A Striking Death Read online

  Drumm decided that the safest course was to ignore her tone. “No, I’m sorry, Em. Something has come up. A murder, actually.”

  “Well, but can’t you sneak away for half an hour? You have to eat, don’t you?”

  “I could probably do half an hour, yes, but it would be more than that. You know it would, with the driving and so forth.” Drumm was sitting in his car outside Billinger’s home. He was watching the activity around the house, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel, impatient to get back to the job at hand.

  “Fine.” Emily was huffy now.

  “Maybe we can do lunch tomorrow, Em. Things will have settled down a lot by then.”

  “I’ve heard that before, Nicky.”

  “I know, Emily, I know. I’m sorry this has happened.” Then he had an inspiration. “I was looking forward to hearing all about what’s new with your agency. And it’s time you gave me a tour.”

  It worked. Emily was mollified. “You really want a tour? I can arrange that. When?”

  “Em, let’s try for tomorrow. We’ll talk about it tonight. See you later.” And Drumm disconnected, wondering if he’d managed to fix things again for now.

  He and Emily had an interesting relationship. Interesting was one way of putting it, he thought. They had lived together for almost a year and at times, it had been wonderful. He loved Emily’s passion, her sense of humor and her quick mind. The sex was great. But they argued, a lot, and the arguments became worse. She wanted him to give up being a detective, something he just couldn’t do. Eventually she left him and he’d had a hard time dealing with it. Just when he’d learned how to cope with her absence, she convinced him to get back together. She had changed, she said, received counselling, and she knew herself better. She accepted Drumm for what he was and she needed him.

  So Drumm, despite his reservations and unable to help himself, allowed Emily back into his life. In the spring she moved back in with him, although as he’d told Mark Chappell, they hadn’t been seeing much of each other lately. But things between them were better than they had been before, although Emily still had the distressing habit of getting upset whenever his police work interfered with his personal life. Which it often did.

  As happened frequently, Drumm wondered what to do about Emily. He had patched things up for now, again, but what was the likelihood of long-term success for their relationship? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to think about it now.

  seven

  Much later in the afternoon, a weary and somewhat shaky Detective Sergeant Drumm was back in his office. He was weary because of the hours spent looking over Billinger’s home and property, and the interviews conducted with his neighbours. It took time to canvass a neighbourhood, a lot of time, and even though Drumm and Singh had help, it was a tiring task to talk to so many people. And, none of them had seen or heard anything useful at all.

  Drumm was shaky because he was diabetic, and in the hurly-burly of getting his investigation started, he had neglected to make sure he ate properly. He was a fortunate diabetic, he knew, because he could control his condition with careful monitoring and attention to his diet. But today he had done neither, and his blood sugar had plummeted. Drumm carried a glucose meter; just now, when he checked his level, the reading was 3.7. That was low and it accounted for his weakness and shakiness. His lips were a bit numb too, and that only happened when his blood sugar was seriously out of whack.

  Munching on some cheese, followed up with crackers and a banana, Drumm wondered again if he should mention to someone with York Police Services about his condition. He loved being a detective and he didn’t want to give it up. Could he carry on in the Violent Crimes Unit with diabetes? He was afraid the answer would be “no”, so he continued to hide his situation and fret. Not even Emily knew about his disease.

  Drumm was starting to feel better. He was able to focus more clearly on his notes. Not that there was much useful in them yet. Between him, Lori Singh and the uniformed officers, they had spoken to eighteen neighbours on Arthur Billinger’s street. Most knew the man, at least enough to say hello to, and some a little better than that. All were shocked to hear of his death, and some were openly fearful that they might be next. As far as noticing anyone approaching Billinger’s house, a strange vehicle on the street, noises or headlights in the night, nobody had seen or heard anything unusual.

