Hangman (25 page)

“No comment …”

“No comment …”

“No comment …”

Wait and see, people.

What greeted me inside the automatic sliding doors were thirty-five courtrooms on five tiers stacked up the right angle of a glass wedge. Coldly antiseptic was the overall feel, despite the greenery spilling from each level like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The tomb reflected the minds of those who built it, so sucked dry of humor and drama was this lifeless waste. By the time I scaled the zigzagged stairs to Courtroom 53, I was as bored as an East End kid could be.

Time to light the hair of a judge on fire.

Fun and games.

Like it used to be.

The courtroom gallery was packed as I made my way through the gate to the counsel area. Hardwood, brass, and velvet had given majesty to courtrooms in Kinky’s day, but the silver spoons had tastefully done this one up in concrete and felt. The court watchers in this bland shell were more upscale than those mobbed into remand court this morning, for that was the East End and this was the West Side. A chance to see the Hangman was not to be missed.

Short, stout, flush-faced, and mustachioed, Lyndon Wilde, QC, reminded me of the trademark CEO on a Monopoly game. Definitely a West Side silver spoon. Because this hearing was in open-court chambers, it wasn’t necessary for lawyers to robe. Wilde, however, had robed anyway, and he stood there at center stage in his striped gray pants, bulging black vest and starched white shirt with upside down V tabs. To please the gallery, he fiddled with a pocket watch on a gold chain.

“Lyndon,” I said.

He ignored me.

I doubt the old fart knew who I was.

“Jeff Kline,” I said.

I held out my hand.

I’m sure he shook it only to look civilized to the crowd.

His palm was dry.

He was confident.

My arrival had interrupted a quiet argument. Wilde was flanked by Chandler and DeClercq. There was no love lost between the prosecutor and the Mounties, for I had heard the story of Wilde’s fall from grace when he lost big time to the chief superintendent in a cause célèbre trial alleging Corp. Nick Craven had killed his own mother. The result was that the province quit sending Wilde cases, so that’s why he now worked for the Feds. Trying to thwart Chandler in his attempt to try Ethan for Hunt’s hanging was like throwing gas on embers.

“
Why
won’t the AG give us consent?”

Chandler had to stoop to stare Wilde in the face.

“Not here. Not now.” Lyndon glanced at me.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Fight it out. Looks like the cops are on
my
side.”

Out came the watch.

“Time for court,” said Wilde.

And right on cue, in came the judge. The Mounties were forced to retreat from “the pit” as the associate chief justice climbed to the bench. Again it struck me how dull the law courts were. There would be no Scotch shared with counsel in this judge’s chambers, for back when the silver spoons moved to this prissy palace, the law lords upstairs gave them a ruling to help maintain decorum. Henceforth, to make us teetotalers one and all in chambers, everything that went on behind closed doors had to be
recorded.

Imagine that.

What party-poopers.

“The United States of America versus Ethan Shaw,” announced the clerk.

“Mr. Wilde?”

“May it please your lordship. Ethan Shaw has been arrested under the provisional extradition warrant you issued this morning.”

Quick Draw nodded. “Bring him in.”

Associate Chief Justice Lance McGraw—Quick Draw McGraw to the bar, on account of his tendency to make hasty decisions—was a horse-faced man with a lantern jaw and large teeth befitting his cartoon namesake. He watched the sheriff unlock the door to the holding cells below to usher Ethan into court and across to the prisoner’s dock. Back in Kinky’s and the Bounder’s day, the prisoner sat in a raised, carved hardwood box, guarded by a Horseman in regal red, but the dock today had shrunk to a small plastic one, and the sheriff on guard wore boring brown.

Could the silver spoons do any more to foster contempt of court?

They sure earned mine.

“The clerk will unseal the sealed file,” said the judge.

Showtime, folks.

I walked to the dock.

The best defense is a good offense, they say in America, and since I was at war with America, I took their sage advice.

“Jeffrey Kline appearing for Ethan Shaw, my lord. I wish to put on record at this first appearance that my client has been—and is being—framed. Ethan Shaw is the brother of Peter Bryce Haddon, a man wrongfully
lynched
for murder by the state of Washington in 1993. Now the state seeks to compound that crime by attempting to
lynch
my client.”

Stirring in the gallery.

American reporters?

