SVS-14: Stoddard's Protege by Bluewolf, Part 3
With two things they wanted to do immediately, Jim and Blair decided to split up, and while Blair went to see Lesley Stoddard, saying he'd rejoin Jim at the PD, Jim went to Homicide to have a word with Wilmot, advancing his planned visit to the man by about sixteen hours. He found Wilmot reading the Forensic report on Andrew Gemmell. Wilmot looked up as Jim reached his desk. "Ellison. You've seen Dan's report?" "This morning. I was passing the Gemmell house earlier today -- sheer chance -- and with that report in mind, I looked in. Found some more of those fake books in Gemmell's bedroom, some of them stuffed with drugs, and a couple of them full of cash. It hadn't occurred to me he might have had several of them -- who'd have expected him to use more than one?" Wilmot glanced suspiciously at him, but said nothing more than, "I suppose this, added to the homicide, makes it more a matter for Major Crime than my department," as he flicked the report with a would-be casual finger. It was quite clear to Jim that Wilmot was feeling his nose just a little out of joint, though he was putting a better face on it than Jim would have expected. "Probably, and since I'm already involved, that would mean me; but I'd appreciate your input -- and of course I'll credit you with that." He knew instantly that he had said the right thing; Wilmot lost a fair amount of his bristly defensiveness between one breath and the next. "Well, I've been round the neighbors," he said, "but not many of them would admit to seeing anything. It's a very quiet area; the sort of place where you might expect some of the old biddies to know everything that's going on, see every stranger who comes within half a mile of the place. But no; most of them claim to have seen nothing. One guy admitted that Gemmell didn't 'take kindly to being neighborly, preferred to be left to himself' and said he 'felt sorry for the boy' -- then added 'but you have to make allowances -- he was okay before his wife died. He never really got over that, then lost his football career just as it was really taking off'." "So Gemmell had lived there for -- what? Over ten years?" Wilmot nodded as he said, "If you hold on a minute, I'll give you copies of the reports." He turned to his computer. Jim left with a thin folder of papers; as Wilmot had said, the house-to-house inquiry hadn't turned up much. Returning to his desk, he began reading. Saw nothing. Saw nothing. Was at work. Saw nothing. Was at work. Finally he reached a comment that was positive rather than negative.
Statement from Gail Deborah Absalom, 76, widow, living at number 867. Jim laid that page down and turned to the next one. It turned out to be the one Wilcox had quoted:
Statement from Ronald Alexander Duthie, 68, retired, living at 674. Jim reread the two statements. At a guess, the 'businessman' who visited so briefly mid-morning was Gemmell's supplier; a 'very ordinary', easily forgotten face would serve such a man extremely well. And not long after that, Gemmell went out. Why? A pity Mrs. Absalom hadn't seen him returning; if he had been carrying a bag full of shopping, that would have provided an answer. But if he hadn't been shopping, where had he been? Out selling? "Hey, man! Found something?" "Hi, Chief. How'd you get on with Mrs. Stoddard?" "I won't repeat what she said," Blair said, mock-primly. "I wouldn't have thought she'd know half of those words..." Abruptly, he dropped the act. "She'll tell Bob tonight, once she's had time to think of the gentlest way to do it. And you found?" "One of the neighbors thought Gemmell was suffering from depression." "Whoa. That could explain a lot. Doesn't explain why he should turn to selling drugs, though." "I was just trying to work out a link between the way he treated Bob and depression." "There are different kinds of depression, Jim. One of Naomi's boyfriends had what the doctor called agitated depression. If things didn't go the way he thought they should, he threw what in a kid you'd call a temper tantrum. Then he'd be all right again for a couple of weeks except for being what you might call over-protective, then something would trigger another one. She stayed with him for about three months, and man, as far as I was concerned, that was ten weeks too many. If I'd had my way, we'd have been out of there halfway through the first tantrum. But she persuaded him to see a doctor, and she really thought she was helping him -- till he hit me in one of his attacks. I don't think it was deliberate, but Naomi didn't stop to find out; by the time he'd calmed down again we were twenty miles away." "How do you know that?" Jim asked, not sure whether to believe Blair's story or pass it off as another of his partner's attempts to lighten a situation. "The attacks usually lasted