A Striking Death (22 page)

On their way out of Donlands, Drumm said, “It’s a good thing you were with me. You brought out the best in him. You have a knack for making a suspect feel comfortable.”

“Thanks. But you would have got the same information.”

“No, I don’t think I would. You’re being too moderate.”

Lori laughed. They were in the parking lot, standing beside Drumm’s car. “Thanks again. Nobody’s ever called me that before!”

sixty-nine

“Do you still have your high school yearbooks?” Lori asked.

She and Drumm were sitting in Parabola, a small self-serve café located close to Donlands. She had insisted that they stop for a meal, even though Drumm wanted to grab some take-out and rush over to Prince Albert school as fast as possible. Thirty extra minutes would make no difference, she argued.

“God, no,” said Drumm. He took a sip of coffee. “Do you?”

“No. I’m not sure what happened to them.” She shuddered. “Who’d want to remember high school, anyway?”

“We could go back and ask Mr. Wilson if he has any public school yearbooks from Prince Albert,” said Drumm. “I forgot to ask him that.”

“Somehow I doubt he has any,” said Lori. “I think your other idea is better. But how many elementary schools produce yearbooks anyway?”

“We’re about to find out,” said Drumm. “I think we have a good chance, though. The school I taught at had one every year, as I recall.”

Drumm finished his coffee, waited for Lori to finish her soda water and then rose, leaving half of his club sandwich on the plate. “I don’t know how you can live on just a salad,” he said, as Lori stood up.

She put on her coat and said, “I have to watch what I eat. Especially when we’re on a case. I don’t have the time to get my workouts in like I should.” She led the way out of the café. “Come on, let’s go back to school.”

Prince Albert Senior Public School was one of the older schools in the city. It was a two-story, red brick building with a strip mall on one side and an arena on the other. There wasn’t a lot of grass to be seen around it, unlike most public schools in York; this building was surrounded by asphalt and concrete.

Like most secretaries Drumm had ever met, Mrs. Abel was middle-aged, friendly and efficient. She listened to Drumm’s explanation and took them right into the principal’s office.

“You want to see our old yearbooks? We must have them somewhere.” The principal was sitting behind her desk, thinking. Lenore Santangelo was her name, and she was tall and thin, likely in her fifties, with short greying hair and a rather horsy face.

Drumm relaxed in his chair and glanced at Lori. “I was hoping you would have them. How far back do you think they go?”

“Oh, forever, I should think. What’s this about, though?”

Lori answered. “It’s a murder investigation, Mrs. Santangelo. And we’re in a hurry. Please show us where they are.”

The principal took a key ring from her purse and stood up. “Yes, certainly. I’m not sure where they might be, but Mrs. Gregson will know. She puts the yearbook together every year. Come with me, please.”

They followed the principal down a hallway to what was clearly a junior classroom, with rows of hooks laden with coats, and footwear neatly arranged under wooden benches. On the wall by the door was a bright pink sign that read, “Mrs. N. Gregson, Grade Six.”

The principal knocked on the door, opened it and went in. The two detectives waited impatiently outside; they could see clusters of desks with older students busy at some craft. Most of the pupils were so engaged in the activity that they didn’t even notice the interruption. Mrs. Santangelo was back out in a minute with a smile on her face.

“Got them. They’re in a storeroom. Follow me again, please.” She led the way down another hallway and they found themselves at a door behind the gymnasium. Mrs. Santangelo unlocked the door, entered and turned on the light.

“Geez, what a mess!” Drumm exclaimed. The room was stacked, floor to ceiling, with boxes, old desks, AV equipment, chairs and all the miscellaneous stuff that a school accumulated. There were shelves along two sides, all crammed with boxes and stacks of paper.

“This used to be a shower room,” the principal said. “It’s just storage now, as you can see.” She moved decisively to the left. “Nancy said they were in some boxes over here. And there they are.” She pointed at a number of cardboard boxes, all clearly labelled, “Yearbooks”. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”

“Yes, thanks,” said Lori, who was already moving towards the boxes.

Mrs. Santangelo excused herself and Drumm retrieved two chairs from a nearby pile, dusted them off and set them down in front of the boxes.

