A Striking Death (20 page)

sixty-four

Air Canada was doing a good job, thought Drumm. So far. He’d had other flights with them when things had gone badly wrong, his luggage had been lost and their staff had been unhelpful, but this trip so far had been smooth sailing. He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. There was no passenger beside him so he had plenty of room to stretch his legs.

His mind slowly relaxed and he found himself thinking about his previous visit to Timmins. He and Emily had done a driving tour of northern Ontario. They had stayed in Wawa and headed over to Chapleau where they toured its little museum. Timmins was their last stop and they stayed a couple of days, using the city as a base to explore the surrounding countryside. Mostly he found the area depressing; its trees and rock and gold mines did little for him.

Drumm smiled as he remembered the end of their stay in the city. They were hoping to see animals, bears especially, but were disappointed. On their last night, following the advice of a waitress in a restaurant, they drove to the city dump, located some miles south of town.

“Good place to see bears, especially in the evening,” their server said. “You can just drive in.”

So they headed to the dump and drove in through the gate and spent some time driving around the huge complex. They saw no bears, just a seedy-looking man rummaging through the mounds of trash.

Drumm had driven back to the entrance only to find the gate shut and locked. He thought the situation was rather humorous, but Emily was not amused.

“It’s getting dark, there are bears in the area and we’re stuck in a fucking dump!” To top it off, they had left their cell phones in the hotel for some reason he could no longer remember. Emily was claustrophobic and Drumm could see she was starting to panic. He tried to calm her down but she could hardly listen to him. She got out of the car, wriggled through a gap under the fence and went out on the road where a passing car stopped for her. Drumm joined her a minute later. They were driven back to the city where their driver, a friendly middle-aged man, flagged down a passing recycling truck. They got an ignominious ride back to their vehicle.

Drumm had been too embarrassed to reveal he was a York police officer. He contented himself with saying, “We live in York. Where, I want you to know, not everyone is as stupid as we are.”

The truck driver had unlocked the gate and then used his radio. They could hear his supervisor advising him to make sure the tourists were out and not to come back.

In his seat, Drumm opened his eyes and snorted with laughter. As if they would ever go near the Timmins garbage dump again. The woman across the aisle looked at him, startled. Drumm turned his laugh into a cough and stared out the window.

A short time later, his flight landed and he was able to switch on his cell phone. He saw that he had missed two calls from Lori. He waited until he was inside the terminal before he phoned her for an update.

“It’s almost certainly the same man,” Lori said.

“Any chance Kinsky will wake up?”

“It doesn’t look good,” said Lori. “But if he does, I’ll be right over there.”

“Better post a guard, too,” said Drumm. “We need to talk to Kinsky, if and when he wakes up. Even in a coma, he’s the best lead we’ve got.”

“You think the killer will go after him again?”

“Let’s make sure he can’t,” said Drumm. “And keep the story from the media. We don’t need any more bad press at the moment.”

“I’m thinking we should do the opposite,” said Lori. Her voice sounded tinny in Drumm’s ear. “Release it that Kinsky died. It would help protect him even more.”

Drumm had been walking while he was on the phone and he was now standing in front of the car rental counter. “Let me think about that, Lori. I’ll call you back.”

Sarah Smillie lived in what passed for downtown Timmins, in an older apartment building. She buzzed him up to her second floor unit and was waiting for him in her doorway when he exited the elevator.

“Come in, Detective. I’m dying to hear what this is about. You were mysterious on the phone.” Sarah Smillie was a young woman with long, blonde hair and a ready smile. Dressed in tight blue jeans and a bulky patterned sweater, she was tanned, fit and healthy. Everything a teacher should be, Drumm thought. He estimated her height at about five feet two.

He accepted her offer of a seat on a kitchen chair, declined a drink and studied Sarah Smillie. She had a friendly face, brilliant blue eyes and a wedding band on.

“Ms Smillie, are you still a teacher?”

She smiled at him. “Please, call me Sarah. No, I gave it up. And before you ask, it’s because I just couldn’t do it.” She laughed. “I’m a bit of a free spirit. And free spirits aren’t exactly welcome in the school system.”

There was certainly truth in that, thought Drumm. “But surely you could have adjusted? After all, you would be giving up a good salary, benefits, twelve weeks vacation…”

“Don’t remind me!” She laughed again. “Rob and I talked about all that, believe me.”