about half an hour, by which time he'd got whatever was bothering him out of his system. He hit me very early on; we always had an emergency bag packed anyway, and it took Naomi all of five minutes to throw her clothes and mine into another case, grab the emergency bag, chuck everything into her car, and take off. Roughly twenty minutes at sixty miles an hour... "Okay, it clearly took Gemmell a different way, but yeah, now I think his obsession with football -- which was his career, after all -- and his determination that his sons should follow in his footsteps could easily be a symptom of a depression that started with his wife's death." He reached for the phone. "I'll tell Lesley that -- it might make it easier for Bob if he could think his father was ill, rather than bad." Jim nodded. "Yeah, go on." He listened while Blair told Lesley Stoddard of the neighbor's suspicions, and clearly heard her reply. "Well, yes, Blair, but are you sure it'll make Bob feel better? He might feel guilty for not realizing his father was ill." "Lesley, he was eight when his Mom died, and ten when Gemmell was injured and had to retire. At that point he'd had two years of seeing Gemmell getting more and more morose, then it would seem there was a good reason for the man to get even worse. By the time he was old enough to suspect Gemmell was actually ill, he'd become so used to things -- of course he wouldn't suspect." "All right, then, I'll tell him that too." "I don't think anyone could do it better, Lesley. Thanks." Blair hung up and turned back to Jim. "Anything else from the reports?" "Not much. The guy who came up with the depression theory lived next door, and as he said, that's not the best position to see anything. The only other piece of information came from a woman living on the other side of the road. She saw someone calling at the house about ten, but she couldn't describe him -- here, see for yourself." He handed the two statements to Blair. "Ten... we know Dan was at the exhibition by ten, so this could be the guy who supplies his drugs?" "That's what I thought." "And not the killer, because Gemmell went out afterwards... and anyway he was killed after twelve." Blair read on. "Pale green car... " "Blair, do you know how many pale green cars there are in Cascade?" "A fair number, but it's not one of the commoner colors. Jim -- if this guy is a supplier, would Narcotics be able to help? They might know who's likely to be driving around in a pale green car?" "Sandburg... Hell, I knew there was a good reason to keep you around! Come on -- let's pay Narcotics a visit." Blair grinned as he began to follow his sentinel. "That's the trouble with you Major Crime detectives -- you forget there are other departments too," he muttered, just loud enough for Jim to hear. "Come on, Toto." "Lead on, Kemosabe," Blair responded cheerfully. Captain Blanchard looked tired. As a senior cop in Narcotics when Tommy Yuan was Captain, one who was not involved in Yuan's dishonesty, he had been given an unwanted promotion 'as a temporary measure' when Yuan was proved dirty; 'temporary' had become 'permanent' within six months, and there were times when he cursed his conscientiousness. He had been much happier without the ultimate responsibility for his department. "Hello, Jim," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Blair." Unlike his predecessor, he did not consider the men in his department the only ones in the PD worth a damn; he had made a point of getting acquainted, at least, with the top men in all the other departments. "What brings you here?" "We have a problem," Jim said with a frankness he would not have used in Yuan's day. "We've got a homicide we suspect of being a drug dealer. Until the drugs came to light, it was Dick Wilmot's case; now it's mine. We don't think the death was drug-related, but we would like to track down the guy we think might have been the man's supplier. Do you know of any possible supplier who drives a pale green car, make unknown?" "Yeah. Pale green car, that has to be one of Chris Ng's boys. You'll find Ng in Chinatown -- he runs the Scarlet Dragon. Damned good restaurant, too. Pricey -- don't expect much change from a hundred dollars if you have a full meal, including wine, there -- but worth every cent. It's a completely legitimate business, and he keeps it totally clean. We keep an eye on him, but we haven't been able to track down where he operates his drug business from -- even with those pale green cars as a giveaway." "Thanks." "If you want a word with him -- I'm not butting in on your case, but the quickest way will be if I go along with you. He's surprisingly co-operative -- apparently co-operative -- but of course he knows we have nothing more than suspicion. His men are completely loyal to him." "I'd be glad of your help," Jim said.
