An Indecent Death Page 7

  Drumm said, “Maybe. Maybe a woman, maybe not. A clever man might have chosen that way deliberately, to mislead. It’s all just speculation at this point.” Drumm went on, “I think Noonan has to be our prime suspect for the moment, but who else do we have?”

  Wesson said, “Most of the men from Elmdale, it seems. Donald Musjari, Bill Deans, Kevin Callaghan.”

  “And don’t forget Douglas Madsen. And Pierre Pepin. And Greg Parent,” Lori added. “And the Bitchin’ Crew.” She said this with a smile.

  “No, we can’t rule out any of those people yet,” Drumm agreed. “Not until we talk to them. So that needs to be our next priority.”

  “What about Lynnette Cranston?” asked Karl. “She has no alibi. It’s just possible she killed her out of jealousy.”

  “It wasn’t her,” Lori said positively.

  “You don’t know that,” said Wesson.

  “No, you’re right, I don’t know that,” said Lori. “But all the same, it wasn’t her.”

  Drumm looked at her. “Maybe you got too close to her in your interview, Lori. Karl’s right, she has to be a suspect. But we are going to concentrate on these other people for the time being. So here’s what we’ll do. Lori, get over to The Fit Life and see what you can find out. Noonan and Lynnette Cranston were regulars there, so there are likely a number of people who know them. See how the two women acted when they were there, who noticed them, that kind of thing.”

  “Fine. And what about you?”

  Drumm smiled. “Karl and I are going to pay a visit to the cranky Mr. Gregory Parent.”

  Greg Parent lived in a small house on a dead-end street with many similar-looking homes. The lawn needed mowing, the few gardens that there were badly needed weeding and there were pieces of what looked like car parts strewn about the property. A rusty Jeep Cherokee sat on the crumbling, oil-stained driveway.

  Drumm was in an irritable mood. There was nothing specific causing it, it was just a whole series of things. He hadn’t slept well, his neck was sore and he’d cut his lip shaving, which he absolutely hated doing, and his mind kept wandering. It was Emily he was thinking about rather than the case, and that wouldn’t do.

  Parent answered their knock wearing blue track pants and a green Roots sweatshirt. He had several days’ worth of stubble on his face, unwashed wiry black hair and he appeared to be hung over. “Yeah?”

  Wesson showed his badge through the screen. “Karl Wesson, York Police Services. We need to talk to you about the death of your daughter’s teacher, Sarah Noonan. May we come in?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Parent said. He started to close the door.

  Drumm opened the screen door quickly and put his foot across the threshold, preventing Parent from shutting the door. “You can talk to us here or we can haul your ass down to the station. Which do you prefer?”

  Parent slowly opened up again, eyeing Drumm warily. Then he waved them in and led the way past the kitchen into a dark and rather untidy living room. Drumm could see counters covered with dirty plates and pots and numerous beer bottles as they went by. Parent gestured to them to be seated, sitting himself in a grubby Lazy Boy armchair. The two detectives sat on opposite ends of a couch, facing Parent.

  Drumm began. “I’m Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm, Violent Crimes Unit. We’re investigating the murder of Sarah Noonan. She was your daughter’s teacher, correct?”

  “Yeah, and about thirty other kids as well. You gonna interview all of them?”

  “Depends, Mr. Parent.” Drumm stared at him.

  “Depends on what?”

  “On how many of them pounded on the principal’s desk and yelled at her.”

  Parent took in what he had heard, then laughed. “Oh, so that’s why you’re here! For God’s sake. The woman was a cow. She deserved to be yelled at. Worst excuse for a teacher I ever seen.”

  Wesson said, “From all we’ve heard, she was a good teacher and well-liked by her students. What was your problem with her?”

  Parent switched his attention to Karl Wesson. “My problem? She picked on Chelsea. She did it all the time, centred her out in class, embarrassed her. I told her a couple of times to cut it out but she kept it up. So, the last time, I told her if it didn’t stop, I’d have to take it further. Chelsea came home from school crying and I went in to see that useless, dumb idiot of a principal.”