  Arthur Billinger’s phone records were checked and there had indeed been a call from Cameron Garmand the previous evening at 8:32 p.m. That was the unfortunate teacher’s last telephone conversation, as far as they could tell. Billinger only had a landline and no cellphone, at least none that they were able to find. So, sometime between 8:32 p.m. the previous night, and nine o’clock this morning, a person or persons unknown smashed in Arthur Billinger’s door, and then smashed in his head. And none of his neighbours had seen or heard anything suspicious.

  Drumm rubbed his eyes and yawned. The other calls that Billinger had made and received would be checked, of course, but nothing appeared abnormal at this stage. The phone numbers were local and there weren’t many of them. Judging by his telephone records and his neighbours’ comments, Arthur Billinger had led a quiet life. He went to bed around eleven thirty or twelve most nights, it appeared; at least, that’s when his neighbours said his lights usually went off. He had been wearing blue pajamas.

  Drumm looked again at the one interesting statement they had obtained. When asked if he knew of anyone who disliked Arthur Billinger or held a grudge against him, Richard Carlson, three houses over to the west had furrowed his brow and said, “You might want to speak to Mike Bailey. I don’t think he liked Art much.” Carlson was in his seventies, Drumm judged; he was a widower who lived alone. Questioned further, Carlson could only say that he had heard Bailey speak disparagingly of Arthur Billinger.

  “What do you mean?” Lori Singh asked.

  “Well, he and I spoke a few times about Art. Mike, I mean. Mike thought he was gay. He asked what I thought about having a “fucking queer” living on the street.” Carlson looked uncomfortable and then apologized. “Sorry, those were his words, not mine. I liked Art. Mike didn’t though.”

  “Where does this Bailey live?” Drumm asked.

  Carlson pointed to a brick house across the street. “That’s his place there, number 32. He won’t be home now, though. He works in construction.”

  They all looked at the nondescript house with an untidy front yard. Then Lori Singh asked, “Was Arthur Billinger gay, Mr. Carlson?”

  Carlson looked troubled. “I don’t know. Maybe. He lived alone and I never saw a woman going in there. But that doesn’t mean he was gay. Besides, who cares? Art was a good guy. I liked talking to him.”

  And that was about all the useful information they were able to gather from the canvass. Maybe something would come of it. For now, Mike Bailey was their only suspect. Or maybe “person of interest” would be more accurate, Drumm thought. They hadn’t yet been able to track Mr. Bailey down and speak with him. Perhaps when they did, he would confess to a brutal murder and this case would end up being a slam-dunk. Somehow Drumm doubted that would happen.

  eight

  Lori Singh, cruising along in her pale green Toyota Prius, was humming to herself. She was having a good day. By rights she shouldn’t be, having viewed a horribly gruesome crime scene just that morning. And she felt sorry for Arthur Billinger, really she did. But it was such a nice day, and she was enjoying her job and the responsibilities she had been given. It was a good day to be alive.

  She was coming back from a talk with Mike Bailey. She had tracked him to a new subdivision on the city’s west end where he was working on one of dozens of new homes. It was a typical new development, with houses in various stages of construction, piles of debris and gravel and heavy equipment everywhere. The streets, though paved, were caked with dirt and lined with tradesmen’s vehicles. Lori had found Mike Bailey’s white panel van parked in front of a partly-finished two-story
home. His truck was dirty and had a magnetic sign stuck to the driver side door that announced, “Mike Bailey Drywall”.

  Lori found their person of interest inside, in what looked like a family room. He was in the process of applying drywall compound when she identified herself and asked to talk to him.

  “Sure,” Bailey said. “Just let me get the rest of this mud on? It’ll only take a couple of minutes. But I need to do it before it hardens. Okay?”

  “Alright, Mr. Bailey. I’ll wait outside. But be quick, please.”

  Bailey joined Lori at her car about ten minutes later; she was surveying the activity at the job site, leaning against her now dusty Prius and enjoying the afternoon sun on her face. Bailey was a tall, burly man with reddish-brown hair, cut short. Lori noticed specks of white stuck in it over his left ear. He was wearing well-used overalls and a dirty red lumberjack shirt underneath and he was sweating in the cool afternoon air. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about a murder, sir. One of your neighbors – Arthur Billinger.”