 The Scarlet Dragon was in the heart of Chinatown, and even this early in the evening, it was relatively busy. The doorman greeted Blanchard with polite familiarity. "Captain Blanchard. Nice to see you, sir. Are you wanting a meal?" "No, Harry, I'd like a word with Mr. Ng if he's available." "For you, Captain, always." He picked up a phone, hit two numbers, and exchanged a few quick words in Mandarin. He hung up the phone. "He will see you in five minutes, Captain." "Thanks, Harry." It was barely five minutes before he appeared -- an impeccably-dressed businessman. "Captain Blanchard!" A stranger could have been excused for thinking that Blanchard was one of Ng's closest friends. "What can I do for you?" He was already ushering them through a door clearly marked STAFF.
"Detective Ellison?" Ng asked. Jim paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. "First of all, what is said in this room won't go beyond it." Ng nodded. "Captain Blanchard and I are old adversaries, but he would not try to trick me." "I am investigating a murder. Two or three hours before the man was killed, he had a visitor... a visitor who looked like a businessman, and drove a pale green car." "Ah. And Captain Blanchard, of course, told you that men who work for me all drive such cars." "Yes. We believe that he may have sold the victim certain... goods. At the moment, I'm not interested in these goods. We would simply like to be able to eliminate this man from our inquiries." "I see. I saw the news on Friday. Would the dead man have been called Andrew Gemmell?" Jim nodded. "I expected this visit." He picked up a phone, hit a number, and said simply, "Come in." The door opened, and a man entered. Jim saw instantly why Mrs. Absalom had called his face 'very ordinary'; he had the kind of face nobody was likely to notice. Ng said, "This is the man who visited Mr. Gemmell. You can call him Smith." Jim stood and held out his hand; the man went to him and shook it. "Mr. Smith. Can you tell me when you saw Mr. Gemmell?" "I called at his house at ten o'clock on Thursday, and spoke with him for perhaps five minutes. He was still alive when I left." "Were you on friendly terms with him at all?" Smith shook his head. "No. He wasn't the kind of man to make friends; nor was he a man who would think to offer a visitor, especially a business visitor, a cup of tea or coffee. Our contact was always short and completely impersonal." "Tell me, Mr. Smith -- do you smoke at all?" Smith frowned, clearly puzzled by the question. "No, sir. I've never smoked." "Thank you. That's all I need to know." Smith glanced at Ng, who nodded; he left quickly. "Thank you, Mr. Ng. That confirms the evidence of a witness who saw the victim's visitor at ten. I don't think we need bother you or your man about this again." He swallowed the last of his tea and glanced at Blanchard. Both Blair and Blanchard took a courteous couple of minutes to finish their tea. "This is very good tea," Blair said softly. "Thank you." "You're welcome," Ng replied politely. They had gone to Chinatown in Jim's truck; after they dropped Blanchard off at the PD, Jim turned for home. "So?" Blair asked. "Well, that disposes of the 'aftershave'. It's obviously an oriental scent, possibly even incense, and I definitely picked up the smell of it from Mr... er... Smith. I could detect it easily in the restaurant, and I'd guess his clothes have picked up the smell. And since he doesn't smoke, that leaves us with a third visitor, the smoker, who is probably the killer." "You're not doing anything about Smith as Gemmell's supplier?" Jim shook his head. "Blanchard is keeping a pretty good eye on Ng's operation. I think we can leave that side of it up to him." He turned the truck into his normal parking space and switched off the ignition. Into the silence, he said, "I know you think we should have arrested Smith, but you may have noticed I didn't mention the word 'drug' at any time. I don't think Ng or his man had any involvement in Gemmell's death, and that's all I'm concerned with at the moment. We're already treading on Homicide's toes; I don't want to piss off Narcotics as well. There are times when the different departments need each other, and it does help if the departments are on speaking terms and not trying to score points off each other." "Jim -- wasn't that more or less what I tried to tell you earlier?" Jim grinned. "I suppose it was."
