David spent the rest of the day in his garage toying with his tired blue Jeep. He had just added the final coat of polish on the faded yellow and orange sun depicted on the hood. His wife had confiscated the garage for her car, so he was allocated to the driveway where the sunlight had beat the hell out of the paint job. He heard a vehicle stop at the curb. The door squeaked opened and then slammed shut. David looked up fearing the worst. The handlebars peeking out from the cargo bed were from a Specialized mountain bike, orange with white stripes, brand-new. Shit. Tim came around the rear of the truck dressed in his riding outfit, long sleeve jersey shirt and pants. On top of this, he had a full storm trooper set of body armour with shin, knee and elbow pads for protection and a baseball cap. He swung his LED bike light by his side.
“Hey. Ready to ride in the dark?” Tim asked, kicking his foot in the gravel in the annoying way he always did. “Jason and Nick are coming.”
“Don’t think so.” He wasn’t up to listening to all their bullshit. Not after today’s events. He continued rubbing at the polish, ignoring Tim.
“Why not? What’s the problem?”
“Busy.” David kept his eyes averted knowing Tim had a lot more to spout.
“What were you telling that detective?” He moved in closer to his prey.
“Nothing.”
“You better not mention anything about the fight,” he warned and narrowed his eyes. “Or did you already spill the beans? I think you did.”
“What! That the ‘golden boy’ is a troublemaker,” David countered and then added, “capable of who knows what.”
Tim stepped in tight to David and glanced over his shoulder. Probably to make sure no one was watching his antics.
“Better not say anything. Don’t make this personal.” His lips quivered, hands fisted at his side.
David bumped into the bucket as he fumbled backward. It tipped onto the drive and spilled the last of the soapy water.
“Look what you did.” He stepped forward. “The truth will get out no matter what I do or do not say.” The snarl on his lips tempted Tim to make a foolish move, but he abstained and twisted away.
“You, asshole.”
Tim jumped in his truck and spun out his tires.
David turned to see Jackie standing at the top of the stairs. Her cotton top hung loosely over her slender frame. She had that Mediterranean appearance with her aquiline nose, almond-shaped eyes and olive-bronzed skin. Her Scandinavian straw-like blonde hair was twisted into a bun. The mixture of cultures made it easy to look at her.
“What a jerk.”
“Frigging ass,” he growled. His body vibrated uncontrollably from the confrontation.
“What else can you say?”
“Nothing,” David conceded as he cooled down. He picked up his rag and continued buffing the hood, more resolutely than before.
Chapter 13
Gibson was sitting behind his desk at VIIMCU, the major crime unit. The inconspicuous building was located on Dallas Road in a row of commercial type structures. From his million-dollar view, the open ocean stretched before him. The sailboats below were mere drops of colour. In the distance, the majestic Olympic Mountains seemed to soar out of the strait. Snow on their caps stayed all year round with sunlight glinting off the whiteness.
The three-storey low rise was made of concrete and mirrored glass. Thousands of panes cast back the diversity of the street and the sun’s golden rays. The front entrance had no signage to reveal its government designation. Big glass doors opened into a spacious lobby. A modest cafeteria for the force was tucked in the corner of the building on the first floor. Few civilians were allowed so the seats were filled with employees. The rest of the floor held the Forensic Identification section where the crime scene unit processed fingerprints, DNA, hair, fibres and photographic evidence. The third floor contained the newly set up Bomb Squad. A specially trained Vancouver team used to take the ferry over if the situation called for defusing an explosive. It had been a waiting game that took up to nine hours to get the job done. Now Victoria had its own unit to handle detonations. It made sense and was a relief to police officials.
The second floor was Gibson’s realm. It was partitioned into several rooms at the front, and a huge boardroom and interview chambers at the back. His office was a small elegant room with soft carpeting, blue-grey surfaces and lots of light streaming in from the many windows. There were prints in silver frames hung on one wall. His desk faced the corner window and was efficiently organized with stand-up filing racks and a laptop. Beside it were an extensive filing cabinet and a bookcase. At the door there was an old-fashioned hat and coat rack that he had discovered during an expedition down Fort Street on Antique Row. He had several men that served under his guidance. Scottie and three detective constables had their offices across from him.
