The Dead List (3 page)

The older officer – Sergeant Matt Ryberg – introduced the rest of the team to Drake and Sergeant Thiessen. There were two other plain-clothes investigators. They were both corporals, and senior to Drake’s lowly constable ranking. The officer who had re-interviewed the young men who found the body was Pringle, a large man with short-cropped red hair. He was in his mid-forties and had a hard, dour expression. The photographer and measurer was introduced as Myron. He was younger, in his late twenties, and in contrast to Pringle, he was short and stocky with a barrel chest. He rarely looked up as he studiously wrote in his notepad. Drake didn’t know if Pringle and Myron were their first or last names, but standing on a damp, rainy night it didn’t seem to matter.

Ryberg observed the men in front of him with a stern expression. He spoke slowly as if he were talking about them, and not to them, making sure they understood exactly what he was saying.

“Constable Drake, you’re going to stick with us for today and possibly tomorrow too. Do you know the area?” He waited until Drake answered in the affirmative before continuing. “Good. Chances are this incident is going to turn out to be very simple, but until that has been established we will make no assumptions. We are going to assemble the jigsaw puzzle that is Michael Robinson’s life. We will start at the end and trace back toward the beginning as far as we need to. We’ll find gaps from time to time, and fill them when we can. If we have to, we’ll skip over those gaps and come back to them later. We need to keep moving backward, putting the pieces together. Sometimes, it’s important to go backward in order to move forward.” He looked around the group while the officer he’d introduced as Myron continued taking notes and Pringle spoke into a portable phone. “Does everyone understand? The most important thing is to deal with facts. There is a place for instinct, and we will utilize that, but facts are what we convict on, facts are what make the world go around.” Myron and Pringle stopped what they were doing and mumbled the last sentence along with Ryberg. The old sergeant’s eyes flickered, but he did not look at them.

Drake would look back on Ryberg’s speech as being the most useful information he’d yet to receive when it came to solving a crime. He’d revisit the sergeant’s words and retrain himself every time he felt like he was making a mistake. He was a general duty officer. In his twelve months on the job the only infractions he’d been involved in were break and enters or trying to determine who assaulted whom. Sometimes he solved the cases and sometimes he didn’t. When he didn’t, he tried to make it more difficult for the perpetrator to commit the same crime again. That’s what police work had been like until then. After Ryberg’s speech something shifted; everything felt different.

“Contents of Mr. Robinson’s pockets included a driver’s license and some business cards, but did not include a wallet, cash, or credit cards, and there were no coins or car keys in his pockets, correct?”

Pringle, the investigator who had been on the phone, was wearing a long, brown corduroy sports jacket. He looked like a large, imposing insurance salesman. He smoothed out the jacket with the palms of his hands as though he were very proud of it, and answered Ryberg. “That’s correct, Sarge. I found out a bit from his identification. Mr. Robinson was unmarried. Next of kin is his mother and she lives locally, a house on Coquihalla Road. I’m waiting to hear if he has any criminal history as a juvenile, but his adult records are clean, other than an excessive amount of speeding tickets. This man liked to drive fast.”

“Good, let’s visit the mother personally and break the news. Myron, you do it. Take a uniform with you, and try to locate a grief counselor too. If you can’t find one to attend this late, make sure they’re at her door first thing in the morning after you’ve spoken to her.”

Myron looked up from his notebook and checked his watch.

“I know; it’s morning already. I know that.” Ryberg looked out from the tent at the rain as though he was silently willing the sun to appear. “Now, the body had not been touched when we arrived, is that also correct?”

Drake explained that he’d found the man in a curled position at the edge of the sidewalk, facing away from the road, just like the investigator had seen.

“It’s strange that there was nothing else in his pockets – not even car keys or a house key. Where are the two lads who found him? Are they brothers?”

