Winston Patrick Mystery 2-Book Bundle. David Russell W.Читать онлайн книгу.
“Yes, Gurpreet?”
“Are you able to tell us if Mr. Turbot will likely go to jail?” she asked with genuine concern.
“I can tell you that at this point the police have not sworn out an information or sought an arrest warrant. That means they do not have evidence to support the allegations you’re hearing in the media this morning.” I noticed one student had the front section of this morning’s Vancouver Sun on her desk. It was disturbing how much conjecture there already was. On the other hand, it was refreshing to see high school students reading the newspaper.
“But do you think they’re going to arrest him?” Scott interrupted, pressing harder for my opinion.
“At this point, I honestly couldn’t say. Mr. Turbot is under suspicion for what I believe to be inaccurate, untruthful and irresponsible reasons. I do not believe there is any evidence linking him to this horrible crime other than the fact that he was, in fact, her teacher.” So there. I wished Furlo and McFadden were there.
Sarah spoke up with her usual sarcasm. “You sound like you’re holding a press conference.”
“Maybe I’m seeing you as good practice.”
“Why do they suspect him at all?” Gurpreet asked again.
“That’s one I can’t go into details about. I’m sorry.”
“Surely they must have some kind of evidence if they’re thinking about him as a killer?” another student chimed in. “Man, this is just unbelievable. I have him for biology.”
“Again, I don’t know what kind of evidence the police think they have. Why is that?” I asked, making an effort to at least get some usable teaching time out of this interrogation.
The class looked at me, stunned for a moment. Jessica popped open her law textbook and began thumbing through the pages. She seemed particularly interested, understandably. “Why is it,” I continued, “that I don’t know all of the evidence the police believe they have?”
“Because they don’t have to tell you?” Scott offered.
“Why not?” I insisted. Hmm. There could be an assignment in there somewhere.
“He hasn’t been charged yet,” Sarah responded. “They don’t have to release their information until after a charge is laid.”
“Good,” I confirmed. “And why would they tell me about their evidence even after a charge is laid? Wouldn’t they be just giving away their case to me?”
“Disclosure laws,” Jessica offered, looking up from her textbook. “The Crown is required to disclose its evidence, so the accused has a full understanding of the Crown’s case and can prepare a defence,” she continued, reading straight from the text.
“Right. So until such time as the Crown decides to lay charges and build and prepare a prosecution, which I don’t think is going to happen, I won’t necessarily know what evidence is available. This case is a little unusual, since it involves a young person. The police have been pretty good about sharing information with me, because more than anything, they want to catch the person responsible. The longer they focus on the wrong person, the harder it will be to find the real killer. That’s why I also try to be as helpful as possible.” Fortunately, the students would have no way of knowing how much I was going out of my way to be a smartass with Furlo. But the gist of what I said was true. “But again,” I attempted to conclude, “all of this concern about evidence and disclosure is essentially moot, because it is extremely unlikely the Crown will even decide to lay charges.”
“How can you be so sure?” Scott pressed.
I paused for a moment then sighed. “Because, Scott, Mr. Turbot is innocent. He did not kill Tricia Bellamy.” I realized how much influence I was having over class opinion. They seemed to accept my assertion of Carl’s innocence.
I wished I believed me as much as they did.
The other law class I taught that day went much like the first one, with students clamouring for as much information as they could wring out of me. Some of them were on the road to being pretty fine litigators. By and large, my students seemed at least to have satisfied their curiosity, but also some of their fears had been alleviated; most would feel pretty comfortable about going back into Carl’s science classroom when he returned to school.
It is often noted by those in the educational field that kids are much more resilient, forgiving and understanding than adults are. I noticed throughout the remainder of the day the nearly evenly divided response of the teaching faculty I encountered. For the most part, I aimed to keep away from them; they were understandably uncomfortable. Of the half of the staff that seemed to be on Carl’s side, about half of those were supporters because they knew, liked and respected Carl and could not or would not believe he could be responsible for Tricia’s strangulation. They at least made me feel like I wasn’t alone. The rest supported him just because he was a teacher; die-hard unionists, professional supporters and the like. Their thinking seemed to be that even if Carl was guilty, he deserved our support. Even they helped to keep my morale going.
The other half of the faculty was wary of my very presence. It seemed incomprehensible that a teacher could devote energy to defending someone who was accused of such heinous acts. It truly went against everything we were supposed to believe in about the sanctity of the teacher-student relationship and our primary objective of ensuring that students were safe with us at all times. By the end of the day, I was determined to bring Carl Turbot’s involvement in the death of Tricia Bellamy to a close.
Twelve
Detective Andrea Pearson was a detective with the Vancouver Police department. And a good friend of mine. In fact, Andy and I had been been friends since before high school. For as long as I could remember, Andy had wanted to be a cop. As kids, playing cops and robbers was always predictable when she was around; I would be the bad guy because there was simply no way she could portray that part when in her heart she knew her reason for being on this earth was to stop crime. Not an episode of Baretta, Hawaii Five-O, Police Story or a host of other seventies and eighties cop shows was not committed to her memory. She even watched Charlie’s Angels religiously, not the least because it showed women in the lead crime busting roles. This, of course, was a plus for me, since it justified my having the famous Farrah Fawcett in the red bathing suit poster in my room: swimsuit model for me, semi-role model for Andrea.
From the moment we left high school, Andrea Pearson had gone straight to the University of British Columbia to study a double major in criminology and psychology, her two passions. Four years and an Honours Bachelor of Arts degree later, she had gone straight to the Vancouver Police Academy, where she’d finished at the top of her class. That’s right, the top of her class. Above the other women candidates. Above the men. Above everyone. That fact never went unnoticed, not only among her fellow police officers, but also her superiors. At thirty-five years old, she had been a detective for nearly six years, making her one of the more senior members of her squad.
Much to my mother’s chagrin, Andy had never married. More to the point, she had never married me. Andy had everything going for her. Her family was Irish—good Irish, my mother would make the distinction—in heritage, though they had been in Canada even longer than my family had. Her family were practicing Catholic, another of the many failed prerequisites of my Jewish ex-wife that my mother could never overlook. Of course, now that I was divorced, I was an “improper Catholic.” All of which only goes to show I should have married Andy in the first place, and everyone would have been happy. Everyone, that is, except Andy and me.
Andrea and I had never dated. Never. Ever. When you grow up with a girl who for all intents and purposes was essentially a boy to you, it’s difficult to think of that person as anyone you plan to hop into a matrimonial bed with. Or even just into bed with.
It certainly wasn’t that Andy wasn’t attractive. From a strictly objective point of view, I could see why any man would