“Rob’s your husband?”

Sarah nodded. “He works for Hydro; he’s out on an emergency call just now. Rob was transferred up here nine years ago. It was good timing, because I had just reached the conclusion that teaching wasn’t for me. So I resigned and we moved up here.”

“You like Timmins?” Drumm couldn’t imagine living up here.

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t mind it. Rob likes it more – he hunts. And he’s a fisherman too.”

“And what do you do?”

“I have a small business I run.” She smiled. “It’s called Sarah’s Serendipity. It’s a combination of fitness training, meditation and personal coaching. It keeps me busy and out of trouble.”

“You enjoy that sort of thing?”

Sarah smiled brilliantly. “I love it! And it beats the hell out of staff meetings and standardized testing.”

Drumm could only agree with that. “Ms Smillie, like I said earlier, I wanted to talk to you about Arthur Billinger.”

Sarah’s face took on a sad expression. “I was upset when you told me about him. I grew to like him a lot. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

“He was beaten to death in his home.” Drumm gave her a few more details. “I’m here because I understand you two were friendly.”

Sarah stared at him. “Well, we were, but it was such a long time ago! Why on earth would you want to talk to me?”

Drumm said, “We’re following up every lead we can. To be honest with you, I still don’t have a very good sense of what Arthur Billinger was like.”

“But surely you’ve talked to his friends? And family?”

“He had no family to speak of. And his best friend is dead, too.” Drumm decided to leave Daniel Levine out of the conversation for now. “Billinger was gay. Did you know that?”

“Sure. What of it?”

Drumm ignored this. “I understand you two walked the picket line together when you were on strike. September, 2001, I think that was.”

Sarah was staring at him. “For God’s sake! Yes, we did. But how can that possibly be of any interest to you?”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, it seems like an odd match-up – a young, female and a much older, gay French teacher. How did you two come to be walking together?”

“You expect me to remember? I have no idea. It just happened.” Sarah stared off into the distance. “I wasn’t the most popular teacher in the school, that’s for sure. People weren’t lining up to be with me.” She smiled at the memory. “Art and I ended up together, somehow, that’s all I can tell you. We hit it off, though, and then we walked together most of the time.”

“What was he like?”

Sarah laughed. “We must have been a funny sight! He was so tall, and I am vertically challenged, as you can see.”

“You hit it off, you said. What did you talk about? I know it’s been ten years, but maybe you can recall a little bit?”

Sarah frowned. “Let’s see. It was so long ago!” She stared off into space, then back at Drumm. “I’m drawing a blank. But what possible good can it do to know what we were talking about?”

Drumm sighed. “Probably no good at all. But someone killed him, brutally killed him. Someone badly wanted him dead. I was hoping you might know who.”

“Me! How could
I
know?”

“Maybe Billinger said something to you while you were marching back and forth. People have hours to talk; they chat about all kinds of things.” Drumm looked carefully at her. “Think hard, please. Did he ever mention having a disagreement with anyone? Or talk about people he didn’t like?”

Sarah thought. “No, I don’t think so.”

Drumm persisted. “Did he mention anyone who disliked him? A principal, maybe, or another teacher? A student, perhaps?”

Sarah shook her head. “No. Well, let me correct that. If he did, I don’t remember.”

Drumm was feeling defeated. It had been a long shot but he’d still been hopeful. He shifted in his seat, ready to leave.

Sarah said, “I remember one thing we talked about. It was about extra-curricular stuff. It was one of the reasons I decided to give up teaching. There was pressure on all of us to do something after school, something extra for the kids. Like coach volleyball or whatever.” She smiled ruefully. “I wanted to run a meditation group. Help the kids discover their inner selves. I was told in no uncertain terms I couldn’t do it. And I believe I ranted to Art about it.”

“I see. So what did you do instead?”

Sarah laughed. “I helped with the girls’ basketball team. As useless a fifth wheel as you’ll ever see. All I knew about basketball was that the ball was round.”

Drumm smiled. “What about Billinger? What did he do?”

“Art?” Sarah thought for a few seconds. “He ran a homework club, I think.”

“A homework club? You mean he gave extra help to students before school?”