“2001-2002, correct?” asked Lori. She’d already emptied one box and was starting on another.

“That’s it.” Drumm took another box and started rummaging through it. “Would have been nice if the boxes were labelled with the years.”

“Got it,” said Lori. She was holding a slim blue volume with a cardboard cover. The Prince Albert Victorian, 2001-2002, it was labelled. “Oh, cute. But it’s pretty flimsy, isn’t it?” She started paging through the book.

Drumm moved his chair so he could see as well. “Public schools usually just photocopy the pages, and use construction paper for the covers. Or something similar. The photos will be crappy as well.”

“Let’s hope the clubs will be in here,” Lori said.

“They will be.” Drumm was positive. “Let’s hope they’re labelled.”

Lori continued to turn the pages. There were numerous examples of student writing and then they came to the class photos.

“Which class would Billinger be with?”

“He won’t be,” said Drumm. “He was a French teacher, on rotary. He had no homeroom. But he’ll be in the staff photo.”

The staff picture was the last one and they gazed at it, trying to find Arthur Billinger in the grainy photo.

“Him?” Lori was pointing at a tall man in the last row,

“I’d say so, yes. He looks a bit like Vincent Price. Keep going.”

“Who?” Lori turned another page and came to one marked, “Teams and Clubs.”

“Never mind. Ah.” Drumm was almost purring in satisfaction. The club and team photos were labelled.

“It’s not here,” Lori said.

“No, dammit,” said Drumm. “I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Who wants a picture of themselves admitting they need extra help? Especially in eighth grade. Let’s look back at the class photos.”

Lori leafed through the yearbook until she came to the eighth-grade photos. In 2001-2002, Prince Albert had been a grade 5-8 school; there were three eighth-grade classes. All the photos had the student names underneath.

“Here he is,” said Lori. “Matt Wilson. Mrs. Higgins was the teacher.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I don’t recognize him at all. And…?”

“They’re all here. Sara Liccio, Tim Arnio, David Bowness, John Forrest, Kyle Mollett.” Lori looked at Drumm. “Not Ken or Kevin, Kyle.”

Drumm took the yearbook and looked at it closely. “Geez, these pictures are terrible. You can hardly make out faces at all.” He scanned the list of names. “I don’t see any other Tim or Sara or John or another K boy.”

“None of those guys look like the sketch, Nick.”

Drumm closed the book and stood up. “No, they don’t. But we’ve got what we need.” He waved the yearbook back and forth. “We’ll bring this along.”

Drumm and Singh left the storeroom and went out into the hall which was now full of noisy students banging lockers and talking loudly.

“Ow,” said Lori, covering her ears. “How did you ever stand it?”

“I didn’t,” said Drumm. “It’s why I became a cop. Come on, let’s go get this guy.”

seventy

Their two phones buzzed almost simultaneously as Drumm was pulling into the Police Services parking lot. Lori checked hers first.

“Kinsky’s dead.” She looked somber.

“Great.” Drumm got out of the car. “A hospital visit and another death. Can this day get any better?” He looked up at the sky, where dark clouds were hiding most of the light. “At least it isn’t raining hard.”

“Or snowing,” said Lori.

Back in the Violent Crimes Unit, they were stopped by Detective Morgan, whose face was even redder than usual. “Did you hear? Kinsky didn’t make it.”

Drumm nodded. “So now we have a triple murderer. Does Chappell know?”

Morgan nodded. “I’d try to stay out of his way if I were you.” He punched Drumm lightly on the shoulder and moved away.

Lori was already at her desk. Drumm found a forensics report on the Kinsky attack waiting for him in his office. He scanned it quickly. Nothing had been found in the alley. No unknown hairs or anything else found on Kinsky’s clothes. Blood alcohol level of 0.12. Kinsky shouldn’t have been driving that night, obviously. Drumm threw the report down. Useless, and it would have to be updated now anyway. An autopsy would have to be done, to find out the exact cause of death. Not that there was much doubt. Death by brutal assault.