  “You lost your temper in the principal’s office? You yelled at Sarah Noonan? You threatened her?” Drumm asked.

  “No, I didn’t threaten her! Who told you that? I never threatened her. Is that what Shithead Shaughnessy said?”

  “Mr. Shaughnessy stated that you were angry, and that he had to threaten to call the police to get you to calm down. Are you denying it?”

  Parent answered. “Nope, that happened alright. I told her to leave my kid alone. Maybe my voice was too loud but I didn’t threaten her.”

  “Were you drinking, Mr. Parent? When you went into the office that time?” Wesson again.

  “What if I had? No crime against it, is there?”

  “Have you been drinking today?”

  “None of your damn business!”

  “Where’s Chelsea today, Mr. Parent?” Drumm looked around the room.

  “At school, of course! Where do you think?”

  “And Mrs. Parent? Where is she at?”

  Parent closed his eyes briefly, then looked at Drumm. “She died four years ago. Of cancer. It’s just me and Chelsea here now.”

  “Do you work?” Karl already knew the answer but he wanted to hear Parent say it.

  Greg Parent looked away. “No. Lost my job awhile back.”

  “And where were you Friday night, Mr. Parent? From four o’clock on?”

  Parent looked at him. “Like that, is it? I was right here. And so was Chelsea. You can ask her.”

  “Oh, we will, sir. You can count on it.”

  “Great. You can leave now. I’ve got things to do.”

  “I doubt that. But never mind. We’ll see ourselves out.” Drumm and Wesson were glad to leave the dark and depressing Parent home. It was hard to stomach the thought of a twelve-year-old girl growing up in such an environment.

  “So he’s got an alibi.” Karl was looking a little subdued.

  “We’ll see what Chelsea says. I wonder how intimated she might be, growing up with an alcoholic father? She might say whatever he wanted her to say. I think we’d better notify Child Services about this situation, Karl.”

  Karl looked puzzled. “Uh, did you mean intimidated, Nick?”

  “Sure. That’s what I said.” Drumm looked at him oddly.

  Okay then, thought Karl. And then he realized what Drumm had just said and inside his head he groaned. Child Services meant paperwork and more paperwork.

  Lori was annoyed and she had a headache. She’d spent more than an hour talking to Lynnette Cranston. Of the three detectives, she was the one who knew Lynnette best, and she knew that it was unlikely that Lynnette had killed her friend. And yet her opinion had been dissed by Karl, and Drumm had backed him up. And then she’d been given the minor task of checking out the fitness centre.

  An afternoon spent at The Fit Life had been responsible for the headache. She arrived outside the building and spent some time in her car observing the clientele entering and leaving the place, which was a stand-alone facility next to the Sunrise Mall. Then she wandered up and down the sidewalk, eventually going up to the window to see if she could see anything. Some fitness centres had clear windows that allowed passersby to check out the members using the equipment, presumably in hopes that they would be encouraged to join. This one didn’t, though; the windows were covered with lettering and pictures, making it extremely difficult to see in. Lori had thought it possible that a stalker or peeping tom might have ogled Sarah through the window, but it seemed not.

  She waited until a group of women had gone in, then followed, so that it looked like she was with them. Once inside, she moved to a co
rner of the room, and sat down to do up her shoe. She had been able to get a good idea of how things worked. The Fit Life had fifteen treadmills, nine of which had been in use. There were ten ellipticals and four of these were occupied. There were three rowing machines, a stair climber and a whole section devoted to Nautilus machines. Two of the walls were mirrored, the change rooms at the back.

  The members were mostly young, a mix of male and female. Most looked fit, like they were regular users. There were a few large women in baggy clothes and a couple of older men who were grossly overweight, but it was mostly young women in spandex and young men in shorts and tee-shirts. Lori thought that Sarah Noonan would have fit right in. She went in search of the manager of the club.

  The manager was also the owner, a man in his early forties, she estimated. He remembered Sarah Noonan and knew she was dead.

  “How well did you know her?” Lori asked the owner, who introduced himself as Barry Friedkin.

