Mâtowak: Woman Who Cries

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

While the engine warms, I jot down my initial impressions of Mrs. Warner. My recall has been poor since Angie's death, so I don't want to rely on my memory.

Mrs. Warner: Wealthy, privileged, dazed, confused, possibly in shock, or Canadian Juno Candidate for Best Actress?

I leave out assumptions about guilt or innocence for when the scientific evidence comes in.

* * *

Back at the detachment, I set a file down on my assistant's desk with a Post-it note on top.

She looks up at me. Smiles. “Good morning.”

“What? Oh, yeah, good morning.” My voice sounds gruff. I don't mean to be cranky, but how else do I hint that I don't like her looking at me like I'm a potential boyfriend. I'm not.

“This is the number of Minister Warner's assistant while he was in Ottawa. The first name is Mr. Warner's law assistant here in town. Have them start the interviews now. I need a statement before day's end. Warner's doctor, his dentist, and anybody else connected to his overall physical condition need to be interviewed as soon as possible. Find out if Warner attended a gym. Have somebody interview Professor Brendell Meshango, her daughter Zoë Sheppard, and Sophie Brooks. The lawyers at his firm will need to be interviewed individually. Could you get me the newest suspect list?”

“Right away.”

“Send two officers in a van to pick up the files at Mr. Warner's law office and home. We'll use one of the interview rooms for the time being. Give an update to the file coordinator.”

“Right away.”

“Where's our jogger?”

“Interview Room three.” She lifts the small stack of papers off her desk, hands them along with a file folder to me, all the time trying to make eye contact. “Interview three's file, plus copies of the statements so far.”

Sure her eyes are pretty, she's pretty, but I'll continue to avoid her eyes because I don't know what else to do. I'm a widower. I'm not dead. But no way am I ready for a relationship. I loved my wife. I can't…go there.

The job. I'm here to do the job.

“Warner's neighbours’ statements?”

“Included.”

“Somebody's observing from the viewing room?”

“Yes. They'll turn on the equipment as soon as you signal.”

I hang my coat in my locker while preparing my mindset for the interview. If done correctly I may have my perp.

My entry into the interview room is met with a petulant glare from a young man in his early twenties, rolling a small, empty water bottle between his palms. He's dressed in a shabby red and white jogging suit, smelling like a dirty jock strap.

“It's about time, man.”

Judging by the sound of his voice, I'd say his throat is full of phlegm. He's wearing worn, dirty high-back runners.

I take the chair opposite him, crack open the folder, and note the vital statistics: Wickstrom, Russell, age twenty-four...on probation for possession of a controlled substance for personal use: m*******a.

While I read the neighbour's statements, I keep a covert eye on the kid. Ignoring him will unnerve him further. It works most of the time.

He fidgets, shoves the water bottle aside, scratches both forearms through his sleeves, wipes his nose on his cuff, presses his palms flat on the table. His right foot taps the floor.

“Who are you?” he whines. “I've been sitting here for two hours, and nobody'll tell me nothing.”

Seventy minutes is closer to the truth.

I pretend to read from the file. He's got the drawn, haggard face of a young man in an old man's body with signs of malnutrition and drug use. Is this kid capable of murder? With human nature being what it is, anyone is capable of taking a life if they're motivated enough. In the worse cases, the motivation has little to do with the victim.

I nod towards the camera mounted high up in the corner. “Today is December the third. My name is Homicide Investigator Corporal Killian from Major Crime. I'm speaking with Russell Wickstrom of Prince George, BC. The time is...” I glance at my watch and report the time for the video recorder, “10:32.

“How are you, Russ? Can I call you Russ? Would you like something? A bottle of water?”

He shakes his head, sets the bottle upright on the table.

“Maybe a chocolate bar?”

He looks tempted but shrugs. Although the room's temperature is a constant seventy degrees, tiny beads of sweat form on his upper lip. He's got a jaundiced complexion and dilated pupils. His shoe taps. This kid is nervous, possibly guilty-of-something.

He avoids looking at me. “I ain't done nothing. If somebody'd tell me what's wrong, I know I can explain.”

“I need to ask you a few questions, but first I'd like to thank you for coming in. It's not everybody who cares to do their civic duty.”

“Huh?”

“Russ, this interview is being audio and video recorded. You should also know you have the right to speak to an attorney privately at any time during our conversation.”

“Why?”

“It's my job to inform you of your rights, Russ, even though this is simply an interview. Do you understand your rights?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know why you're here?”