His supervisor, Police Chief Rex Shafer, worked out of the central station on Caledonia Street. Rex rarely interfered with the operations at the major crime unit but always kept his finger in the pie. He would give opinions, ask questions and wanted to be informed of any progress. Requests for assistance from other districts came in occasionally, and Rex had no compunction about sending someone from the task force to go.
Gibson sunk into the softness and sweet smell of his leather armchair and inhaled its richness. Just as he picked up his cell to make a call, the landline buzzed.
“Gibson.”
“What have you got so far?” It was the police chief. “I heard something I don’t want to hear.”
“Okay.” His boss was all political so he knew what was coming next.
“Don’t turn this into a hate crime. We don’t need that. Understood?” Rex asked gruffly. “Follow the money. That’s my motto,” he added with confidence.
“Yes, Chief,” Gibson conceded. He always compiled. Then he let the investigation take him where it led.
“Okay. Keep me posted,” Rex said, pacified for the moment. “You have Gunner on the case?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Good,” the chief said and hung up.
Gunner was the one trouble spot in his department. He was the chief’s nephew, his sister’s boy. Lots of tomfoolery but untouchable. Gibson stood up and wandered over to the window. Looking down onto the road, traffic was sparse as it commonly was here. Most vehicles were headed to the cruise ships docked at the quay or the helicopter terminal next to it. A few bicycles zoomed past, en route to Beacon Park trails at the top of the road. On weekends there was a continuous flow of riders. The phone ringing jarred him from faraway thoughts of mountains, of ocean water, of peaceful moments in his kayak.
“Gibson.”
“Hi. I can give you the highlights of the autopsy,” Rod said. “Only one surprise.”
“What’s that?” He leaned against the desktop and crossed his legs to get comfortable. The ME could be long-winded.
“First, the strike on his cranium caused death,” Rod said. “It appears he was kneeling down when he was attacked.” Neither man spoke. Gibson could hear buzzing coming down the phone line. He remained quiet, curious to see where this was leading. Finally Rod went on, “He could have just been tying his shoelace. I’ll leave that to you.”
Gibson grunted.
“Second. No drugs or alcohol. Third, it took place between five-thirty and seven in the morning. I could tighten the time a little. Maybe.”
“And last.” Rod paused before he proceeded, making sure he had Gibson’s complete attention. “There wasn’t any suggest
ion of sexual activity. Considering there was a condom at the scene…” He let the sentence linger.
“Tell me about the condom. What does it signify?”
“It’s at the lab. Talk to Jocko. What’s his last name again?”
“I don’t think I ever knew it. It’s always been just Jocko.”
“Okay, sure. Anyways, I’ll shoot the autopsy report over later this morning. The rest is your job: to figure out why.”
Rod hung up before he could comment.
He heard a commotion in the corridor, a thundering sound and whooping. Two constables halted in the doorway.
“I vote for the homeless guy,” Gunner said.
“Gentlemen, please have a seat,” Gibson said, designating the chairs in front of his desk. “I hope you aren’t joking about this case.” He stared critically at Gunner, a cold glint in his steel-grey eyes. Na grew quiet.
“We met the homeless guy, and I tell you—” He stopped after a jab into his ribs by Na. Gunner looked up at his boss. He tried to see into the depth of Gibson’s gaze but failed. His chin dropped to his chest. “Sorry.”
Gibson controlled his annoyance at the impertinence of the constable and said coolly, “I expect more from you. Some regard for people’s differences and rights.” Although he recognized Na wasn’t implicated in the mocking, he hadn’t thwarted it either. He peered at Na and said, “You should know better. Am I clear, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” both men responded and sat up straighter. Gunner wiped the smirk off his face. Na looked serious with his mouth pulled down into a frown.
“Did you find anything in the parking lot?” Gibson asked after a lengthy silence.
“No, sir, nothing there,” Na said. Gunner agreed.
“Give me the low-down on the homeless encampment.”
“We headed over to that spot by the edge of the park. The clearing where they hang out overnight. We hoped to get there before everyone split,” Gunner said.
“Good plan. What did you find?”
“There was only one guy there. Said he didn’t know anything but started to rant about always getting hassled.”