The Dead List (21 page)

Just as Drake reached the door Veronica grabbed his arm. She’d moved down the corridor so quickly that he hadn’t noticed her. It was the second time that morning a woman had touched his arm. This time the receptionist’s fingers dug into his skin.

“Wait.”

He knew. He saw it in her face. Somehow he just knew. “No, please tell me no.”

“Another body has been found. It was called in a few minutes ago. I could barely understand the woman who called it in, but the man is dead. You need to get out there. Pringle radioed for you to join them stat.”

Drake and Veronica stood at the open door as Sergeant Thiessen screamed the words. “Do any of you know the population of this town? Do you?”

They watched as Thiessen paced back and forth, glaring around the room. He did not wait for an answer.

“Let me tell you how many people live here. The last census claimed we had five thousand, four hundred and twelve residents in our homey little town. But you know what, that number is incorrect. It’s wrong.”

All of the officers who were on shift, and even some who were in their civilian clothes, were seated in a semicircle facing the front of the room. They had a front row seat to Thiessen’s rage. Drake kept standing and staring. Veronica whispered to him that Pringle was en route to the scene with Myron and Adam. It had all happened so quickly. Drake had been left behind guarding Anton Van Dyke and his partner.

He walked into the room and stood behind the row of policemen. Sergeant Thiessen’s anger had intensified from earlier in the morning. Nothing was holding him back now. He was barely recognizable. His arms flapped at his sides as he paced back and forth, as though he were trying to become airborne. Banman fidgeted in his seat; Brandon Van Dyke stared straight at the sergeant with a confused look on his face.

Sophie Peterson raised her hand.

“Not now, Constable Peterson, I’m not finished.”

The sergeant locked his eyes on Drake. “Ah, good of you to join us, Drake. Sit. And where is your world-class squad of investigators this morning?”

“I assume that Investigator Ryberg is still in Vancouver. Pringle and Myron are at the scene.” He purposely didn’t address him by his rank. It didn’t matter now. The blood was on his hands. He’d fix the situation with or without his superior’s blessing.

Thiessen continued to yell. His voice echoed around the large, high-ceilinged room as he mocked Drake. “They’re at the scene; well that’s a good thing. They should be at the scene.” He turned back to his captive audience. “The reason we no longer have five thousand, four hundred and twelve residents is because they keep dying. As you all know, we lost a local car salesman recently, and now our little town where no murders have been committed in over seventeen years, and no two people have ever been killed in such quick succession, is home to another homicide. And wait, wait, there’s more. Two of the murder suspects broke into the home of the victim’s mother last night. Yes, the murderers,” he looked over at Drake, “broke into the murder victim’s home.” He looked down, catching his breath as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. Drake thought he was finished, but then the sergeant caught his wind again and stared back out at the group. “This is unacceptable. Un. Ac. Ceptable.”

Sophie Peterson raised her hand again. This time she didn’t wait for permission to speak. “Sir, MCU has requested that Drake and I assist. We’re supposed to meet the investigators at the scene.”

Thiessen looked as though he was about to cry. His face puffed up and became physically larger. He continued staring at Sophie, and then finally, he spoke. “Go then. Go. I want a full report whenever you’re back in house. A complete report – no matter what time of day or night – on my desk.”

Drake held the door open as Sophie Peterson marched toward him. They were almost away when the sergeant called again. “And Drake, I need you to specifically report on your findings. Do you understand me?”

For the second time that morning he let his mind wander into the past. If he still had his old identity, Hope’s population census would have to be revised one more time. He thought about how simple it would be to snap his sergeant’s arm behind him and slam his head against the wall. He forced himself to walk away and called over his shoulder. “Affirmative, yes.”

Thiessen’s retort was blocked out as the door closed behind them.

Drake drove. They pulled out of the station parking lot with the lights flashing and the long, monotonous sound of the siren wailing behind them.

Slowly he began to tune back in and realized there was another officer sitting beside him. “They requested both of us?”

“Why are you so surprised? You’re not the only golden officer in Hope.”

