“Who is this guy?” Keely snapped her seat belt on.
“He worked in Chief Smoke’s office. A member of the Scotch drinkers’ club. You’ll probably know him to see him. After Smoke left, this guy was put back on the street.” Lane accelerated.
“How are you feeling today?” Keely asked.
“Just about every bone and muscle is complaining. I hope I don’t sneeze – my ribs are pretty sore.” Lane pulled the seat belt away from his chest as he followed the river into the downtown core. “How about you?”
“The headache is gone, and I can move a bit easier. The stitches are healing, so I could wash my hair. It felt great to get rid of all of that grit and dust from the explosion.”
“How are your dad and Dylan doing?” Lane drove under a bridge and accelerated along an open stretch of road.
“Mom told Dad to lay off of Dylan. When you phoned, Dylan had already left to go to the university. Things are pretty tense. Dad is still pressuring Dylan to convert.” Keely looked out the window at cyclists and joggers using the paved trails between the road and the river.
They drove into downtown and parked inside the wire behind the department building. Keely got out of the Jeep first. She opened the back door to the building and led the way to the elevators. Simpson’s secretary waved them through when they arrived at the chief’s office.
Lane closed the door behind them. He and Keely eased themselves into chairs. Simpson sat in a third chair to complete the triangle.
“Are you on the mend?” Simpson asked Keely.
Keely nodded. “Better today.”
“And you?” Simpson looked at Lane.
“Okay.” Lane looked at the paintings of coyotes and bears hanging on the walls.
“Officer Stockwell was apprehended this morning,” Simpson said. “He’s waiting in an interrogation room. He has been made aware that he is to be charged and has demanded a lawyer and a representative from the union. These individuals are en route. I would like the two of you to observe only. A room has been made available for you to watch the interview.”
“Okay,” said Lane. He looked at Keely. She nodded.
Simpson went to say something, stopped, thought for a moment, and said, “Very well. When the lawyer and union representative arrive, the interrogation will begin. Dr. Weaver is in an adjacent room. He’ll fill you in on some of the evidence.” The chief waited.
“Could we get a cup of coffee?” Lane asked.
Simpson smiled. “We’ll hook you up.” He stood, opened the door, and addressed his secretary. “Can you give these detectives directions to a good cup of coffee?”
The chief shook their hands as they left.
Five minutes later, they arrived at the interrogation rooms. Fibre was waiting for them. He waved them into a room with two chairs and a table. There was a flat-screen television mounted in a corner near the ceiling, and the walls were painted a nondescript colour. “This is what we have so far.”
Lane looked at a small cardboard box containing the mangled end cap of the pipe bomb and three typed letters in separate envelopes.
Fibre pointed at the end cap. “We have receipts connecting Stockwell to the purchase of pipe and end caps consistent with the remains of the pipe bomb. Also, the paper and printer used for the threatening letters addressed to Detective Saliba are a match to the printer Stockwell has access to and has been observed using.”
Lane stared at the evidence on the table. I wonder who will do the interview and if he has any other evidence. Everything here is purely circumstantial.
Fibre put the evidence into the cardboard box, picked it up, and left the room.
Keely and Lane sat down and looked up at the TV. They saw an officer wearing a white shirt and blue tie sitting at a table with a file folder in front of him. His hair was cut short and he had the face of a choirboy.
“You know him?” Keely asked.
“Yes.” Lane watched the man on camera. “It’s John Buck. He investigates complaints about police officers. I don’t know him well. In a minute or two, we’ll see how good he is and what he’s got.”
Stockwell entered the room and walked around to the far side of the table. He was wearing black boots and jodhpurs: the uniform of a motorcycle cop. Lane noticed his close-cropped military haircut, the immaculate creases on his blue shirt, and the way his tie was tucked between two shirt buttons.
“That’s Stockwell?” Keely asked.
“Yep.”
“He was a regular at the Scotch drinkers’ club,” Keely said.
The door opened. A man in a grey suit entered and shook hands with Stockwell. “His name is Al Roper. He was in the club too.” Keely shook her head and looked disgusted.
“Al Roper is one of the top defense lawyers in the city,” Lane said.
Five minutes later, the union rep arrived. He was six foot four and had a barrel chest and clean-shaven head.
Keely sighed. “That’s Art Lesley. Another member of the club.” She looked at Lane.
Either she’s feeling it’s hopeless or she’s angry about having to see the good ol’ boys again. “We’ll see if Buck can use it to his advantage.”
“How?” Keely asked.
Buck is alone in a room full of testosterone. “He knows more than they do. That’s his advantage.”
They watched Roper sit on one side of Stockwell and Lesley sit on the other. Buck stood up and reached across the table to shake hands with each of the men facing him. “This conversation is being recorded.” His voice is very soft, almost apologetic.
“Of course,” Roper said. Lane heard the arrogance in the man’s voice.
“We have several pieces of evidence to bring forward,” said Buck. “Officer Stockwell, this is your opportunity to reveal your deliberate intimidation of Detective Saliba, a fellow officer on loan to the police service.”
Stockwell looked at the file in front of Buck.
“I’ve advised my client not to answer any questions with regard to Detective Saliba,” Roper said.
“As you will.” Buck pulled out one of the letters and began to read. “‘Rats get exterminated in this department.’ This letter was written by you, mailed by you, and received by Detective Saliba.” Buck looked at Stockwell, who began to open his mouth. “No, don’t speak. You had your chance.”
“This partial print was found on the envelope. It’s a match with your fingerprint.” Buck opened the file and put a photocopy on the table.
“Don’t know how that got there.” Stockwell wiped sweat from his forehead.
“No, don’t say anything. Officer Stockwell. It is your right to refrain from answering questions. Please, follow your lawyer’s advice.” Lesley put his hand on Stockwell’s shoulder.
Roper yawned. “As Officer Stockwell said, he doesn’t know how the fingerprint got there – if in fact it is his fingerprint.”
“Another odd fact,” Buck continued, “is the paper and the printer used to produce the letters. All have been traced to a printer in this building that Officer Stockwell has access to and makes frequent use of.” Buck pulled out another letter and read, “‘The thing about rats is that they breed quickly, so extermination must be swift and violent.’”
“Great!” Roper said. “Let’s take this evidence to court as soon as possible!” He smiled at his client. “The evidence is so circumstantial that I can’t wait to discredit it – and you, Staff Sergeant Buck!” Roper shook his head and smiled at his joke.
Buck pulled out the evidence bag and the end cap from a pipe bomb. He held up the label on the evidence bag. “We have receipts in the name of the accused. He purchased this pipe and these end caps.”
“So he did some work around the house.” Roper looked at Lesley. “He brought us down here for this?”
Buck loosened his tie. He opened the folder.