“Or after. Yeah, that’s what he did.” She frowned, remembering. “You know, there’s something…” She stared at him. “There’s something about that homework club. It’s funny how memories come back. Later on in the year, after the strike was over, I mean, and we were back at work, I heard something about Art. I’m just remembering that now.”

Drumm leaned forward. “Yes?”

“There were stories that maybe something…improper…had gone on during some of the homework club sessions. I’m trying to think…”

“What do you mean, improper?” But Drumm thought he knew already.

Sarah was frowning. “God, this is awful. It’s bringing it all back. Why I left teaching, I mean.” As Drumm was looking puzzled, she went on. “I can’t stand gossip. And the school was full of it; people standing around in the halls, talking in whispers. Stopping when I came along. It was a very cliquey school. I hated it.”

Drumm knew exactly what she meant. “You thought they were talking about you?”

“Sometimes they were, I’m sure. But I meant that I hated the fact that narrow-minded people gossiped so much. Not just about me.”

Drumm asked, “And there was gossip about Arthur Billinger and his homework club?”

Sarah’s forehead wrinkled as she thought. “I don’t remember anything specific. I just have this vague memory that maybe he had done something inappropriate.”

“Like touching?”

Sarah frowned. “Could be. Like I said, I can’t remember.”

Drumm persisted. “So, you say there were stories that Arthur Billinger had touched kids inappropriately. Surely the principal and the school district would have investigated?” Drumm was thinking back to his conversation with Ellen Clarke where she had sworn there had been nothing improper in Billinger’s relationships with his students.

Sarah looked uncomfortable. “No, I’m not saying that! It wasn’t anything official; it was just rumours and gossip. And I can’t even remember who or what was said. I’m sorry; I’m not much use, am I?”

“You’re being very helpful, Ms Smillie.” Drumm stood up. “One last thing: can you remember the names of any of the students who would have been in this homework club?”

Sarah stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding! They weren’t even my kids.”

Drumm wasn’t at all surprised. He thanked Sarah Smillie for her time and went thoughtfully back to his car. He looked up at the bleak sky and shivered. He would be glad to get out of here and back to York.

sixty-five

Drumm had been right, Lori thought. There had been many, many calls to the tip line, once the sketch of their suspect had gone out.

“I think I saw him at the grocery store this morning!” One excited woman had called that in. The store in question was in York’s east end. Mr. Muscles had also been spotted in the west, north and as far away as Hamilton. Lori sighed. Sometimes enlisting the media’s help was more trouble than it was worth.

Sue Oliver strolled over to Lori’s desk and pulled up a chair. The older woman sat back wearily in her seat. “I hope you’re making more progress than I am.”

Lori snorted. “I wish. This suspect has been seen everywhere from Vaughan to Vancouver. It all takes so much time.”

“Thought you’d like to know, we talked to the other two servers from Danny’s. They were a dead end.” Oliver leaned over and straightened a pile of folders on Lori’s desk. “Anything new on Kinsky?”

Lori shook her head. “He’s still in a coma. They say he may never wake up.”

“And you’re sure this Kinsky thing is connected to the two murders?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Lori sat back and reached behind her to undo her hair. It cascaded down to her shoulders. She shook her head, making the dark tresses swing about her face. “Oh, that feels better.”

“I’m envious. I wish I had hair like yours.” Oliver tugged on her ponytail ruefully.

“I don’t know, I think a bit of grey looks good. And long hair is such a pain.”

Oliver’s cell phone buzzed. She looked at it, grimaced and rose from her chair. “Gotta go. We’ll catch up later. Nick’s back soon?”

Lori nodded. “I expect to hear from him shortly.”

She turned back to the pile of folders. She pulled out the report from the hospital on McDonald’s injuries. Tear in femoral artery. Exsanguination. Blood alcohol concentration: 0.06%. Even though she knew she should be used to it, the impersonal nature of the report bothered her. She didn’t like Dick McDonald much but it was hard to read about him this way. She closed the folder and put it back in the pile. There was nothing surprising here. Dick had been stabbed and he had almost bled out. He was lucky to be alive. He wasn’t legally impaired but he shouldn’t have been drinking, and it was possible that the alcohol had slowed him down just enough. They would never know for sure.

And it didn’t matter now anyway.