A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (31 page)

Chapter Forty

They took a patrol car.

Smith punched William Westfield into the computer, brought up his address. Picton Street, high above town.

“Any word from the hospital?” she said.

“No. I’m not entirely sure this Westfield’s our man. I’m acting on the assumption that he is. We’re going in hot and heavy. Guns and noise. You will follow my lead in everything. Let’s hope he’s home. Not somewhere on the hillside, watching our people, another shell in his weapon. Keep the siren on until we get to his street. Then turn it and all lights off. Glide up to the house. Park as close as you can get. Block other cars if you have to. Then move.”

Winters glanced at the young woman beside him. He’d decided on the spur of the moment she was the one he wanted with him, if Westfield was indeed the guy they were after. Winters didn’t know most of the Mounties well enough; he wasn’t sure of Dave Evans. Evans was a hot head, and hot heads could turn cold fast when the pressure was on. The rest of the TCP uniforms were checking the houses. Winters didn’t want to take the time to pull them off. Ray Lopez would have been a good option, but Winters needed a uniform. If he was going to charge into a man’s house, gun drawn, he didn’t want any possibility of anyone not understanding they were the police.

He should have a freaking platoon at his back, but the situation at the scene was too fluid. He couldn’t pull any more officers away. They had to act on the assumption that the shooter was still in the vicinity.

When Winters arrived at the shooting, he’d taken the time to observe the watching crowd. Curious faces, some crying, some shocked, many pressing forward eager to get a better look.

Was he there?

Had he hung around in order to observe the results of his handiwork?

Was he inside a house, hiding behind the curtains, gun to a baby’s head?
Not a word.

Winters searched faces for one more interested in the reaction of the crowd than the body or the cops. He hadn’t seen anything other than shock, fear, horror, curiosity.

Whoever this guy was, he was a cool one.

Winters remembered the case in Arizona back in the ‘90s. Six women shot and killed. No clues, no evidence. No suspects. Another cool one.

What had Westfield said that one time Winters met him? Something about the desert landscape and bad memories.

His gut churned.

Westfield was the one. Guaranteed.

The streets of Trafalgar were eerily empty, no teenagers hurrying home after sports or music practice, no one walking dogs or taking a stroll after dinner, not even cars moving through the rain-slicked streets.

“Kinda reminds me,” Smith said, reading his mind. “Of one of those post-apocalyptic movies. Everyone’s gone. Only their stuff remains.”

“Obviously, the news has spread. Which is good, we want people off the streets. Goddamn it, Molly.” His temper boiled up out of nowhere. This was a good town, a great town. A fabulous place to live and to visit. It did not deserve to cower in the shadow of a killer, all the life drained out of it, neighbors watching neighbors, peering over their shoulder every minute of every day. Children hustled from car to door, patios and parks abandoned. He punched the dashboard. “If we don’t catch this guy, now, tonight, this is going to be a ghost town.”

Smith switched the light bar off. Then the vehicle’s headlights. She turned the corner and they glided down Picton Street, shrouded in darkness. The rain had stopped, leaving roads and sidewalks greasy with wet ice.

Lights were on in the house they were interested in. Garage door closed, curtains drawn.

Smith and Winters slipped out of the car. No interior light came on to illuminate them. He gave her a nod and pulled out his weapon. She did the same.

Winters gestured to the front door. The path hadn’t been shoveled all winter, and snow lay icy and deep. They ducked low and passed in front of the windows at a crouch. Smith took a breath and then shot across the doorway. She pressed her back against the wall. Her breathing was calm, her eyes intent. She held her Glock in two hands, barrel pointing to the sky. Her hands did not shake.

The door didn’t look anything special. He’d kick it in, step back, let her go first.

Hopefully catch a guy watching TV in his pajamas.

Might as well see if it was unlocked before going to all the trouble of trying to break it down.

He nodded to Smith. She reached out, turned the handle.

The door swung silently on oiled hinges.

Smith was inside. She took the left, Winters went right. They were in a hallway, steep, narrow stairs leading up. Stairs were never good. A single pair of heavy men’s boots were neatly placed on a drying mat, wet with melting snow. Smith sucked in a breath at the same time Winters saw it.

A shotgun in the corner, propped up against the wall. She threw a question at him, and he nodded. She crossed the small room, moving fast, keeping low, and snatched the shotgun in her left hand, keeping her Glock in her right. She broke it open. A casing, bright red, fell out. She emptied the last shell into her hand.

“Sergeant Winters,” a voice came from inside the house. “That was quick.”

Chapter Forty-one

Molly Smith dropped the shotgun shell into her pocket as a calm voice beckoned to them from inside the house.

Winters pointed to himself, meaning he’d go first. He pointed right: he’d take that side. She nodded. She was encumbered by the shotgun. Couldn’t hold her Glock in both hands, couldn’t leave the shotgun behind in case a second person was in the house.

“Move,” Winters shouted. He cleared the doorway. She followed, yelling, “Moving.” Went left, dug her corner, kept her back to the wall, swept the room.