“A serial killer known as the Hangman is loose in the Pacific Northwest. His motive for hanging his victims, all but one of them jurors, is thought to be to avenge Haddon’s hanging. To that end, the killer plays a word game with police, the answer to which spells out Peter Bryce Haddon’s name.

“Bryce—as legally registered—is spelled B-R-Y-C-E.

“The warrant before this court involves a hanging that occurred on a ship cruising from Seattle to Vancouver by way of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and our territorial sea off the coast of Vancouver Island. The crime was committed somewhere along that route. The body was discovered in my client’s cabin when the ship was unarguably sailing in Canadian waters.”

Wilde was making notes.

No doubt he thought me a young fool for revealing my poker hand.

“I ask your lordship to note that the body was found by a crewman when he spied it hanging inside through an
open
door. That means anyone on board could be the killer. The open door gave everyone opportunity.

“My client was found unconscious on the floor, in blood pooling from slashes on the body. Nearby was the knife that caused those wounds, and I’ve been told the hanging rope was cut from a life preserver line out on deck. The open cabin door and the fact that no fingerprints were recovered from the knife means everyone aboard the ship also had means.

“That, my lord, leaves motive.”

Among the press reporters jotting notes, I caught sight of Justin Whitfield.

Good, I thought as I withdrew from the breast pocket of my cheap business suit the newspaper piece he wrote on Haddon’s hanging.

“Drawn in blood on the wall beside my unconscious client was the Hangman’s word game with a letter added. An
I
was in the center of the middle word, so if Peter Bryce Haddon is the answer to the game, that means the killer spells Bryce B-R-
I
-C-E. The same way the name is spelled in this article”—I waved the clipping in the air—“by that reporter”—I pointed at Whitfield—“printed in the
Seattle Star
the day after Haddon hanged.”

Hey, what can I say?

I’ve seen “Perry Mason” reruns on TV.

“Motive, my lord? There is no motive here. If Ethan Shaw is the Hangman, out to draw attention to the wrongful hanging of his brother, why would he hang a victim in his own cabin on the ship, pointing the finger of suspicion at himself even if he hadn’t been found unconscious in a pool of the victim’s blood, then fill in the hangman game to make his motive perfectly clear
by misspelling the name of his own brother?

“How does that make sense?”

The judge scratched his head.

Quick Draw was intrigued.

“Let me see that clipping, Mr. Kline.”

I gave it to the court clerk, who passed it on up to the judge. Sitting smugly silent in his seat, Wilde gave me what he thought was enough rope to hang myself. Only a fool telegraphs his strategy to the prosecution before he calls his defense at trial. Time stood still while the judge read:

“I’M INNOCENT!”—CONVICT’S LAST WORDS

HADDON HANGS

Justin Whitfield
Seattle Star

Walla Walla—He stood before us on the gallows of the state penitentiary, a moment before the hangman cinched the noose around his neck and dropped him to his death, to protest his innocence one more time.

“My last words are—”

His voice broke.

“That I am innocent, innocent, innocent. Be under no illusion. This is injustice. I owe society nothing. I am—”

He choked the words.

“An innocent man. Something wrong is taking place here tonight.”

Then it was over. Peter Brice Haddon was dead …

 

“Mr. Whitfield?”

Among the reporters, Justin rose to his feet.

“Yes, your honor?”

“Why is Bryce misspelled?”

“I phoned the story in from the state prison. The person who took it down misspelled the name throughout the piece. The typos came to my attention after it was published.”

“You may be seated.”

Justin sat down.

“Yes, Mr. Kline?”

“Ethan Shaw was drunk, my lord. Too drunk to have perpetrated this crime. There is a bruise on his forehead”—I pointed to my client—“which doesn’t match any blunt object found in the cabin, including the footwear of the victim. Whoever framed him took the club away. Given the misspelling in the hangman game, that person could be anyone violently opposed to capital punishment who read the story in the
Star
after Haddon hanged and mistakenly stored the wrong spelling in his memory.

“B-R-I-C-E, my lord. Not the way Ethan Shaw would spell his brother’s name. That misspelling gives everyone aboard the ship
except my client
the hangman’s word-game motive.”

I paused to let the reporters scratch a few notes. Tomorrow, what I was saying to the judge would be front-page news.

Damn, I thought.

I forgot to spell Kline.

Sure as shit, someone would misspell it K-L-E-I-N.