“Veronica didn’t tell me. She didn’t mention you.”

Sophie popped a piece of gum in her mouth and offered the package to Drake. “Spearmint; you sure you don’t want any?”

Traffic moved from the path of the patrol car as Drake navigated them out of town. There was rapid-fire communication on the radio. They listened, and from time to time Officer Peterson asked a question or answered a query. The building was secure with no suspect in sight. The Ident team, which still probably consisted of only Adam, was setting up. Ambulances were on scene. Drake tensed up and hoped Rempel would be on his days off. He’d had enough this morning. He wasn’t sure how many more times he’d be able to control himself.

In between communications, Sophie Peterson spoke. “Okay, no. There was no request. I just had to get away from Thiessen. I mean, who is he mad at – us? I don’t get it. Oh, look at this. It’s here already – early this year. The weatherman was right. He said it was coming.”

The sun was still bright and strong, but intermittent flakes of snow fell on the windshield. Drake turned on the wipers. He said the words automatically, without thinking. “It’s solid; it’s going to stick.” His second winter in Canada and he was already an expert.

The radio transmissions slowed, voices sputtering only sporadically now. He tried to reconcile his anger as he drove. The silence was good. The snow was good; it was calming him. His breathing came back to normal as they made their way up the old highway. He glanced over at Sophie as she chewed on her gum. It was her way of dealing with nerves; he could see that. She was a competent officer, one of the best they had, but she was ignored. He tried to remember whether she was part of Thiessen’s church associates. It didn’t matter. She wanted to be here; she wanted to find out who was murdering people in their town just like he did.

“I think Pringle may have told me to bring you along.” His eyes stayed on the road. “In fact, I’m pretty sure he did.”

Quietly, she thanked him, and kept staring out the side window. By the time they reached the entrance to the industrial park there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. They drove past the same businesses that he’d passed the day before until they reached the front of Trailco Office Trailers. Two ambulances sat outside, the rear doors of one wide open. The scene was taped off, and a uniformed officer was standing guard. After they changed into white, nondescript coveralls and put on gloves, the officer lifted the crime scene tape and let them walk toward the building.

As he opened the front door of the office, Drake thought once again about J.J. and the car parked outside Tony Hempsill’s house. “Sophie, I mean Constable Peterson, did you get a chance to check on that red car?”

“Yes, they took my number and said they’d have the salesperson who drives it give me a call. No problems, they bought into me being a customer.”

Drake waited, the doorknob still in his hand. Part of him wanted the answer, but part of him was stalling – not wanting to walk through the door and see what was waiting on the other side.

She looked at the small screen on her phone. “No calls. I haven’t heard yet. I’ll let you know as soon as they get back to me.”

He knew already. He knew who drove that car.

Myron was in one of the rear offices sitting beside Brenda, the receptionist whose neck Derek Rochfort had caressed. The woman was leaning forward, holding herself. She was telling Myron she felt like she was going to be sick. Officer Peterson headed toward them.

“Drake, in here,” Pringle called from the large office behind the counter.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with dead bodies; Northern Ireland had been famous for them. Some days it seemed like there was one on every corner. In the field, a dead body, unless it was one of your own, was sometimes just another dead body. You had no choice; you had to keep moving. But this wasn’t Ireland. This was Hope, the sleepy town where he was supposed to blend in, write traffic tickets, and break up the odd fight. Here the bodies meant more. They stayed with you.

Derek Rochfort was sitting behind his desk, wearing the same expression he’d worn when Ryberg and Drake interviewed him. He was reclined slightly in his seat as though he was quite comfortable, and both of his eyes were wide open. His hands were on his desk, palms down, and his attire was perfect – his tie knotted neatly at his neck, and the buttons done up on his jacket. The only difference was his cheeks. They were sunken, and had a pink, rosy tinge.

Rose was paired with another young woman, another paramedic. She was pulling off her gloves and standing over the dead man.

Pringle encouraged her. “Care to offer a guess?”

She looked around the room. “Medical examiner isn’t here yet?”

He shook his head. “Delivering two babies; he’s due here in ten minutes.”