“My aunt's neighbour died this morning. It happened while I was jogging. I don't know nothing. Did you say ‘Killian’? Hey, you were on the news, right?”

I pretend I didn't hear that. “You're staying with your aunt and her husband?”

“Yeah.” Another bead of sweat trickles from Wickstrom's upper lip to the corner of his mouth. He wipes it away. “I'm looking for work. I'm heading to Alberta after the weekend to see if things are better there. I heard they are.”

“Good idea. Lots of jobs in Alberta.” Anyone with half a brain knows that the economy in Alberta is in trouble. “Russ, what work experience do you have?”

“Construction. But I'd rather work for one of them big oil companies. I got no problem with heights.”

“Check out the utility rigs. Good hazard pay.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Do you have a letter from your probation officer, giving you permission to leave BC?”

“Huh? Oh, sure.”

“Good. Try Grande Prairie first.” They’ll tell him straight up he’s wasting his time.

Wickstrom slouches in his chair. “Yeah, I seen you on TV.”

Here it comes.

“You looked different on the news. You're that Indian that caught The Butcher.” The whites of his eyes are yellow. “Pretty psychic what The Butcher did to them hoes. Chopping them up in little pieces and selling the meat right there in his shop.”

“How did that make you feel, Russ?”

His eyes narrow. “Made me gag, man. Really disgusting.”

“You followed it on the news, did you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Couldn't help hearing. Every channel was about him. Still is.” He sticks a dirty fingernail in his mouth and picks at something between his teeth. “They should bring back hanging.” He presses his lips together, rubs his tongue over his teeth. He looks uncomfortable being watched and squirms in his chair.

I suddenly want to shower.

“Lucky for him, he'll probably do concurrent time for each hoe. Otherwise…” His eyes wander to the ceiling. “That'd be…eight hundred years. Wow.” His gaze darts back to me, to the file, to around the room, never settling anywhere.

He wipes his tongue across his yellow teeth again. I try not to gag.

“You finished?” He looks at the file.

I skim the notes from my team. The Warners have lived next door to Wickstrom's aunt and uncle for less than a year. The husband said no attempt has been made on either's part to become neighbourly. “How long have you been staying with your aunt and uncle?”

“Since September.”

“They've lived there a long time?”

“Since I was a kid.”

“You meet their new neighbours?”

“Me? No. They're old, man.”

“Your aunt and uncle get along with them?”

“I don't know.”

“Did your aunt offer up any opinions?”

Wickstrom's eyes bug out. “Killian? Hey, your wife got murdered. Down on the coast, right? Stabbed a whole bunch of times. And you being a cop. And an Indian. Wow, that must have been shitty—not the being Indian part. Yeah, sorry about your woman, man. It wasn't that long ago, eh? Was she white? I don't have no problem with an Indian being with a white woman, but some guys do.” Suddenly he presents his duh expression. “Hey man, is Indian like a bad word or something? Should I’d said Native?”

I present my best poker face, although, right about now I'd like to leap across this table and scalp his white man's head. “About your neighbour, Russ.”

He groans. “I don't know the guy, man. My aunt never says nothing about them. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know nothing.”

He knows something. And he's too stupid to hide it. I give him my of-course-I-believe-you look, followed by my everything's-going-to-be-fine smile. “You sure you wouldn't like a drink? I know you're tired of sitting on your butt, Russ, but you could really help me out.”

His eyes widen. “How? I told them when they brought me in, I don't know nothing. It ain't good having cops show up at your door and taking you down town without saying why. Lucky my aunt and uncle weren't home. They would a freaked if they seen cops hauling my ass off.” He scratches the top of his head, behind his ear. I imagine the globs of dead skin under his fingernails. His eyes dart from the file to me then back to the file.

“I thought you were asked to come in because of what had happened to the neighbour?”

“Well, s**t—you're the cop.”

I rest my chin in my palm. Gone are the days when we could beat the answer out of suspects. “I was told the constables said they needed your help. That's not what happened?”

“Man, that was like,” he looks at his watch, “hours ago. I was going to shower and then go job hunting.”

“I thought you were heading to Alberta next week?”

“If I don't find nothing by then.” He gives me an incredulous look as if I'm the stupid one. “Ain't it police harassment making me sit so long?”

I shake my head as I eye his statement. “Sorry you feel that way, Russ. I got back a few moments ago. They know I prefer to question witnesses here instead of somewhere else where they might be distracted.”

