broke the silence. “Sergeant Gooch didn’t raise any concern about the lack of support at the time of entry?”

“Yes, she did,” Staal, answered. “I told her that I felt that Campbell was suicidal and that I didn’t want to lose him that way. She agreed and we made the entry.”

“Why did you think Campbell would kill himself?” McEwen asked.

“I peered in the front window before entry and saw him at the bed, praying. It just looked wrong to me. Later I found the beginning of a note that said, ’Good-bye.’” 

A full minute went by before McEwen spoke again. “Detective Staal, you are relieved of active duty pending an internal investigation.”

“You want my shield and weapon?” Staal asked.

“That won’t be necessary, Jack.” McEwen used a friendly tone. “You acted without support because you both believed it was crucial to making the arrest. I have no doubt of that. However, you broke protocol and that deviation lead to the death of an officer. It’s department policy to investigate such an incident. This case was of the highest urgency, Jack. We all felt the pressure to get this guy off the street.”

“I need to get off this island, Chief.”

“The Mounties will need to talk to you, Jack,” McEwen said.

“I need to visit Rachael’s mother and family. It should come from me.”

“That won’t be necessary, Jack,” Ross said. “Detective Hayes and I took care of that earlier.”

“What? Ah, shit, Ben! Mrs. Gooch deserved to hear it from me. Not fucking strangers.”

Staal walked to the Dreamcatcher. His mind was numb and he couldn’t name a body part that didn’t throb or sting. His shoulder ached where Campbell had slashed him with the poker and it was difficult to move his arm. Wilson Drummond met Staal out front of the gallery. Drummond had bags under his eyes and he looked like Staal felt; exhausted.

“Should be able to get DNA from the urine, and we got a print match on that painting,” Drummond said.

“Good. How are your people doing at the Harris House?”

“The MP FIS guys have it. Campbell’s prints are all over that place and we got a semen sample off the bed sheets.” Drummond smiled. Then he said, “Jack, why don’t you go home and get some rest? You got him and my team has this covered.”

“Yeah, I’ve had about all I can take of island life.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently Prichard wants a pow-wow with me.”

“You hear that?” Drummond said. “Chopper.”

“Yeah, probably Antoski’s team. Or more from Nanaimo.”

Drummond drove Staal to the detachment office and told Staal not to take any crap. Staal stood in the rear hallway of the building and watched the Team as they exited the helicopter. He saw Dionne, Berger-Johnson, Woolworth, and nodded to Degarmo and Nick Murdocco as they turned for a rental Ford.

After pleasantries were exchanged, Staal took a seat in a conference room opposite Staff-Sergeant Prichard, and Sergeants Freeman and Sheppard. Staal didn’t make eye contact and he let out a long sigh. The room held at least ten and Staal knew more Team members would join the group. He didn’t care how many came. He looked away and noticed a Stephanie Black painting of a pod of Orcas following a fishing trawler.

The RCMP has a long-standing tradition of success, of getting their man. Now the room was full of bruised egos and testosterone. 

“You ever hear of backup, Staal? Chin was right; you should have quit!” Berger-Johnson said as he took a seat.

“Harold Zimmerman give you directions, BJ?”

“Fuck you, Staal,” Berger-Johnson barked.

“You first, cheeseburger,” Staal said.

“Jack, that’s enough.” McEwen entered the room and took a seat next to Staal.

“Hey, Staal. Where’s your partner—the Pooch,” Corporal Chin said.

Staal stood and moved toward Chin as the corporal left his chair.

“Detective-Sergeant Rachael Gooch was killed in the line of duty today,” McEwen announced. The tone in the room changed in an instant as every face turned toward the deputy chief.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Prichard said. “Chin, take your seat.”

Staal stepped away from the RCMP side of the table and sat next to the chief. Berger-Johnson and Woolworth offered their condolences, but Staal ignored them.