Brandon Van Dyke had initially interviewed the two men and then disappeared; Drake assumed he was running around trying to find a bathroom. Sergeant Thiessen was standing in the background, arms folded in front of him. “My officer interviewed them, and then your man took another statement and sent them home. They live at the end of this street…no I’m wrong; it’s the next street over.” He looked around for one of the local policemen to confirm while he gave the information. Then he raised his eyes to the sky, rolling them in the same manner that small-town people have closed their minds for years. “And no, they’re not brothers; they’re just friends – close friends.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Ryberg turned and addressed Pringle again. “Let’s run a bureau on the deceased and find out if he owns any credit cards and whether they’ve been used tonight. It doesn’t make sense that he wasn’t carrying any cards with him.” He waved the officer off before he could reply. “I know, it might take a while before some of the charges come in, but let’s ask anyway. And while you’re at it run a credit check on him – bank accounts, assets, whatever they’ll give us without a warrant.” He paused a moment and then exclaimed loudly as though the thought had just come to him. “And a car – where is his vehicle? This man sells cars, he likes speeding down our roads, yet he’s out walking? I don’t get it. I know this is a small town, but it’s not that small. Somebody find out where his car is.”

Ryberg scanned the small crowd of officers. “And what about forensics, is Ident on site yet?”

The younger investigator, Myron, looked up. “They’re en route. I’ve done what I can; I measured and took some photos.”

Ryberg grimaced.

“I know. It’s not ideal, but the Ident team was delayed. The lead officer coached me over the phone. He assures me they’ll be here shortly.”

Ryberg nodded, accepting. The efficiency of the man energized the small group of policemen, and the officers began to move and work at various tasks. Within a few minutes he had opened up some possibilities and given them direction. Shaking his head, he looked out from the little tent they were standing under. “Investigator Pringle, I need the address of the boys who found the body please, and Drake, you’re coming with me. We’re going to go and get wet.”

Pringle copied the address onto a small card and handed it to his superior. As Drake stepped out into the night he nudged one of the poles at the side of the tent. The light swung back and forth, and a small river of cold water ran off the roof onto his cap and down the back of his neck.

The sergeant seemed to know what he was doing, so Drake resisted the urge to remind him that it would be the third time the two young men had been interviewed. There was no need for sirens or the flashing red and blues. He hit the alley lights and illuminated the numbers on the houses. They drove in silence, the moving car giving the night a ghostly feel as it passed the darkened houses. He was familiar with streets like these from back home. The old houses they passed looked even more depressing in the dark and rain than they usually did; it was a street nobody cared about. Most sat on large, square lots with faded grey or black wood siding barely holding the walls together. The gardens in front of them were untended, and a few had assorted piles of junk or even old cars sitting in the middle of their lawns as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Ryberg read the address out to Drake as he drove. When they parked outside the house he screwed up his face and his accent seemed even more pronounced. “Why is it always raining in this town?”

Drake kept a straight face. “I hear it rains in the city sometimes too, sir.”

The investigator ignored him. “Have you ever attended a call here?”

“I don’t think so. The two of them looked familiar, but nothing comes to mind. If you give me their names I can run a check if you like.”

“No matter, I’m pretty sure I’ll get what I’m looking for.”

A faint light from a lamp or low-wattage bulb was extinguished from the basement window. Ryberg opened his door. “Aha, now we know where we’re going.”

Ryberg knocked on the bottom door of the house, and continued to knock. Drake was surprised at the strength in the older man’s arms. After thirty seconds of continuous hammering, the door opened and one of the men from earlier stood in front of them.

He lazily yawned and squinted at the policemen. In the background the other man leaned against the wall with his arms folded. The two young men were dressed in colorful long pajama pants and white T-shirts. The man at the door had a cigarette in his hand. He blew smoke out the door while he complained to the officers.

“Now you want to wake us up? How many times do we have to talk to you losers?”

The sound of a short snicker came from the other man who still stood back. Drake recognized his laugh from earlier when he’d first been called to the scene.

“When it comes to investigating a homicide I’ll talk to you as many times as I feel I need to.” As Ryberg spoke, he waved the other man to come toward the door. He brushed up beside his partner, bringing with him the odor of stale cigarettes and alcohol.