“My lord,” I said, “there is no case here. And if this extradition continues, it may clog the courts for years. My client wants to stand trial
here
and
now
, so he can be acquitted of this bogus charge. This morning, I appeared in provincial court at 222 Main to defend a charge of murder on Canada’s territorial sea. The refusal by the attorney general of Canada to give his consent is all that stands in the way of an expeditious trial in these courts. I ask you to order the Crown to give the necessary consent, and to vacate this provisional warrant granted to the United States.”

I took my seat.

Wilde stood up.

He flipped open his pocket watch as if to confirm the time I had wasted, then addressed the court with a patronizing jab at me.

“My young friend has much to learn about jurisdiction. The jury address we just heard is out of place. I am here to fix a date for an extradition hearing on the warrant issued by your lordship. This crime occurred on a foreign ship sailing from Seattle. The victim was an American. So is the accused. There is no evidence that this crime took place in Canada, and without that nexus, no jurisdiction to try Shaw here.

“Consent is a matter for the attorney general. He has decided that consent should be denied. That puts an end to the matter. Let’s fix a date.”

I was on my feet.

“My friend could get consent.”

“No consent is forthcoming. Those are my instructions.”

“Mr. Kline,” said the judge, “that ends the matter of the necessary consent. No more tilting at windmills. Let’s fix a date.”

“My lord,” I said, “I wish to read some law. Could this case be adjourned until tomorrow morning?”

“Mr. Wilde?”

“I’m in these courts, my lord.”

The judge nodded.

“Ten o’clock, Mr. Kline.”

Fire one, I thought.

The torpedo was in the water.

One Angry Man

Vancouver

November 14 (Two days ago)

Where would Zinc Chandler be today if not for Alex Hunt?

And what would he do if he lost her?

It was black beyond the windows of the TV room in which he and Alex had watched
Twelve Angry Men
, and it was black in here where Zinc sat alone in the dark, and it was black in the heart, mind, and soul of this angry, grieving man. Following the theatrics in Supreme Court that afternoon, the inspector had made arrangements for Alex to be cremated, and now he sat slumped amid the ashes of his smoldering life.

God, how his head hurt from the bullet scar in his brain. With each thump of his broken heart, it screamed for release from the pain. He wished he could end this torment by eating the muzzle of his gun. One squeeze of the trigger and he could embrace oblivion, but then who would make sure that Alex got justice for the outrage done to her?

He
would.

Count on it.

Her killer would pay.

Again and again, that final image replayed in his mind. Ethan approaching their table over dinner on the cruise, to take his brother Justin to meet Jeff Kline. “Go,” said Maddy. “We have files to discuss.” “Mind if I tag along?” Alex asked, as she gave Zinc a look that said, Here’s your chance to swing. If you love me, you must love me for
me.

Then she was gone.

Gone eternally.

And now Zinc was left wondering if Alex had died doubting that he loved her for
her.

If only he had flown home from Seattle that night Konrad was hanged. If only he hadn’t slept on the couch at Maddy’s place. If only he hadn’t told Alex that was what he did. If only he had recognized that she was worried about his commitment, this woman who had always seemed so sure of herself that he had never concerned himself with that phantom worry.

If only … if only … if only …

“Dammit!” he exploded.

And instantly had the urge to smash something to pieces.

His hand was around the neck of a lamp on the table beside the loveseat, about to hurl it against the wall with the full force of his anger, when the cellphone beside it called.

“Chandler,” he answered.

“Special O. Guess who just landed at the airport on a flight from San Francisco?”

*    *    *

The Lady-Killer figured it was time to settle the score with that bitch of a lesbian nurse who had blown the whistle on him, effectively putting an end to the paving of his yellow brick road. Timing was everything when it came to murder, and tonight was the perfect time for her to commit “suicide.” Doing her in earlier would have implicated him. Had she died before his trial, the suspicion would have been that he had silenced her as a witness. After the verdict, his big concern had been what to do with Jayne Curry, for the amorous juror might have been able to jeopardize his acquittal on appeal. His trip to the States had been to escape from her clinging for a while; then, when Curry was hanged, he knew he would be suspected of being the Hangman, so he had decided to lay low until tonight.

Timing.