  “Oh, geez, not well at all. I knew who she was, that’s all. She often came in with another woman – don’t know her name – nice girl, a bit overweight. But Sarah came in by herself a lot, too. And she was a regular. She took her workouts seriously and was proud of how she looked. You could see that.”

  Singh smiled inwardly at the fact Friedkin knew the name of Sarah Noonan but not Lynnette Cranston. She supposed it was normal for a man to check out a hot-looking woman, even if she were younger. Aloud, she had said, “Did you ever notice anyone hitting on her? Or bothering her, or spying on her? Anybody peering in the window when she was here? Any particular men she talked to regularly?”

  But Friedkin shook his head, no, Sarah had just seemed to attract the same amount of attention as the other young women there. There were no surveillance cameras, either, he had said, when asked.

  Lori had asked the usual question about his whereabouts Friday evening.

  “Right here, Detective, with dozens of witnesses. I put in long hours. Sometimes it feels like I’m chained to the place,” he said.

  The whole afternoon had been pretty much fruitless, and that was why her headache was worse. She was looking forward to a hot bath and a cup of tea.

  Drumm headed home after his visit to Child Services. It was always the same – a load of forms to fill out. He wondered if anything would come of it, but he was legally bound to report suspected child abuse to Child Services. And Gregory Parent’s lifestyle and alcohol abuse were grounds enough to file a report.

  Drumm’s phone rang as the Miata was cruising along the fastest part of his homeward journey.

  “Drumm.”

  “Hello, Nicky.” It was Emily; he’d been thinking about her, on and off, all day.

  “We finally get to talk, Em.”

  “Are you home yet, Nicky?”

  “On my way.”

  “I was glad to get your message, Nicky. Very glad. I’ve been wondering about you all day and wanted to phone so many times. But I know how you hate personal calls when you’re working.”

  Drumm didn’t quite know what to say. “I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he admitted finally.

  “Let’s have lunch tomorrow, Nicky. Can you get away?”

  Could he get away? Oh, yes, he could get away alright. Just try to stop him. He wouldn’t tell her that, though. “I think so, yes. But you know how it is, if something comes up, I’ll have to cancel.”

  “I know. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. How about Luigi’s, at noon? You used to like it there.”

  “I still do, Emily. Luigi’s is fine.” He paused for a moment. “It’ll be good to see you.”

  “Ditto, Nicky. I’ll wear something special for you. See you tomorrow.” And she hung up before he could say anything more.

  Will was pleased to see him when he arrived home a few minutes later. Drumm fed him some raw steak and salad, as well as his kibble, and walked him around the block, all the while thinking about Emily. She was going to wear something special, he thought. That sounded intriguing. He could think of all kinds of interesting possibilities.

  Back in his favourite chair, Drumm went over in his head everything they had learned about Sarah Noonan’s life. She seemed to have attracted men to her like moths to a candle flame. Only it was she that ended up getting burned. For all that they now knew, they were no closer to finding out who had killed her. Further away, if anything. Forgetting for once to use his glucose meter, Drumm fell asleep in his chair.

  nine

  Elmdale Elementary School was quiet at seven forty-five in the morning. Drumm sat in his Miata and noted only four vehicles in the school’s parking lot. One would be the custodian’s, he knew, and another was likely the secretary’s. The others would belong to the early-riser type, those who liked to get to work and prepare themselves. Drumm had been one of these, an early bird who liked the peace of the morning to prepare his daybook and organize his thoughts before the hubbub of the educational day overwhelmed him with its challenges. The principal would not be at school yet, of that he was fairly certain. Most principals, unless they had a meeting, arrived later than their staff. Drumm had arrived early today so as to explore the school on his own, before everyone else got there.

  Drumm locked the Miata, introduced himself at the office to Mrs. McCall, who was, as he had guessed, already at her desk, and was given a visitor badge on a lanyard to hang around his neck. Gail McCall seemed to be the perpetually cheery type; she had given him a big smile and told him to make himself at home. “There’s coffee in the staff room,” she said. “Jim won’t be here for a while yet, but you can look around all you want.” And she had given him a master key that would get him into any room in the building. Drumm wasn’t looking for anything in particular. And he did want to poke about on his own, before Jim Shaughnessy came in.