They split up again the next morning, with Blair reluctantly going off to see Dan Ashford while Jim went straight to the PD. Blair reached Wilkenson Tower just before ten. The door to the exhibition was open to let in the exhibitors, but a member of the Tower security staff was on guard at the door to keep out the public. Blair flourished his consultant's badge. "I need a word with one of the vendors -- Dan Ashford -- has an art stall at the back." The guard, a man who obviously took his duties seriously, scowled at the ID, noting that it was a consultant's badge, not an actual police one. "Is this police business?" "The man isn't in trouble, if that's what you mean," Blair told him. "His father was murdered last week. We're trying to keep the family informed of developments before any details hit the papers." The guard stood aside. "I take it he is here?" "Yes -- came in about ten minutes ago." "Right. Thanks." Blair moved quickly to the back of the room, and went to Ashford's stall. The man was hanging a picture; Blair waited till he had it hung properly, then moved forward. "Hello again, Dan." Ashford jumped, clearly taken by surprise, and turned quickly. "Mr. Sandburg! What -- Is Bob all right?" "We haven't been told he isn't. But Dan, something came up yesterday you should know about. The Forensic report turned up something, and Detective Ellison and I went to check the house. "Dan -- there isn't an easy way to tell you this. Your father was selling drugs." "What? Impossible! He -- Bob said that's why -- It's impossible!" Blair shook his head. "He didn't have much of an income, Dan, and -- well, we can only guess, but he might have been afraid that it wasn't enough to live on, that he might have to sell his home and end up renting somewhere cheap -- a real drop in the world for him. We found over a hundred thousand dollars in the house, as well a stock of heroin, some Ecstasy and some marijuana. "As for what he did to Bob -- classic double standard, man. It would never do for his son to be involved in the drug scene, but other people's sons were a source of income to him." "Oh. Like the fella who encourages his son to fuck all the girls in the neighborhood, but heaven help the guy who gets too fresh with his daughter?" "Uh-huh." "God. Does Bob know?" "We asked Mrs. Stoddard to tell him." Ashford stood for a moment staring across the room. "I think I shocked you a little the other day, didn't I? When I took the news of Dad's death so -- well, calmly." "A little," Blair agreed. "You must realize -- when he threw me out, he made it very clear that as far as he was concerned, I no longer existed. That I was beneath contempt. That artists, along with academics, were fags, parasites, freeloaders on society. He told me my mother would have been disgraced and humiliated by my choice of career, and finished off by saying he had only one son, that it was a pity I was ever born -- though at least as a fag I wouldn't be passing on my useless blood to anyone else. And he threw me out with nothing. No clothes except what I was wearing, no money, nothing. "I left Cascade that day, hitched a ride on a heavy truck that was going to Tacoma, but I was living on the street, begging, for a month before I got any sort of break, and lucky to get that; then I had two years of struggling -- really struggling -- to support myself and get some money saved before I managed to get into art college. All the way through college I had to work, too, to supplement the student loans. Are you surprised that... well, as far as I was concerned, my father died that day. Hearing about his actual death -- it was like hearing about the death of a stranger." He sighed. "I have a good life now, but I'm still bitter about the way he treated me. All he wanted me -- and Bob -- for was as an echo of himself. He never wanted either of us to be ourselves, never thought that either of us might have taken after Mom. If she'd lived it might have been different -- though I can't remember him ever paying much heed to what she wanted, what she thought. All he really wanted his wife to be was an echo, parroting his opinions and his thoughts. I don't know if Bob realized that -- I don't think so; he was probably too young when she died -- but I could see it. Sometimes I think she died just to get away from him. "But considering everything -- I'm still surprised that he got involved in the drug scene." "We don't know who his customers were," Blair said quietly, "but -- going by what Bob has said about him -- I'd suspect he didn't sell to anyone he knew was involved in sports. Remember, he considered everyone else weak. What he did to weaklings didn't count as 'bad'. If they bought what he was selling, it just confirmed his belief that they were weak." "God, how much more screwed up can you get?" Blair shook his head. "Good question, man. Seriously, I've had twenty-four hours to think about this, and you know, I doubt that he was completely sane. He took his interest in football, in sports, past fandom into fanaticism." "But selling drugs?" "I think that was indicative of his contempt for anyone who wasn't into any sport as a career. In a way, I suppose you have to pity him. He told Dr. Stoddard that a successful player would be in demand as a coach. Pity he hadn't gone that route." "He tried, but his injury... He could walk all right, but when he tried to run, he couldn't." Of course, that's the other contradiction; he'd been crippled, why did he want you and Bob following a career that might mean your becoming crippled? We're back to