“Now, we can do this here, or we can do it at the police station. Constable Drake and I are attempting to identify suspects in a murder investigation. Our Ident team has determined the time of death, and our financial crime investigator has contacted the deceased man’s banking institution.” Ryberg paused for a moment but did not break his stare on the man at the door. He was the tougher one; that’s where he focused. “And, we’ve been informed that his credit cards were used sometime after the man took his last breath. So, unless he made a stop on his way to the pearly gates, somebody lifted the contents of his pockets. I have both of you at the scene, and that gives me two suspects on robbery and homicide.”

The man who had opened the door cocked his chin in the air in defiance. He still looked secure, but the second man gave it away – he swore in frustration.

Even though the first man began to tell him to keep his mouth shut, the other man panicked. He reeled off their confession, barely pausing to take a breath in between his sputtering words. “We passed it along – two credit cards and a bank card and we kept the fifteen bucks in cash. Fifteen bucks – no big deal. We made the call, the car came, we got paid for the cards and they drove away. They shouldn’t have been used here. It isn’t supposed to work like that.” He swore once again when he finished.

The first man took a quick, nervous puff on his cigarette and immediately blew the smoke out the door, up in the air. “They’re bluffing; you need to keep your mouth shut.”

“Who picked it up and who did you call?”

“Don’t,” the first man said, but there was less conviction in his voice now.

Ryberg was shorter than the man in the doorway and many years older, but he didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward until their chests were almost touching. “About thirty seconds from now I’m going to caution each of you and possibly charge you with murder. Who picked up the cards?”

The second man looked pleadingly at the man by the door. “Anton, tell him. Murder – we didn’t murder anybody. Tell. Him.”

The first man looked behind Ryberg at Drake. “It was Franco. You know Franco.”

Drake nodded.

“Did Franco or anyone else touch or disturb the body?”

The second man answered. “A driver came; he didn’t even look at the dude on the ground. The car window opened, he took the cards, gave us our end, and he was gone. It happened real fast.”

“And a car, where’s his vehicle? You had it jacked?” Ryberg was almost yelling now.

Both men answered together. “There was no car.”

Anton, the man by the door, sighed, resigned to the fact that it was over. “We were walking home; we’d been to the pub, and we saw him lying there. That was it. That’s all there is.”

They were kids – amateurs; Drake could see that now.

“Here’s the deal, gentlemen. I’m going to withhold charges of interfering with a dead body and theft under five thousand – for now. And I’m doing this because you two are going to help me with our ongoing investigation.” He paused as the men sunk a couple of inches lower in the doorway. The tougher one, Anton, began to speak, but Ryberg put his finger in the air, silencing him. “Oh, yes, you are. Don’t leave town, gentlemen. If I feel you’re not forthcoming enough with information, I will not hesitate to charge you. I’m going to let you go back to bed, but we will be talking again very soon. And if you’re having trouble sleeping, and remember anything else that might be relevant, then please call myself or Constable Drake at the police station immediately.” He handed his business card to the man at the door, making sure he took it before turning and walking back toward the police car.

The door closed and the house was dark again by the time they were sitting in the vehicle. The sun was coming up, and the rain had tapered to a steady drizzle. Drake smiled as he started the engine. There was no financial investigation officer, and even if there was, they had no information on the dead man’s financial situation. Ryberg had played it beautifully.

“How did you know?”

“I’ve met them before – different street, different time. Nothing changes. Who’s Franco – a fence?”

He’d never charged Franco, but he’d met him, and he’d become aware of his reputation shortly after arriving in town. “Yes, and he doesn’t hide it either. Owns a pawn shop, and he has money on the street – loggers who need a loan to pay off their wives after spending their paychecks, small-time stuff. No drug involvement that I’m aware of. He just likes making his money work for him, and doesn’t care how he does it. Are we going to shake him out of his bed?”

“No, we’ll leave him for now. The two brothers who aren’t really brothers are probably calling him and making excuses – telling him that we already had his name. Let him try to get his story straight and sweat it out for a while. I’ll have Pringle pick him up later this morning. For now we have something more important to deal with.”