“Distracted? I'm trying to tell you—I ain't distracted cuz I didn't see nothing. I'm no witness.”

I rest my forearms on the table. The kid's gaze keeps jumping everywhere. I'm actually waiting for his head to spin. “Without realizing it, you may have seen something. You could be the key witness to the biggest murder this city has ever seen. You could be Witness of the Year.”

“Not likely,” he says through a mouthful of spit. “Don't tell me there's a reward. I didn't see nothing.” His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows.

I lower my eyes to the statement, giving him a chance to relax. “You always go jogging by yourself?”

“I keep saying—my aunt and her husband work. Their kids are in middle school.”

“You don't know anybody in the neighbourhood?”

“Nope.” His pupils dilate.

“You don't know the Warners?”

“I already told you. They're old. I know who they are, but that's it.”

“What do you mean by ‘who they are’?”

“You know.”

While keeping my chin low to appear less threatening, I shrug.

“Their sons had that shoot-out.” Wickstrom scratches below his elbow.

“Your aunt and her husband tell you that?”

“No, I read about it. Or I saw it on the news.”

“I just moved here, myself, but yes, I think I recall hearing something about it. So you saw the shootout on the news?”

“Well, fu—”

“Russ, language.”

“I was going to say you should a heard about it cuz you're the cop. They were total psychics.”

“Psychics?”

“You know...Insane. Crap, all you detachments need to get together and talk.”

I almost smile at the first sensible thing the kid has said. “What time did you leave your aunt's place?”

What little blood Wickstrom has left in his cheeks sinks to his neck. His face continues to pale by the millisecond. “Eight.”

“You're sure?”

“Yup.” He pulls at the neck of his pullover as if it's strangling him.

“You jogged past the Warners' house going and coming?”

“How else would I get home?”

“And when did you get home?”

“Nine.”

The coroner estimated that Warner died between seven and nine. At ten after nine, the ambulance was en route.

“I time my run.” Wickstrom holds up his wrist and points to his dollar-store watch. “I run for thirty minutes, then I turn around.”

I catch his eyes for a full second before he blinks. “I don't understand. The sound of a gunshot can echo a long way, but you didn't hear anything. How come?”

I watch his expression knowing that because none of the other neighbours heard anything, the shooter likely used a silencer. Is this kid desperate enough to kill in cold blood then lie like a pro?

“Maybe cuz I run so far I was out of range.” His arms hang at his sides. “I told you, I was listening to my iPod. I had headphones on.”

Lie like a pro? Yeah, right. “Maybe you figured it was a car backfiring.”

“What? Yeah, maybe.” Flustered, he shakes his head in a tight arc. “No. I mean...I don't know.”

“Which is it?” I close the file, cross my arms, lean back in the chair. “You heard what you thought was a car backfiring? Or you knew it was a gun? Do you remember the time? Were you on your way back to your aunt's house? Or hadn't you turned around yet?”

“Look, I didn't mean to.”

“Didn't mean to what?”

“I couldn't hear.”

“You look like a good guy.” I sit up straight. “I think you are. Help me out. Were you on your way back when you heard the shot? Did you see anyone pulling out of the Warners' driveway? Or maybe you ran through their yard? It's faster than going down your aunt's long driveway. Did you notice their door was open? Maybe you even saw old man Warner? You had words with him because he didn't appreciate you running through his—”

“I didn't know what else to do, man.”

I hide my surprise, but I'm excited. Do I have my perp? “Tell me in your own words what happened. I'll do everything I can to help you.”

His eyes fill with tears. He nods. “I run in the middle of the road cuz the whole fu–, I mean, neighbourhood's crawling with vicious dogs. And I play my MP3 player pretty loud. I didn't hear the car coming behind me until he honked. Scared the piss out of me, man. I jumped. Then I see the oncoming car. I cut right. This little dog come out of nowhere. The car behind me hit him. It's not my fault.”

What dog? Is he talking about Mrs. Warren’s dog? “What time was this?”

“Around, uh, maybe eight-ten.” Wickstrom sniffs loudly and rubs his elbow.

“Did either driver stop?”

“I don't think the guy coming at us noticed. But the other guy, who run over the dog, stopped. I went to see if I could help. It was near the ditch. But man, it was in bad shape. Before I could ask the guy to help me, he says sorry and takes off. The dog's gurgling. Then blood starts pouring out of its mouth.”

“The dog died?”

Wickstrom shrugs. “I got no car. How am I going to get it to the vets? I drugged him closer to the ditch, so nobody else could run over him.”