  “A murder? Billinger? You mean he’s dead?”

  Mike Bailey appeared to be genuinely surprised, Lori noted. His eyes had widened and he had stopped trying to get drywall mud off his hands. He stared at her.

  “We think it’s him, yes, sir. He hasn’t been positively identified yet. But we’re pretty sure it’s him. And it looks like he was killed last night some time. We’re asking all the neighbors if they heard or saw anything suspicious last night. Did you?”

  Bailey was shaking his head. “Last night? No…no, I don’t think so.” He paused. “What happened? You said he was murdered? Was he shot, then?”

  “Now why would you say that? Did you hear gunshots?”

  Bailey shook his head. “No, no gunshots, I just wondered how he was killed. You said murder – it was the first thing I thought of.”

  “He was beaten to death, sir. With a blunt object.” She deliberately looked him up and down. “By a very strong man.”

  Bailey was now staring hard at her and had moved closer. Lori noticed for the first time how intensely blue his eyes were. His body language had changed, too, she thought. The stillness of his posture and his unwavering gaze had changed him from a competent tradesman to a menacing figure. He was intimidating but Singh was determined not to let her unease show. She stared up at him in return, her arms crossed, and her almond-shaped eyes narrowed against the sun. She was going to appear relaxed, no matter what.

  “You think I killed him! Why?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mr. Bailey. But you didn’t like him, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t like him.” Bailey had relaxed a little but he was still holding himself erect and still. “He was a fag. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”

  “You think he was gay, Mr. Bailey? Why?”

  Bailey snorted. He had relaxed noticeably now and Lori was relieved, although still determined not to show her discomfort. “You could tell just looking at him, for God’s sake, the way he walked. And by that fairy way he talked too.”

  “You talked to him often then?”

  Bailey snorted again. “Not bloody likely! I don’t like queers.”

  Lori asked, “Why don’t you like gay men, Mr. Bailey? Any particular reason?”

  Bailey had stared at her like she was crazy. “They’re unnatural, that’s why. A man is supposed to be with a woman.” Then he was looking at her differently. “Preferably a pretty woman.” Now it was his turn to look her up and down. “Like you.”

  Lori tried to ignore what he had said but she felt herself blushing. Damn it, she thought. “Were you home last night, Mr. Bailey?” she said, aloud.

  “Depends what you mean by last night,” he said. “I was here until eight o’clock or so. Then I went home.”

  “That’s a long day. I assume you start early in the morning.”

  “I was here by seven, so yeah, it’s a long day. We don’t get paid by the hour, it’s by the house, and the faster I get a house done, the more I make. See?”

  “Yes, I see,” said Lori. “And do you live alone?”

  Bailey leered at her. “Yes, I do, but even though I work a lot, I can always make time for you.”

  “Mr. Bailey, I am not all interested in you. Not. At. All.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “What I am interested in is finding out if anyone can vouch for your whereabouts last night. And I might find it amusing to get you down to the station right now and ask some more questions because you’re not cooperating. Lots of questions.” She smiled at him. “You might find it difficult to finish your house then, hmmm?”

  Bailey scowled at her. “I’m cooperating! And no, nobody can vouch for me.” He thought for a few seconds. “Unless one of my nosy neighbours saw me come in. Ask them.”

  “We’ll do that. And you can be sure we’ll want to talk to you again.” Lori moved around to the driver’s side of her car. “Thank you for your – cooperation.” And she had smiled sweetly at him, got into her car and drove away.

  And here she was now, heading to a meeting with her boss and feeling pretty fine. It was nice to be admired, even if it was by a homophobe like Mike Bailey, and she was quietly pleased with the way she’d stood up to him, as physically imposing as he was.

  It was good to be working with Drumm again, too. They’d gotten to know each other much better working on the recent murder of a local schoolteacher, and Lori felt comfortable with him. It was more than that, actually, if she were honest with herself. She admired him and was attracted to him, despite the difference in their ages. At thirty-one she was eighteen years his junior but what did that matter? He was good-looking, with that touch of grey at the temples and he was fit and trim for his age.