Prichard
made a short speech about Rachael Gooch and then asked for an account of the Staal’s actions during the last twenty-four hours. Staal barely heard any of it. His body was in the room; but his mind was a hundred miles away. A Saturday evening at home with a good bottle of wine, a movie in the DVD and Gina in a pink and black teddy with that naughty grin she got after a couple glasses of Merlot.

“Detective, could you please tell us what happened after Berger-Johnson and Woolworth last saw you?”

“Yeah, sure.” Staal began the story from Charles Lipton’s call from Japan, and the visit to Mrs. Delleman, which lead them to the island. He finished with the Harris House entry and Gooch’s death.

“Why didn’t you call us when you obtained the info from Lipton or at least when you traveled here?” Donald Chin demanded when he was done.

Staal wanted to say that it was because he thought IHIT had become a bunch of arrogant pricks after the Zimmerman confession. “I didn’t realize it was my responsibility to keep you informed of my movements. Anyway, you people had Harold Zimmerman and wouldn’t listen to Sergeant Gooch when she tried to update you on my Campbell theory at the time.”

“Why did you not secure the area, and evacuate this,” Prichard glanced at his notes, “Harris House and wait for the Integrated team or members out of Nanaimo to arrive and take over?”

“I didn’t know how long it would take your people to get here.” Staal felt his temperature rise. “Plus the guy was strapped with thirty sticks of TNT. “What was I suppose to do, just watch as he drove away?”

“You’ve never heard of a surveillance tail, Staal?” Woolworth asked.

“At the time, the only vehicle at my disposal was a marked patrol cruiser.”

Two and a half hours later, he had described the longest day of his life more times than he could count. He told his story, retold it, and then wrote the events down before they video-taped him. He finally stood up.

“I’m done with this, gentlemen. I’m not a suspect here, and I’m getting a little fed up of being interrogated like one.” He turned away from the group. Donald Chin rose and moved toward him.

“Pack it in, Staal,” Chin whispered.

“What’s that, Donny?”

“You need to retire—quit, whatever. I’m tired of mopping up your shit.” Chin continued to speak in a hushed tone.

“You’re tired?” Staal said loud enough for the room to hear. “Chin, if you and your cowboy outfit had found Campbell instead of circle-jerking around that fuck Zimmerman—then...”

“Then what, Staal?” Chin was inches from him. 

Staal shook his head.

“Sit down, Corporal,” Pritchard ordered.

Staal turned from Chin and left the room, crossed through the office and stepped out into the night. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Jeffery Snow was getting into his pick-up, but when he noticed Staal, he walked toward him.

“Where are you staying tonight, Jack?” Snow asked.

“I dunno. I’ll find something, I guess. Can you recommend a place?”

“Yeah, my house. I have a spare room, and in the morning—my Judy makes a great breakfast.”

“It’s late, Jeff. I don’t want to wake up your wife.”

“That woman would sleep through an earthquake. Come on, Jack; I insist.”

Staal swung his weary frame into Snow’s Ford. The Corporal reminded Staal of his father, with his serious face and take-no-bullshit attitude.

“I appreciate this, Jeff. Feel like I could sleep for a week.” He ran his hand over his face and through his hair. Snow nodded. “Do you make it over to the mainland much?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a son, a daughter and five grand-kids all across Greater Vancouver. I try to get over as much as possible to see them.” 

“Well, if you feel up to it, next time you’re over—give me a call. We could grab a beer or a Lions game, my treat. Hey, I could drag my dad along. Travis is PD retired. You two could commiserate about retired life.”

“Sounds good, Jack.” He pulled the Ford into the driveway of a two-level Victorian.

The bed in the Snow spare room was comfortable and warm, and the blueberry bran muffin that Staal washed down with a shot of Scotch sat well in his stomach, but he didn’t fall asleep until almost four AM. When he woke, he smelled bacon, toast and fresh coffee, and heard voices in the kitchen. He had hoped to make the 6:35 A.M ferry, but it was already after seven.