Drugged him? Yeah, you're a real hero. “Any idea whose dog it was?”

“How would I know? Send a notice around the neighbourhood or something. It was one of them—I don't know—Terrier mixed with something. Small and scruffy-looking.”

“Did you get the licence plate? We'll need to verify your statement.”

“No. He was driving one of them '92 or 93' grey Sunbirds. And he was old. Fifty something. Kinda pudgy in the face. Three chins.” Wickstrom waves his hand under his chin. “He had a sticker on his back bumper that said, 'Canucks rock'.”

I grab the file. “I'll be right back, Russ.” Constable Stan Carrigan is waiting in the hallway. “Give the kid half an hour alone. Make sure he's available for further interviews. Notify his probation officer. Tell him to revoke permission to leave B.C. until further notice. When we give them the okay, have his probation officer prepare a letter Wickstrom can show the closest detachment in Alberta. We can't cite him for being an i***t, but we don't need to make it easier for him either.”

“You still want him tested?”

“I'd say do every examination you can without pushing the envelope, but it'd be a waste of time. Test for gunpowder residue, then send in somebody from the drug squad to question why a druggie is out jogging. Maybe he'll give up his dealer so the morning isn't a total waste. His aunt and uncle give you anything?”

“Warner gave the uncle free advice about a car accident he had. Saved him a lot of money.”

“Anything about Warners' marriage?”

“The wife said they were good neighbours. She said Mr. Warner catered to Mrs. Warner. They were a loving couple. She saw them out walking several times and always holding hands.”

“Okay, go ahead and take care of our witness. When Mrs. Warner comes in to make a statement, take care of her personally. Okay?”

Carrigan looks at me strangely. “You haven't heard?”

I blank out my expression. I'd forgotten that Mrs. Warner isn't required to come into the detachment like every other potential witness. “Slipped my mind. I'll question her at her location.”

Carrigan nods, then turns to leave as Ryan flies around the corner and stops short of slamming into us. In his hands is a thick file. “You're not going to believe this.”

“Try me?”

“Norse's neighbour reported his car stolen this morning.”

“And?”

“They found the car. Norse stole it.”

“Where?”

“Tagged him in Lejac. He says he borrowed his neighbour's car. Had a small suitcase in the backseat. Says Warner deserved to die for spawning the bastard who killed his wife, and they should give the killer the keys to the city. He says he took off because he knew he'd be our prime suspect.”

“So far he is our prime out of a few possible suspects.”

“Yeah, sure.” Ryan smacks his palm on top of the files folder. “The detachment at Fort Fraser says to meet them at Vanderhoof's detachment because their back lot isn't secure. They're towing the car there. They did a preliminary search but didn't find anything.”

“How's the investigation at the house?”

“They're still sweeping the backyard and canvassing the neighbourhood. Nothing so far. They pulled the hound.”

“Have somebody check the ditches in the neighbourhood for a dog's remains.” I point at the files folder. “Is that Norse's file?”

Ryan hands it over.

“Obtain a warrant from the judge and send two investigators over to his place. They can contact us on the road if they find something. Grab some plastic to cover the seats. We may need to tow the car back to our garage.”

“We're running out of people.”

“Borrow two from general duty.”

While I gather files, notes, and replace the battery in my voice recorder, Ryan leaves, and returns with enough plastic for the seats in the vehicle Norse stole.

“You think Norse took the weapon and bloody clothes with him when he left?” Ryan sticks the wad of plastic under his arm.

“Maybe.” I grab my parka and head for the door. “What's the forecast?”

“Partly cloudy. Sixty percent chance of snow.”

“You drive, I'll read.”

Outside, we cross the quiet street to the police parking lot. Small, light flakes of snow float to the ground and melt under the sun's heat. Something I had no idea could occur simultaneously.

Happy Anniversary, Angie.

The lump in my throat feels like it'll choke me.

The job—I'm here to do the damn job.

“This snow ain't going to last.” Ryan looks up at the sky, then back to the road. “They didn't find anything during Norse’s initial body search, but we might find something in his car. Oh, and guess what? He's cooperating.” He slides into the car.

Ryan's comment doesn't make me feel hopeful. Nothing is ever that easy. Norse isn't Wickstrom. Norse is a retired member of the local bikers' group, with organized crime affiliations. He's also got enough street smarts to kill Warner and get rid of the evidence. The only way we'll catch him is if he brags to one of his biker buddies and that particular biker has reason to cooperate with us.

That would be a miracle.