They were in a living room, tastefully decorated in shades of beige with green accents. A handsome wooden bookshelf, full of neatly displayed hardcovers, filled one wall, a large flat-screen TV was mounted on another, good art was prominently displayed throughout the room. A comfortable cream leather sofa decorated with sage pillows faced the TV. On the far side of the room a man sat in a wingback armchair with his right leg crossed casually over his left. He held empty hands in the air, palms out. He smiled at them, a smile without a trace of humor or welcome.

“Sergeant Winters, come on in. You’ve brought a young lady, how nice.”

The man was severely emaciated, cheeks sunken, eyes dark caves in a white face, the knuckles on his hands as prominent and lumpy as burls on trees. He did not move. “As you can see,” he said. “I am unarmed.”

“Don’t move,” Winters shouted.

“No need to yell. I can hear you.”

“Smith, cuff him. Put the shotgun in the corner where I can see it.”

She lowered it to the ground, slipped her own weapon into her holster, pulled cuffs off her belt. The man gave her his creepy smile and held his hands out in front of him, wrists together.

“No,” she said. “Stand up and turn around.”

He didn’t move. She reached out, grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. He was as light as a child. She flipped him around, pulled his arms back, twisted his hands so palms were facing out, and snapped the cuffs shut.

She patted him down as Winters said, “William Westfield. I am arresting you for the murder of Catherine Lindsay and the attempted murder of Margo Franklin.”

“Won’t do you much good. I’ll never go to trial. I doubt I’ll spend a day in jail.”

“You’re rather sure of yourself.” Winters’ words had a bite to them the like of which Smith rarely heard. She dared a quick glance. His face was set into a tight grimace and his eyes were dark.

“Sure as I can be. I’m not feeling well. You have to call my doctor.”

Winters jerked his head toward the door.

Smith pulled on her prisoner’s arm. “Let’s go, buddy.”

He took a step, then another. When they reached Winters, the man stopped. “The perfect crime. Police officers will be talking about me for a long time to come.”

“Not so perfect. As you’re on your way to jail.”

Westfield shrugged. He had almost no muscle tone in his arm. “Only because I decided to take out the second bitch. She thought she was my mother. Reason enough to off her right there. I congratulate you. You found me faster than I expected. When I decided to eliminate Margo, I knew I was exposing myself to discovery. But, as I said, it no longer matters.”

“Get him out of here,” Winters spat.

“You will be calling my doctor,” Westfield said. “And he will order you to release me.”

They hustled Westfield out of the house. Winters snatched up the shotgun. He pulled off his jacket and wrapped the weapon in it.

“You may not remember me, Miss Smith,” Westfield said, as they crossed the yard. “I saw you at your mother’s store recently. A nice woman, your mother. I’m sorry I won’t be able to drop in any more.” She did remember. That was scarcely two weeks ago, and Westfield looked like he’d aged about twenty years as well as being on a hunger strike.

He seemed to be taking this all quite easily. Smith glanced at Winters. He shrugged. Was Westfield going to claim mental instability in his defense?

Smith put her hand on the top of his head and shoved him into the back of the car.

Winters took the front passenger seat, resting the shotgun across his lap. He pulled out his phone, flipped it open. “I’m bringing him in. I’ve got what’s almost certainly the shotgun we’re after. Ask Gavin or Townshend to meet me at the station immediately. I want an ID on this gun fast. If we can link it to the shooting, we can call our excess people off the search.” He snapped the phone shut.

“I can assure you, that is the weapon used tonight. It’ll match with Cathy Lindsay.”

Curiosity was eating Smith alive. Winters sat placidly in his seat, watching the dark streets pass.

“Are you going to ask why I killed her?” Westfield said.

“In due course.”

They arrived at the police station. The garage doors rolled up, and Smith drove in. She and Winters got out of the car. Only when the bay was secure did she open the back door of the vehicle. She reached in and took Westfield’s arm. He started to slide toward her, but fell back with a sharp cry. Eyes closed tight, he groaned. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his entire face crunched up in pain. His skin was a sickly gray.

“Don’t give me that act,” she said. “I barely touched you. Come on.”

“A minute, please,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Give me a moment.”

She glanced at Winters who’d come to stand beside her, still holding the shotgun. He said, “Mr. Westfield, are you in need of medical assistance?”

Westfield said nothing. He simply breathed, slow and deep. Time passed. Smith waited for orders. She didn’t want to have to wrestle the guy out of the car.

“I told you I was,” he said at last. His voice wasn’t confident now, not mocking, not trying to be friendly. The words were clipped, the breathing behind them labored. “My doctor’s card is in my shirt pocket. The pain’s passed. I can move now.”

He slid out of the car. “Thank you for your kindness.”

She wanted to knee the playacting bastard in the nuts.

Winters reached into Westfield’s pocket with his free hand and pulled out a business card. “Constable Smith, process Mr. Westfield. I’ll make the call and hand this weapon to forensics.”

She led Westfield into the cell block.

“I need to sit down,” he said.

He did look pretty awful, she had to admit. Hard to act up a sheen of sweat out of nowhere. She nodded at a chair. He dropped into it.