  The secretary is always the most important person in the school, he thought, as he walked down the quiet hallway. If she’s on your side, you can get almost anything you want. In this case, a free pass to any room. The doors to the classrooms in this hall were locked, the windows covered with construction paper so one couldn’t see in. Drumm knew this was a response to the rash of violent incidents involving intruders, both in Canada and the United States. The theory was that in case there was such an incident, the teacher could close the door, turn off the lights and have the students crouch under their desks absolutely quietly. The intruder would think the room was empty and move on. Drumm opened one of the doors, flicked on the lights and saw a typical classroom, likely grade four or five, judging by the size of the desks and the quality of the art work on the walls. He turned off the lights and locked the door again.

  On the east side of the school was the gymnasium with its set of double doors propped open. It was pitch dark inside as Drumm entered, but then the lights flickered on, activated by his presence. There were four basketball hoops, a stage at one end, banners on the walls; Drumm had seen it all before. Exiting the gym, Drumm made his way to the back of the school where he found a small hallway leading off to the side. There was a door, slightly ajar, at the end of the hall. It was marked, ‘Custodian’, and Drumm pushed it open.

  Inside there were shelves with various bottles and pails, mops and brooms in the corner, a filing cabinet and a desk. There was also a sink with a chair in front of it. And in the chair, tilted backwards slightly with his feet in the sink, was a man, eyes closed and head back. He was slight, about sixty, with grey stubble on his face and thinning hair. He had on a light-brown shirt and blue work pants; he was wearing safety boots and had the standard ID tag around his neck, the one that all school district employees were obliged to wear. Drumm leaned forward. This one identified the wearer as Pierre Pepin.

  “Mr. Pepin?” Drumm used his loudest voice, intending to make the janitor jump. Which he did. Pepin opened his eyes, snorted, awkwardly removed his feet from the sink and stood up.

  “Sorry, must’ve dozed off, me. Got here really early this morning, felt pooped. Not as young as I used to be, me. Just p
ut my feet up for a minute to rest.” The custodian’s missing tooth was clearly evident, and Drumm agreed with Lynnette, it was a bit creepy. He also suspected that this feet in the sink thing was a regular occurrence.

  Drumm showed the janitor his badge. “We’re doing some follow-up investigations today, Mr. Pepin. About Sarah Noonan’s murder,” he added. “Was she a friend of yours? How well did you know her?”

  “Me? No, no, we weren’t friends. I mean, we got along. I get along with everybody, me.” Pepin’s eyes slid away from Drumm and he was scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t know her much at all.”

  Drumm wondered about Pepin’s accent. Clearly the man was French Canadian but his way of putting ‘me’ at the end of his sentences was not something Drumm had ever heard before. He wondered if it was legitimate or something that Pepin did for some strange purpose of his own. “What did you think of Sarah, Mr. Pepin?”

  “Ah, well… …the kids liked her, you know? I t’ink she was a good teacher. Nice to talk to.”

  “What time do you arrive at school, Mr. Pepin? And what time do you leave?”

  “Me? I’m here at 6:30 in the morning. I go home at 3:30 most days.”

  “What about last Friday?” Drumm asked. “Did you leave at 3:30 that day?”

  “Sure. It was the weekend. I wasn’t going to hang around, me.”

  “So you left at 3:30. Did you see Sarah Noonan before you left?”

  Pierre Pepin looked puzzled. “Sarah? No, no. I go out dat door dere, you see? The parking lot is right dere. At 3:30, I’m outa here, t’rough dat door. Don’t see nobody, ‘cept a t’ousand kids and parents outside dere.”

  “OK, Mr. Pepin, thank you. I’m sure you have work to do. I might want to talk to you later, though. Have a good day.” Drumm left the janitor still scratching his head and made his way back to the front of the school.