fanaticism again." "Yeah, I guess we are. Thanks for letting me know, anyway. Mr. Sandburg --" "Yes?" "What about Bob? What's he going to do? I can give him a home if he needs one." "I'll let him know that, but I have a feeling he wants to stay with Dr. Stoddard; I know Dr. and Mrs.. Stoddard are more than happy to let him stay as long as he wants." "And I'm a stranger." "Not your fault, man, and you can get to know each other over the next few months -- but if you're only going to be in Cascade another year or two, and he's studying at Rainier beyond that, he'd have to find another home when you left anyway." "That's true. Holly should get her degree next summer, and then, unless she decides she wants an advanced degree, she'll be looking for a permanent job somewhere, and that's not likely to be Cascade; while I can move anywhere. And even during this year -- I'll be moving around a bit. My next exhibition will be in Tacoma, a couple of weeks after this one closes. I'll have to stay there for three weeks. A month after that I'll be in Seattle. Holly understands." "She'd have to be more than understanding, though, to give a home to your brother while you're not there," Blair pointed out. "I hadn't thought of that. I don't think she had either -- she agreed that I should try to get him away from Dad but I don't think she'd thought it completely through either. Yes, he's best with Dr. Stoddard, if he doesn't mind." Blair chuckled. "I have a feeling that Mrs. Stoddard will spoil him rotten. Don't lose touch with him again, but remember that you have eight years of silence -- even though it wasn't your choice, either of you -- to overcome." The first customers of the day were beginning to appear; Blair said quietly, "I've taken up enough of your time; we'll let you know when we have any more information." "Thanks." As Blair turned away, a young mother with a small child in a stroller approached the artist. "I'd like a picture..." Blair paused by Rudi's stall; the woodworker grinned a welcome. "I've made a start on your panther," he said. "That's great, man," Blair responded. "Is Dan having a problem?" he asked. Blair looked at him for a moment then decided on a modified truth. "Dan's father died last week. His younger brother lived with the father, so there's been a little concern over where he was going to go, at least in the short term. That's all." He hesitated for a moment. "I wouldn't say anything to Dan about it. He and his father didn't get along." "Ah. Right. I won't say anything about it to anyone." Blair went back to the PD. As he parked, he noticed Rafe coming into the garage; he waved, and called, "Hi!" Rafe seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said, "Hi, Blair." He sounded a little subdued, and Blair wondered what was wrong. Before he could ask, however, Rafe hurried to his car, got in, and drove quickly away. Blair stared after the vanished car for a moment, still wondering what was wrong, then shrugged and made his way to Major Crime, where he found Jim surrounded by reports. "Hi, Jim -- how's it going?" "It isn't," Jim said. "I've given up on Gemmell for the moment -- I've gone back to the Brewster case. Half of these eye-witness accounts are contradicting the other half." "Let's have a look."
Just after four, an elderly woman entered the bullpen, a boy of about nine following at her heels. She spoke to Rhonda, who directed her to Jim's desk. Predictably, it was Blair who glanced up and smiled. "Yes, ma'am?" "Detective Ellison?" Blair's grin widened, and he leaned over to thump Jim's arm. "Wake up, partner. There's a lady here to see you." Jim looked up from the report engrossing him. "Oh. Sorry. I'm Ellison. You wanted me?" "Lt. Wilcox left his card with me when he came by asking if anyone had seen anything at Mr. Gemmell's house last Thursday, so I came in to see him, but he said you'd taken over from him?" "Yes, for several reasons, Major Crime took the case over from Homicide. Lt. Wilcox spoke to you, you say?" He was already groping for the reports Wilcox had given him. "Yes. I'm Norah Meadows, I live at number 869." "Next door to Mrs. Absalom?" "That's right. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary that day, but Barry here -- he's my grandson -- he says he did. Barry's mother works, you see, part time, three days a week, so he comes to me after school Tuesday to Thursday, so I didn't know till today that he saw anything. Anyway, the schools were off last Thursday -- the teachers were having some sort of meeting, I don't know why, so Barry was with me all day." "I see." Jim looked at the boy. "You're Barry --?" "Barry Leimich," his grandmother said. "Thank you, Mrs. Meadows," Jim said. "I need Barry to answer me now. Blair, will you write down Barry's answers for me?" Blair nodded and reached for a pencil. "Right, Barry -- how old are you?" "Ten next month." "And you were at your grandmother's all day on Thursday." "Yes, because the schools were off." "And you think you saw something at Mr. Gemmell's house?" "Yes. I'd gone to the kitchen for a drink when his car pulled into his driveway and he got out and went into his house." "And what time was that, do you remember?" "Just after twelve. Gran has a clock in the kitchen that makes a funny noise on the hour, and it had just made that noise. "Then another car stopped on the road outside the house and a lady got out -- I know it was a lady, though she was wearing trousers and her hair was really short. She knocked on the door, and when Mr. Gemmell opened it, she sort of pushed in as