“You can take the cuffs off now. I’m in no condition to resist.”

“I don’t think so.” She logged onto the computer. “Full name? Address? DOB?” He’d spend the night here, in the city jails, be brought before a judge in the morning. Winters would want to interview him, but if Westfield asked for a lawyer, he or she wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow at the earliest. She glanced at Westfield. His color was better, not exactly healthy looking but no longer deathly pale. His light-blue eyes were on her, fixed, unblinking.

Weird.

Winters came back. He did not look happy.

“Doctor Singh is on his way.”

“I told you he would be.”

“He wants to take you now, tonight.”

“He’s been after me for a couple of weeks to move, but I had one last job to do. Now, I’m ready.”

“What the hell?” Smith said, forgetting herself. “Are you nuts? You’re not going anywhere but cell number two.”

“Want to talk to me first?” Winters said, ignoring Smith.

“Happy to. As I said, I intend to go down in the annals of criminal justice. No need to call a lawyer for me. I’ll never make it to court.”

“Constable Smith, take the prisoner upstairs. Interview room one. I’ll be along shortly.”

She took Westfield’s skinny arm once more and pulled him to his feet. Upstairs to the interview room. The walls were industrial beige, the table steel, bolted to the floor, the chairs uncushioned and uncomfortable. A camera was secured to a high corner. The black eye watched them enter.

“Take a seat,” Smith said.

He did so. She did not offer her guest anything to drink. She stood with her back against the wall, feet planted, and watched William Westfield. She studied his face, searching for evil. For some sign. For something she’d recognize if she saw it again.

Nothing. His eyes were fixed on her. Her skin crawled, but
she knew
that was only because she knew what he’d done. If she met him on the street she wouldn’t have thought him anything out of the ordinary. Hell, she had seen him in her mother’s store, didn’t give him a second glance.

The door opened. John Winters, followed by Ray Lopez and a man Smith had seen at the hospital, short, dark skinned, not smiling.

“Evening Doctor,” Westfield said. “Sorry to drag you out at this time of night.”

“I simply cannot credit what Sergeant Winters is telling me. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable. William has been my patient for three months, and I had absolutely no idea.”

“I’m allowing Doctor Singh to sit in on this interview,” Winters said.

Smith’s head spun. He was what? Winters did not look at all happy. Ray Lopez’s face was a picture of displeasure. She wouldn’t exactly expect them to gloat in the presence of the killer, but she’d have expected them to look a little bit pleased with themselves.

“Constable Smith,” Winters said, “Uncuff the prisoner. Stay in the room for the interview.”

Smith walked behind Westfield. He stood so she could take off the handcuffs. He rubbed his wrists and sat back down. The men took seats. Lopez had brought an extra chair. Smith remained standing.

Lopez switched on the recording equipment, and Winters began the interview by stating the time, the place, those present.

“I’ve had a call from the hospital,” Winters said. “Margo Franklin came out of surgery well. She’s in critical condition, but is expected to recover. The slug missed all vital organs.”

“A stab of pain came on me at the moment I pressed the trigger. I couldn’t help but flinch, which jerked the shotgun. Once she was down, a tree blocked my sight. By the time I got into position to fire again, people were in the way.”

Doctor Singh moaned.

“Why?” Winters asked.

“Because she was an interfering bitch. She thought she was my mother. She wanted to be my mother. She was following me everywhere, even to my house, and that was the last straw. I want to pass my final days in peace, not haunted by some creepy old woman.”

“Cathy Lindsay?”

“She didn’t like my writing. She gave me a D on my short story, said it was hackneyed and repetitive. It wasn’t.”

“What was your story about?” Winters asked.

The edges of Westfield’s mouth turned up. “A killer, far too clever for the dumb cops who’re looking for him. Obviously I wasn’t thinking of you, Sergeant.”

“You killed her because she gave you a D?” Lopez couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“I killed her because she dared to judge me. I wanted to wait for Easter, hoping for a nickname. The Easter Bunny Killer has a nice ring, don’t you think? But I knew I was running out of time.”

“If not Mrs. Lindsay…”

“Then it would have been someone else. The perfect crime, Sergeant Winters. No motive, no evidence. The cigarette butt was a clever touch, wouldn’t you agree? I picked it up out of an ash tray by the bus stop.”

Winters said nothing. Westfield continued, “No motive, no evidence, no linkage to any other crime. Most importantly, no bragging and no loud-mouthed accomplice. I’ve had that weapon for a long time. I stole it, of course. No paper trail.”

“A game. You took a woman’s life for fun.”

“Not entirely. I told you, she judged me. She mocked me. She said my story was excessively violent. Misogynist. But yes, I will confess, I did it because I could. Because I’m capable of the perfect crime, and I wanted everyone to know it. I’m aware that the truly perfect crime would go undetected. No one would even know a crime had been committed. What fun would there be in that?”

“Tell me about Arizona.”

Westfield smiled. “You are clever, Sergeant, to make that link. I killed a few women in Arizona when I lived there.”

Doctor Singh buried his head in his hands.