When you see your second dead body within three days, there is no normal. Normal is something that happens to other people – not to policemen. Drake couldn’t stop looking at Rochfort. “He looks paralyzed. Is his body stiff?”

Rose put her hands on her hips while the other woman stood to one side. All four of them stared at the man in the chair. “There are no signs of physical distress or loss of blood that I can detect. It could be heart related.”

Pringle kept prodding her. “Or…”

She waited until her partner discreetly left the office, and spoke softly, almost whispering. “Or, it could be the same m.o. as the last fatality. There is some paralysis, and I don’t see any signs of heart failure unless he had a great shock. I don’t know though. The medical examiner will have to give you a more exact assessment.” Her mind seemed to wander. She looked at Drake as though she just noticed him. “How can this be happening here? In our town? I don’t get it.”

Pringle interrupted her. “So you think it is paralysis, possibly caused by poisoning?”

She regained her professionalism and tried to become impartial again, straightening up, but still speaking softly. “I can’t tell you whether he was poisoned. There’s definite rigidity of the joints, but if this happened some time ago it could be rigor mortis. Time of death is important.”

Myron, for once without his head buried in a notebook, was behind them. Drake and Rose jumped when he spoke; Pringle remained still as though he’d known he was there all along.

“The woman, his office manager, claims he was always in the office early – every day. So I called the alarm company to find out when it was shut off this morning. The office manager and the deceased have different alarm codes. The code that shut it down was indeed Derek Rochfort’s.” He looked at his notepad. “At five thirty-five a.m.”

Drake would have been listening to recordings of the interviews at that time.

“The woman who found him got here at eight-thirty a.m. precisely; she also arrived at the same time every morning.”

Between the time when he was poring over the recordings and his chat with Mrs. Parker, the man had a visitor. He had almost come out to visit Rochfort instead of going to the car dealership. He might have been able to save him. He looked around the scene, thinking about the food that Robinson had eaten before he died. There were papers sitting in Rochfort’s inbox and a single pen lying on his desk pad. The office was immaculate. Nothing seemed to be out of place.

Adam stood impatiently at the office door. It was becoming crowded in the little room. With some difficulty Drake forced himself to stop looking at the dead man.

Adam dusted Rochfort’s body with a small brush while another officer followed behind him. The new man shone a flashlight under the desk, looking for any signs of a disturbance on the dust on the floor. Drake stared at the family pictures on the shelf behind Rochfort’s desk.
This is what happens. Someone kills us and two hours later we’re dusted with a brush.

There was no doubt that Pringle was in charge. This was his chance. He seemed to be monitoring everyone in Ryberg’s absence. He nodded toward the man with the magnifying glass. “Adam has an assistant now.”

Drake acknowledged the man while trying not to look at Derek Rochfort. “That was fast.”

Adam glanced up at Pringle and then spoke slowly and carefully as though he didn’t want to offend the big man. “He was assigned here for the break-in at the woman’s house, but he has been reprioritized.”

Pringle nodded. He had a ledger in his hands. He waved it in the air, motioning Drake out of the office.

Once they were in the reception area he held the ledger open and spoke quietly. “This is his appointment book. I found it on the front counter. Look at whose initials are here from yesterday.”

“T.M.”

“It could be Trevor Middleton – the hairdresser. He’s the missing man from the names on your list.”

The list was relevant again.

“When were Anton Van Dyke and his partner picked up?”

Pringle answered immediately, understanding the connection. “Your sergeant – Thiessen – had a patrol officer at their door immediately after he was called about the break-in. The times don’t add up. They would have had to fly to get here and then back to their place. They didn’t kill Rochfort.”

Sophie Peterson had one hand on her mobile phone and the other holding on to the back of the woman who found the body.

Pringle looked over the tops of all the officers as they worked and then turned to Drake. “I have a unit picking up Trevor Middleton. We’ll question him when we get back to the station. I also sent a car to Chilliwack Lake to pick up Frank Wilson, and another to pick up Monica Brown, the waitress. You didn’t bring in Parker this morning?”