if she was in a hurry. And I know I was being nosy, but I stayed in the kitchen to look at her car -- it was a red Ford, one of the big pricey ones, and it had a personalized license plate." "Did you see what was on the plate?" Jim asked, keeping his voice even with an effort; this could be the break they needed. "Yes, but it didn't make a word. It was spelled S-E-W-N-S-E-W." "Right. So you were looking at the car -- admiring it?" "Yeah -- real cool! Then she came out of the house in just as much of a hurry as she went in, got into her car and drove away, and nearly hit a parked car at number 872 -- she swerved just in time to miss it." "And do you know what time that was?" "About ten past twelve. She came out again so quickly I looked at the clock to see how long she'd been in the house, and it was about ten past twelve, so she was only there maybe five minutes. Then I went back through to the living room and I didn't say anything to Gran because I was searching for the channel for a program I wanted to see and then I forgot about it till I got to Gran's today and she said the police had been round there asking everyone if they'd seen anything and when I told her she said we'd have to come and tell Lt. Wilcox." "Barry, what you saw is really important," Jim said. "You're the only person who saw that red Ford. "And you think it was a lady who got out of it?" "Yes." "Can you tell me why? You said she was wearing trousers." "They didn't look like a man's trousers. I mean, they were pink with yellow dots." He glanced at his grandmother, clearly wondering if his next comment would get him into trouble. "Even Randy and Ralph who live next door to us don't wear pink trousers with yellow dots, and half the time when you see them you'd think they were girls. And her hair was curly. Men usually have straight hair." Jim glanced at his partner, who carefully continued to pay attention to the paper in front of him, refusing to look up although Jim was sure he was aware of his gaze. He returned his attention to the boy. "Pink with yellow dots," he repeated. "You're right, I find it hard to think of a man wearing pink and yellow trousers." "And her jacket was yellow too," Barry added as if he had just remembered that. "Definitely a lady," Jim agreed. "That was very observant of you, Barry. Can you remember anything else?" Barry thought for a moment then shook his head. Blair moved quickly to the computer and started typing as Jim said, "Mrs. Meadows, you should be proud of your grandson." "You think this will help you?" she asked. "Yes," Jim said. "Is that all? Can we go now?" "If you'll just wait a moment till my partner gets it typed up," Jim said, "then Barry can check that what we have on record is exactly what he saw." Blair came back a minute later with a printout. "Right, Barry," he said. "Like Detective Ellison said, will you read this?" Half awed, the boy obeyed, then looked up. "Now -- is that exactly what you told us?" Jim asked. Barry nodded. "Right." He handed over a pen. "Will you sign your name at the bottom -- that's our proof that our record is right, that we haven't added anything to it." The boy signed his name very carefully, then his grandmother led him out. "Right, Chief. We've got that personalized number plate -- who's it registered to?" Blair hit several keys on the computer. "Right, here we are... SewnSew; Mrs. Amanda Norris." He scribbled down the address and handed it over. "Right, Chief -- coming?" "Like you need to ask?" Blair muttered. The address proved to be a store; its name, unsurprisingly, was similar to the personalized plate: Sew 'n Sew. The window was full of sewing materials; embroidery kits, cross stitch kits, sewing floss, books of charts, printed tapestry canvas, a sewing machine... Jim shook his head. "What would half of those stores do without puns?" he asked. "It's hardly a pun, man. It is a pretty crummy play on words, though." "Okay, but what's wrong with just calling it -- oh, 'Norris Sewing Supplies'?" "That doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?" Blair asked as they entered the store. "And she couldn't get that on a personalized plate." The woman behind the counter had a badly bruised face. She laid down her half-smoked cigarette in a convenient ashtray. "Can I help you, gentlemen?" Jim's nose twitched as he identified the smell of the smoke. "Are you Mrs. Norris?" "Yes." He pulled out his badge. "James Ellison, Cascade PD. I'd like to ask you --" She exploded into movement; raced around the edge of the counter, shoving Blair hard out of her way, and shot out of the door. Turning to follow her, Jim tripped over Blair's legs. He pushed himself up and raced after her. She was headed for the red Ford parked nearby. Jim pulled his gun as he yelled, "Cascade PD!" although he knew she knew who he was. "Freeze!" She had reached the car, but stopped at that, clearly recognizing that she had no chance of unlocking the door and escaping with a cop so close. As Jim handcuffed her, he Mirandized her; then he walked her back to his truck, wondering why Blair hadn't followed him. He pushed her back into the store where Blair was still sitting on the floor. Jim looked down, anxious about his guide but unwilling to give Mrs. Norris another chance to escape. He unfastened one hand and snapped the cuff to a bar on a freestanding, but heavy-looking display unit, and bent over Blair. "What happened, Chief? What did she do to you?" "I was winded -- nothing more. I'm okay now." They took Mrs. Norris back to the PD, her wrists cuffed behind her back.