He rolled off the mattress, attempted to sit upright, and gritted his teeth against the pain that seemed to inhabit every inch of his body. With his clothes on, he stepped into the hallway and hoped that he could remember where to find the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, rinsed his mouth with Scope, and wished that he had taken Jeff Snow up on his offer of a shower.

He remembered the conversation he’d had with the old-timer the night before, about the shooting in Stanley Park. About how it had affected him long after the event, crippled his confidence and occupied his dreams.

Snow shared a story from a time near the end of his career, about a group of teenagers who had killed themselves. A hose fitted to the exhaust pipe of a Chevy van and vented to an open window asphyxiated nine young people. It was the five-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s suicide. The incident haunted Snow for months, and eventually led to his retirement.

Staal followed the breakfast aroma, stood just outside the kitchen, and watched Mrs. Snow at the stove. His dilemma was how to enter the kitchen without scaring her out of her slippers. “Good morning, Mrs. Snow,” he said, and she jolted in surprise.

“Oh, hello, Detective. Please call me Judy.”

“Morning, Judy. Call me Jack.”

“Coffee, Detect...Jack?” She smiled. “Grab a seat. Breakfast will be up in a sec.”

“Yes, please, coffee would be great.” Staal took a seat at the kitchen table. He watched Judy and noticed that she looked exactly as a grandmother should. Her gray hair cut short, glasses dangling on a gold chain, pink apron over blue slacks and blouse.

The kitchen featured framed photos of children that Staal took to be Snow’s son, daughter, and grandchildren. The refrigerator was adorned with crayon artwork and more photographs. He thought of Brenda and the promise he had made to himself to spend more time with her. 

“How are you feeling, Jack? Jeffrey tells me you had a rough day yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m all right. A little banged up and sore.”

“I’m so sorry about your partner, Jack.”

“Thanks,” he said. He thought he should add something. “Rachael deserved better.”

Jeff Snow arrived at the table in time for a plate of hash-brown potatoes, fried eggs, bacon, and toast.

“This looks wonderful, Judy,” Staal said.

“Just what you need, Jack; a Judy Snow special,” Jeff said. “All those bullshit diets leave people feeling tired and hungry all day.”

“Jeffrey Arthur Snow! Watch your language.” Judy said with feigned anger.

“Well, it’s true,” Jeff said.  

After begging off a third helping of eggs and hash browns, Staal left the table feeling full. The stress and pressure of the case had already begun to lighten from his shoulders, replaced by the guilt he felt about Rachael’s death. His mind drifted to Rachael and her morning custom of a thick spread of cream cheese on a toasted bagel and a cup of tea.

Staal accepted Jeff Snow’s idea of catching a seaplane instead of riding a ferry, and thanked Judy for her hospitality and breakfast. He wished he could spend a week here to rest and relax, and maybe with his strength regained, he would be able to face the Gooch family.

“All right, Jack. You still should be able to catch the 8:50 plane,” Snow said. “It goes to Coal Harbor in downtown Vancouver.” He pulled the Ford near to the drop off area for walk-on passengers. 

“Thanks for everything, Jeff,” Staal said. He paused for a moment. “I meant it when I said to look me up if you’re on the mainland.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that, Jack.” Snow looked Staal in the eye. “You take care of yourself, Jack. If you need to talk to someone about anything, you have my number.” 

Staal purchased a one-way ticket for the nine o’clock flight. He paced around the waiting area for a few minutes, then stepped outside and stood at a railing. He stared across the airfield at the parked small aircraft, and fought off numerous thoughts of Rachel. He bought a vending machine coffee, and thought of calling Gina. He entered the numbers in his phone, but did not push send.

A steady vibration rolled across his seat as the plane pulled away from the loading ramp. He fastened his seatbelt and smiled at the young woman sitting next to him. The plane held eight passengers, but only four other people were on board. He noticed a newspaper in a sleeping man’s lap. He reached for the copy of
The Vancouver Sun
and saw the featured stories about the case. The headlines read,
Birthday Boy Caught
, and
Birthday Killer in Custody
, with smaller type adding, ‘
This Time For Sure
.’