Winston Patrick Mystery 2-Book Bundle. David Russell W.Читать онлайн книгу.
no one ever suspected anything? You kept it hidden for nearly a year?” I asked incredulously. In the nearly three months I had been at J. Mac, I had most definitely learned that schools are a hotbed of gossip. Even I knew about which teenager was dating which teenager. It seemed impossible to believe a teacher and student could be romantically involved for so long without word getting out, no matter how hard they tried to conceal it.
“No. At least I don’t think so. We were very discreet. We used to meet in the evenings. Sometimes on the weekends. It was like dating. We talked about everything. She is the most understanding, giving person I have ever met.” Tricia had resumed the present tense again.
“Then why did you ‘break up’ with her?”
Carl looked down at his hands. I couldn’t be sure, but he seemed to be examining his left hand, where his wedding ring would be sitting were he wearing one. “I don’t know. Somehow Bonnie, my wife, suspected that something was going on. I don’t know if she knew anything for sure, but she hinted around that she thought I was spending so much time away from home that something must be going on.”
“So just like that, you were able to dump Tricia?”
“God, no,” he protested. “It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I even spoke to my priest about it. He’s the only other person who knows this, Win. He’s the one who insisted I break up with Tricia. He said I owed it to God to honour my wedding vows.”
I could relate to that one. Having made the decision to forego my wedding vows, my priest, and the entire organization of the Roman Catholic Church, had essentially told me where to go.
“So?” I prodded.
“So I made the decision that it would be best for both of us to call it off. I’ve never been so depressed.”
“And Tricia?”
“She was crushed at first. She sobbed and cried, but she didn’t seem angry. She never asked me to change my mind. She never demanded anything of me. She was entirely mature about it.”
“Until she threatened to expose you.”
He looked up at me again. “That’s just it. It was well over a week since we had broken up. She was pleasant and everything in class. I thought things were going to be fine. It’s like she suddenly snapped.”
I sighed. I hated to have to ask the next part. “What happened next?”
He looked back at me with what appeared to be genuine surprise. “What happened when?”
“On Wednesday. The day Tricia was killed.”
Carl’s face broke into a pained, near horrified expression. “Winston!” he proclaimed. “You don’t think that . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.
“I told you, what I think isn’t important. You have to understand the police have even more good reason to think you killed her.”
“But I didn’t!” he wailed. “I love Trish. I would never do anything to hurt her.” With that, the damn burst, and Carl slumped over in the chair, painful sobs flowing from him. I had no way to comfort him, so I just sat back to let him cry himself out.
While I was waiting, my cellular phone beeped again in my pocket. Reaching in, I popped it open and answered, knowing full well who it would be.
“Time’s up, Counsellor. Should we come in?” Smythe asked me politely.
I knew I had no right to ask, but I did anyway. “Five more minutes, and I’ll bring him out myself.”
“I’ll give you two,” she replied and hung up before I could respond. Even good cops have their limits.
“Come on, Carl,” I told him soothingly. “It’s time.”
He sat up and began wiping away at his face. “I’m sorry, Win. I really am. I’m just so lost. I can’t believe she’s gone.” I hated myself for it; I could feel myself being dragged into his emotional response, starting to believe what he was saying to me. There was just one piece that didn’t fit.
“Carl,” I asked him as he rose to his feet, “the police found Tricia’s underwear with your DNA on it in her laundry basket. When was the last time the two of you were together?”
He looked at me wounded, caught like a kid skipping classes. “When I went to try to talk to her after you did. We talked and things were going okay, and all of a sudden—it just happened.”
“Where?” I demanded.
“At school,” he said, hanging his head again to avoid my incredulous stare. “It was the only time that ever happened.”
“So you and Tricia had sex the day she was killed?” He flinched when I used the term “had sex.”
“Yes. And then I went home. And that was the last time I ever saw her. I swear to God.”
He looked so pathetic, standing there pleading with me to believe his version of events. It was going to take an enormous amount of debunking of the police’s theories about my client.
“I’ll let the police in,” I told him, heading back towards the stairs as the front doorbell rang.
I headed down the stairs to meet Furlo and Smythe as Carl waited at the top of the stairs. I opened the door once again to the blustering rain. Furlo stood leaning against the doorjamb, handcuffs swaying from his raised hand.
“Okay, Teach,” he said, smiling smugly. “Detention time!”
I knew he had been dying to use that the whole time I’d left him out in the cold, fierce rain.
Fourteen
So far, most of my week had been taken up in some way, shape or form by the legal problems of Carl Turbot. It seemed only appropriate that my Friday evening should be wrecked as well. I sensed Furlo was deriving perverse satisfaction from eating into my weekend. I don’t know if he slapped the cuffs on extra loud, or it was just my imagination, but his smug grin told me, at least, that he felt I was some kind of lowlife for defending Carl. He was going to take as much time as possible while I escorted my client through the booking process. Even if my Friday night plans just involved going to bed early to catch up on sleep, Furlo was determined to sabotage that. Ha, I thought. Little does Furlo know that insomniacs don’t sleep any better just because it’s the weekend. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway. One grabs self-righteousness wherever one can find it.
Of course, Providence would have it that all those neighbours who had been seemingly oblivious to Furlo, Smythe and myself out talking on the sidewalk suddenly appeared in their doorways just in time to see Furlo’s dramatic display of patting down and cuffing Carl. Smythe looked apologetic, knowing full well I wouldn’t have brought Carl out armed and that Furlo’s dramatic displays were intended to embarrass his suspect in front of his neighbours. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about it; searching the suspect before placing him under arrest was proper procedure.
Once one neighbour stuck his head out, porch lights came on up and down the street, and despite the bitter, near winter rain, a number of busybody neighbours braved the downpour with umbrellas and cups of hot chocolate in hand to watch the proceedings. Certainly, this would not have been completely unexpected for them, given the enormous coverage that had been given to Tricia’s murder and Carl’s subsequent questioning. Some were likely planning their comments to the media, who would surely arrive once word of his arrest was leaked out. I was fairly confident that by now a local resident was probably telephoning the newsroom of one of Vancouver’s TV stations, hoping to catch their fifteen minutes of fame.
“We can’t believe it,” they’d say. “He was always such a pleasant neighbour. Quiet. Kept to himself. Never bothered anyone, but always gave you a pleasant wave and good morning. We’re completely shocked.” In the entire history of television and homicide, has there never been a murderer whom neighbours thought was kooky all