Anxious to get it over with, Jim began the interrogation as soon as possible. He began by glaring intimidatingly at her and at the lawyer sitting beside her -- a glare that was lost on her as, after one quick glance at him, she sat with her eyes fixed on the table. "You do realize, Mrs. Norris, that we could charge you with resisting arrest?" She looked up for a moment and nodded before returning her attention to the table. "However, that is minor charge compared to the one of involvement in the death of Andrew Gemmell. "We know you visited Gemmell just after midday last Thursday. What I'd like to know is, why?" She licked her lips and glanced at her lawyer before speaking. "He was selling drugs. I... I'd suspected that my son had started taking drugs; I've been watching him, following him, to find out for certain. On Thursday I watched as Rod bought some drugs; I followed the seller home. I pushed my way into his house, told him to stop supplying Rod." She looked up then, for the first time showing some animation. "He just laughed, and said he'd sell as much to idiot weaklings as they were willing to buy." Anger tinged her voice as she went on. "He was selling drugs, making money off kids like mine, and it was so obvious that he despised them for buying.... I told him I'd go to the police if he didn't stop -- and then... then he hit me." Her voice broke slightly. "I thought... He was threatening me, and I thought he was going to hit me again. The look on his face... "He was between me and the door. I punched him a couple of times, trying to make him get out of my way, and he laughed again. Then he kept coming after me again... threatening me... There was a knife on the table; I... I grabbed it and hit out at him. It was self defense. I hit his arm, and tried to get away, but he was still between me and the door." She hesitated for a moment, clearly fighting tears. "He kept after me -- he hit me, but I managed to stab him again, in the chest. He went down, but he pushed himself up again right away and still came after me, and from the look on his face I knew he'd kill me if he could get his hands on me -- and he did grab my arm. I stabbed him again and this time when he fell he hit his head on the table and it seemed to half-stun him. He was still trying to get up though, so I ran for it. I took the knife with me; got into the car and drove away. He was still alive when I left, I know he was. He was trying to get up." "And what did you do with the knife?" "I took the road past the Bay and threw the knife into the water. Then I went home and washed the blood off and changed my clothes." She fell silent for a moment, then went on. "I hadn't thought beyond confronting him, asking him to stop selling drugs to Rod... hadn't thought how he might react. I'm sorry I killed him, but I'm not sorry he's dead. Can you understand that? Can you even begin to imagine the misery he's caused?" "As it happens, Mrs. Norris, I can," Jim said quietly, "but I'm not here to pass judgment on him or his way of life; I'm here to uphold the law." The lawyer said quietly, "My client wishes to plead guilty to the charge of causing Mr. Gemmell's death, Detective. At most, however, she is guilty of manslaughter in self defense. The bruises on her face and arm --" "Could well have been caused as Mr. Gemmell tried to defend himself from her attack," Jim murmured. "No! He hit me first!" she exclaimed. "We only have your word for it," Jim said, though his voice was gentle. "A jury can decide that." "Think she's telling the truth?" Blair asked as she was led away. "Yes, I do," Jim replied. "She was agitated, but she wasn't sweating it out the way a liar would. We know he'd become too handy with his fists; it seems likely he'd lash out. I can sympathize with her; but I keep remembering that if she'd called the police when she left, he might have been found in time." "If he was trying to get up as she left, she was entitled to think that he'd be able to call for help for himself," Blair pointed out. "I don't think I'd have hung around, in her position. Hit hard then run like hell -- it's a good defense strategy when you're facing a bigger, stronger opponent who's determined to hurt you, man. And if she'd followed him home, she didn't necessarily know his name or even exactly where he lived, to call once she was well away. "And Jim -- think of this. I know I muttered about Dan's reaction when he heard, but not even Bob, who still lived with him, grieved. Eli told me that after the first shock, Bob was relieved to be free of him. Says a lot about the man, doesn't it."