Lori came into his office. On his desk, one by one, she put down five photocopies of MTO driver’s license photos, and the artist’s sketch. “John Forrest, Tim Arnio, Kyle Mollett, David Bowness, and just for fun, Sara Liccio.”

Drumm bent over and studied them. “Him.” He stabbed his finger at one of the photos.

Lori nodded. “I agree.”

“Thank God we don’t have to call him Mr. Muscles anymore,” he said. “John Forrest is much better.”

“Wojtek and Buleman did a good job,” said Lori. “They got him pretty closely, didn’t they?”

Drumm had picked up the photocopy. “So, he’s twenty-three. Five foot four, one hundred sixty-three centimetres. Geez, that’s short, isn’t it? How many guys do we ever come across who are that little? I wonder what this prick’s shoe size is.”

“I’ll find out. And everything else too.” Lori turned and left Drumm’s office.

Drumm sat and thought, pondering. They now had a name and an address. Lori would be back soon with his life story, his job, marital status, passport number, financial situation and everything else about Mr. John Forrest. Johnnie, Matt Wilson’s friend from grade eight. Arthur Billinger’s pupil. Likely triple murderer.

He would need to tell Chappell, of course. And then they would pick Forrest up. There should be no problem with that. An arrest warrant would come later.

Drumm stood up and went out to Lori’s desk. “I’m going to see the Staff Inspector,” he said. “And I hope to God he sees it as we do.”

Drumm found Chappell on the phone in his office. The Staff Inspector waved him to a seat while he concluded his conversation.

Chappell hung up. “You heard about Kinsky?”

Drumm nodded. “Yes. Very unfortunate. I gather he didn’t wake up and make any statement at all.”

Chappell said, “No, he didn’t. Sit down. Please tell me you have some good news.”

Drumm smiled and sat. “I think I do.” He explained about the yearbook search and the identification of John Forrest. “This is our man, I’m sure of it.” He folded his arms and stared at his boss.

“Finally,” said Chappell. “Have we got enough for an arrest warrant?”

“I’m not sure. We can link him to Danny’s on the night Kinsky was there. He matches the description of the man in the corner that the waitress saw.”

“She wasn’t definite, was she?” Chappell was sceptical.

“No, she wasn’t,” said Drumm. “But we also have him at Danny’s watching Billinger and Levine. The bartender was definite about that. Buleman gave a good description of him and this Forrest matches it.”

“It’s not enough,” said Chappell. “We won’t be able to find a judge to issue an arrest warrant.” He held up a hand as he could see Drumm was about to protest. “There’s no way. But you’ve got plenty enough to pick him up for questioning. Reasonable grounds, for sure.”

“Alright,” said Drumm. “Lori’s running him right now, seeing what else we can find. I’ll let you know if anything interesting turns up.” He stood up. “I’m going to take Lori and a couple of patrol cars. Morgan and Oliver, too, if that’s alright.”

“Bring him in, Nick. And be careful. If it is him, he’s already killed three times, at least. I don’t want any more foul-ups, especially after what happened to McDonald.”

seventy-one

John Forrest was single and lived in a small bungalow on Beech Street. Lori had used Google StreetView to see that his was the fourth house along on the north side on an otherwise unremarkable road. She noted that there was an alley running behind the street, likely for garbage collection.

Forrest had no record with the police that she could find, not so much as a parking ticket. He was employed as a loans officer at the Toronto Dominion Bank. She had found nothing remarkable about his financial records. He had some credit card debt and a substantial mortgage on his property, which he had purchased a year before. He appeared to be a solid citizen minding his own business.

“I couldn’t find his school records,” Lori said. “That’s no surprise. But I did wonder how someone who needed help in eighth grade could get a job in a bank.”

“People change,” said Drumm. “Or maybe he had a connection that got him in at the bank. Who knows? In any case, it hardly matters. I’m more interested in this house of his.” He looked closely at the picture of Forrest’s house that Lori had printed out. “I don’t see a rear entrance, just a side door. We’ll put a cruiser in the alley and another one on John Street here.” He pointed at the photo. “Oliver and Morgan can take the side door and you and I will go in the front.”