  More than that, he was capable and efficient, kind to his colleagues, and understanding. Lori had basically told him off during the investigation of that last case, half expecting to be disciplined or reassigned, but he had thought about what she said and then come back to tell her he agreed with her. You had to love a boss like that. And there was that quirky habit of his of using the wrong word sometimes. Like, he would say “peculiar” when he meant “particular”. Malapropisms they were called, and his constant use of them and seeming ignorance of doing so was both disconcerting and appealing at the same time.

  Lori had chafed under his use of her on that last case, feeling that her talents were not being utilized properly. So she was gratified that he had sent her to interview Mike Bailey alone. Six months ago she would have been with someone else, and most likely, reduced to the role of a second pair of ears and glorified secretary. This was much better.

  Yes, things were looking up. Lori was still humming as she pulled into the station parking lot.

  nine

  Leaning back in his chair, feet on his desk and hands behind his head, Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm was listening to Lori Singh talk. Referring to her notes as always, she was concluding her summary of her interview with Mike Bailey. He was feeling a lot better with food inside him, and he relaxed, enjoying the sound of his colleague’s soft voice. There was no trace of an accent, even though she was of Indian extraction; Lori Singh had been born in Canada and was Canadian through and through. She liked curry, though – he knew that. And biking. She was fit, too, and dressed well. And she drove a Prius, and he had no idea how she could afford that. Aside from that, he didn’t know a whole lot about her, except that she was a capable detective, not shy, and not afraid to speak up for herself. He had found that out on a case they had worked on in the spring.

  Drumm became aware that she had stopped speaking and was staring at him. He cleared his throat, lowered his chair and removed his feet from the desk. “Sorry, Lori. I was listening, even though it might look like I wasn’t. Just reflecting on what you said about Bailey. Do you believe him?”

  “I do, yes. At least, as far as his being at work until eight o’clock, that is. I was able to confirm that part of his story at his job site. But for the
rest, I don’t know. And I have to tell you, Nick, he is a big man. He tried to use his size to scare me, and there was something about the way he was holding himself… I don’t think menacing is too strong a word for it. So, do I believe him when he says he didn’t kill him? I’m not sure. And he certainly has a hate on for gays.”

  Drumm was pensive. “Right. Tomorrow, see if you can confirm with the neighbours that he got home when he said he did. Start with that Carlson guy. And then see if anybody saw or heard him go out again after that.”

  Lori nodded. “Sure. And after that?”

  “After that we’re going to pay a visit to a bookstore called Bookworm. Our Mr. Billinger worked there apparently.”

  “He worked at a bookstore?” Lori was surprised. “I thought he was a retired teacher?”

  “He was, yes. It’s a bit surprising, when you consider the good pensions that he was getting. But maybe he just wanted to keep busy.” Drumm was rubbing his eyes; he was getting tired again.

  “And how do we know about the bookstore, Nick?”

  “The fisties found pay stubs in the filing cabinet, right up to date. They were in an unmarked folder, which would be why you didn’t notice it. Looks like he was working there this week. Oh, and I forgot to tell you – Sigrid positively identified our guy as Arthur Billinger. From his dental records. Not that there was ever much doubt.”

  Lori said, “Good. And what else do we know?”

  “Sigrid tentatively puts the TOD at between one and two a.m. Killed by blunt force trauma. Big surprise, that. She’s doing the post tomorrow. And the fisties aren’t done yet but they do confirm entry and exit by the door in the kitchen. The broken glass on the kitchen floor shows that clearly; it fell inward. Let’s see, what else? There were numerous sets of fingerprints in the house, including on the door handles, but they haven’t got back to us yet about whose they are. And they found some dirt on the deck just outside the kitchen door, and more inside the house, which looks like it matches up with those footprints we found in the backyard. Same kind of soil, it appears.” Drumm and Singh had discovered a complete right and a partial left footprint under a tree in the backyard.