Blair spent part of Friday afternoon at Rainier, but left just after three and went home via Wilkenson Tower. He made his way to the wood carver, pausing en route beside Dan Ashford. "How's it going, Dan?" "Fine. I suppose you know Dad's body has been released -- he's being buried on Tuesday -- the funeral is at 1 pm." "Yeah, Dr Stoddard told me the time. He and his wife will be there; I'm planning to attend. Detective Ellison will come along if he can get off." "Thanks." He shrugged. "It's crazy -- I hated the man, but I do want to see he gets a decent burial, with at least one or two people there to give the illusion that he'll be missed. I don't expect there'll be many there though -- it's been a long time since he was in the public eye." "You might be surprised," Blair said, and moved on as a woman with two young children paused; as he went, he heard her say, "Will you do them both in the one picture?" He crossed to Rudi. "I know I'm early --" "That's okay, I have your panther here. What do you think?" He reached under the counter and produced it. Blair took it almost reverently. The pose was alert, watchful -- this animal was silently waiting, motionless, but with every muscle alert, ready to pounce on something. "Man, it's beautiful. It's perfect. It's exactly what I wanted." "Good. Yet it was surprisingly easy to do. Sometimes I know what I want to do, but I have a problem getting it even approximately right; this one... the wood just spoke to me, if you know what I mean." Blair nodded. "I'm an anthropologist; I've spent time with so-called 'primitive' tribes. They sometimes speak about what we call inanimate objects having spirits. I know exactly what you mean." He paid Rudi and headed for home, the wrapped panther safely in his pocket. He arrived first, and after thinking about dinner for a few minutes, began to prepare a meal that could be reheated easily when they were actually ready to eat; he had a feeling that dinner might very well be delayed that night. Everything was ready when the door opened and Jim entered. "Smells good, Chief. You must have arrived home early?" "Fairly early. I stopped by the exhibition -- this is yours." He handed over the wrapped box. Jim opened it, and paused, mouth open as he saw the panther. "Chief, it's... it's... " Blair nodded. "He said the wood spoke to him." "It's magnificent." He put it on the table beside the wolf. For a split second it seemed almost as if the two animals greeted each other, and then they were just two beautifully carved wooden figures standing together on the table. "Did you see that?" Jim whispered. Blair nodded. "They belong, just as we do -- and they know it." They looked at each other, then moved into a hug that shifted very quickly from loving to passionate.
"Chief?" Concerned, drying his hands as he came, Jim crossed to his guide. "Look," Blair whispered, and pointed at the table. It was possible that during their lovemaking one of them had kicked it so that everything on it had been shifted. It was the only logical explanation. The carved animals had moved. The panther was now standing with its head poised protectively over the wolf's -- the one protective, the other supportive; and together like that, they said clearly that they were the invincible guardians of their territory.
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"Well, it's really for Detective Ellison here," Blanchard said as they
turned into a comfortable room that, although it clearly doubled as an
office, could have been a sitting room. As Ng gestured them to chairs,
one of his men came forward to offer tea. Blanchard accepted the offer
immediately, Blair, with a meaningful glance at Jim, did so just a moment
later, and then, getting the message, Jim too accepted. With the weak
Chinese tea served to all four, the man left.
At last, sated, Jim pushed himself off Blair and pulled his partner
into a sitting position. They exchanged one last kiss, then Jim pulled
Blair up and they went to the bathroom to clean up. Blair reheated dinner
while Jim set the table; they ate, then while Jim washed the dishes,
Blair returned to the couch. He sat and looked down at the table -- and
drew in a sharp breath.
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