“I phoned a few minutes ago, pretending to be doing a survey,” said Lori. “He’s there.” She smiled. “He didn’t want to do a survey. A good thing, too, because I would have had to make up some questions pretty quick.”

“Good. Let’s go get him.”

When everyone was in position, Drumm and Singh parked on the street in front of Forrest’s well-lit house. Getting out, Drumm noted that the rain had finally stopped and the stars were trying to make themselves seen against the glow of the city. It was cold enough to see his breath. He was still wearing his suit. The visit with Dick seemed like a lifetime ago.

Lori, who had changed into dark pants and a sweater, was right beside him. She must be freezing, he thought. Oliver and Morgan were waiting on the sidewalk. “Everyone ready?” he asked.

The curtains were drawn on all the windows. Drumm and Singh went up to the front door. There was no doorbell so Drumm knocked loudly and waited. He knocked again. Drumm looked at Lori. “There are lights on, but nobody’s home?”

Stepping off the porch, the two detectives walked around to the side of the house opposite from Morgan and Oliver. The grass was wet on Drumm’s shoes. He could see light coming from an uncurtained basement window. Stooping and peering in, he could see a man lying on his back on a bench, lifting weights.

“It’s Forrest,” he said. “He’s got a home gym.”

“He’s wearing earbuds,” said Lori. She looked at Drumm. “How do you want to play this?”

“Like this.” Drumm rapped on the window with his fist, as loud as he dared.

The effect was dramatic. Forrest released the bar and sat up, staring at them. He took the earbuds off.

Drumm put his badge up against the window and gestured back towards the front door. “Open it,” he said, loudly.

He and Lori could see Forrest stand up and leave the room quickly. They saw that he was short and dressed in sweatpants and a tee-shirt, and then they were hurrying back to the front of the house.

Arriving back at the front walkway, they were in time to see the front door open. Forrest came rushing out, put his head down and barrelled into Drumm, knocking him backwards. Forrest staggered, and then started running towards the street. Lori stuck her foot out and Forrest tripped and went down on one knee. He was up in an instant and tearing across the lawn, with Drumm right behind him.

Drumm could see Sue Oliver and Ryan Morgan coming from their side of the house, could see also that they were going to be too late. He put on a burst of speed and launched himself in a flying tackle at Forrest, wrapping his arms around his waist. The two men went down in a tangle of legs and arms and Drumm was dimly aware that some part of him was hurting. He put all his weight on top of Forrest and realized the man reeked of sweat.

Drumm could feel that Forrest was going to heave him off – the man was as strong as an ox – and he tried desperately to keep him under control, when suddenly, Forrest let out a cry and stopped struggling. Drumm saw Sue Oliver’s foot come down on the back of Forrest’s head and push his face into the grass.

“Don’t move!” It was Morgan’s voice. “You can get off him, Nick.”

Drumm gratefully rolled away and lay on his back, panting. He got to his feet slowly, aware of a painful right knee, and watched as Lori grabbed Forrest’s arms and handcuffed him. Morgan, who’d had his gun out and pointed, put his weapon away, Oliver took her foot off Forrest’s head, put her gun away also and the two detectives helped the suspect to his feet.

“Nice job, Nick,” said Oliver. “Nice suit too.”

Drumm looked at his pants, soaking wet, grass-stained and with a rip in the knee, then felt his jacket. At least one seam had gone, he was certain. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s pretty much done. But at least now we can arrest him. For assaulting a police officer. With his head.”

“You okay?” asked Morgan. He was holding onto Forrest’s arm with a strong grip, but the suspect had his head down and was hunched over, clearly in pain.

“Yeah, I’m good,” said Drumm. “Sore knee is all.” He gestured at Forrest. “Better than him, anyway. What happened to him? Is he just winded?”

Sue Oliver laughed. “You could say that. Lori kicked him in the goolies!”

Drumm turned and looked at Lori who was smiling wryly. “Detective Oliver, the correct terminology is, ‘I used appropriate force to restrain a violent offender.”

Drumm said, “You kicked him in the nuts?” He laughed. “Too bad you didn’t have pointed shoes. Come on; let’s get him to the station.”