What made tonight the perfect time to settle his outstanding score with that whistle-blowing nurse was the lucky interlocking of subsequent events. Not only did he have a San Francisco alibi for the night Busby was hanged from the mast of his boat, but he was also not aboard the cruise ship when Alex Hunt was killed, and now it seemed certain that the cops had the Hangman in court. The Hangman’s lynching of Curry had effectively put an end to the Crown’s appeal, so his acquittal was no longer in jeopardy. His only motive left for doing in the squealing nurse was revenge, and even if that was in his cold, cold mind, would he be foolish enough to chance the risk?

Surely not.

Far more likely that she did herself in, for the gossip the doctor had heard as far away as California was that his former nurse was down in the dumps after being jilted by a younger woman who had stolen the old girl’s heart.

Is that why she stuck the hypodermic currently in
his
pocket into her arm? To give herself a deadly shot of the poison in the glass vial that was also in
his
possession here outside her garage?

Is that why, before she stuck the needle in her arm tonight, she left the motor of her car running? So carbon-monoxide gas would fill the garage, ensuring her demise from one poison or the other?

Is that why—

His ears perked up.

Was this her coming home?

A car had turned into the lane leading to the rear of her modest house, and headlight beams were advancing through cracks in the fence toward her garage. Once the car drew near, a second motor kicked in, and the doctor heard the automatic door of the garage begin to clatter up.

The yard between her house and the garage was full of murk and gloom. The door to the yard from the garage opened outward, and that’s where the Lady-Killer lurked to ambush the nurse. The window nearest him was a blind eye until the car turned into the garage and knifed its headlights through the glass into the dark heart of the yard. Through the window, Dr. Twist saw the face of his former nurse above the steering wheel.

The eye went dark.

She had doused the beams.

The car door slammed shut; he heard the tapping of her approaching heels before the sound was absorbed by the clatter of the automatic door as it descended.

Good, thought Twist.

That will drown out her cry.

His gloved hand jabbed the needle of the syringe into the glass vial, then eased back the hypodermic’s plunger to suck up the poison. The handle of the door from the garage turned as the doctor dropped the vial back into his pocket, and he prepared himself for action the moment the door swung open.

Her hand would be on the handle as it hinged away from the jamb, her arm preceding her body out into the backyard. A quick grab of her wrist from his position beside the door, and the needle would jab into her arm before she could react. Her cry of surprise would be a gasp, not a scream, lost in the ongoing clatter of the lane door. His glove would stifle any shriek before it came out.

Ready.

Set.

Here she comes …

“John Langley Twist,” shouted a voice behind him, “you’re under arrest.”

*    *    *

The watchers of Special O had followed Twist from the airport, keeping Zinc informed of his whereabouts, and when Twist’s final destination turned out to be the backyard of his former nurse—the nurse responsible for his murder trial—Zinc had set this trap. Yes, the nurse had driven her car into the garage, but it wasn’t her on the other side of the door. It was a cop who had slouched down in the passenger’s seat, emerging to assume the nurse’s role once the garage was dark. As for Zinc, he had crept into the backyard by the walkway skirting the side of the house from out front.

By dim light from the street and the glow cast by the windows of surrounding homes, the Mountie saw Dr. Twist coming for him. The hypodermic needle spiked down from his raised fist like the knife used to kill in
Psycho
’s shower scene. Zinc could have drawn the Smith & Wesson holstered at his waist, but he had yet to discharge the anger seething in him, so instead he took his rage out on the Lady-Killer.

Zinc blocked the stab with his left forearm, then swung his right hand in an upward arc behind the immobile limb gripping the syringe. Locking his right palm over the back of his own left hand, the inspector used the strength of both muscled biceps to wrench back the doctor’s arm until a bone snapped. He threw the shocked man back against the garage, so the boards of the wall backed his head, then drove his knuckled fist forward to shatter Twist’s nose. A knee slamming into his groin finished off the Lady-Killer, dropping him to the dirt as a bloody, broken mess. His pretty-boy face would set lonely hearts fluttering no more, and his conceit of a cock would need convalescence before it would stand up to cons in the pen.

Zinc would have kicked him, but he held that urge in check.

Twist wasn’t on the ship the night Alex died.

So while he had vented his anger for now on this pathetic substitute, Zinc didn’t want to be in jail on a brutality rap when the opportunity arose for a showdown with Alex’s killer.

Would her killer make the same mistake as Dr. John Twist?

Faced with the Mountie, would he too misread the signs?

Something about Zinc made people want him on their side, for instinct told them he would be vicious if the knife was at his throat.