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“Where did this come from?” she demanded.
“I don’t know.” AJ swung from his bench to face her.
“Whose initials are these?” She pointed at the letters. Anticipation sent a nervous kind of energy tingling through her to her fingertips.
He gave a half-hearted shrug and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Scottie placed the jacket back in its place, tore off her gloves and fumbled in her pocket for her phone. Two calls—forensics to dispatch a crime scene technician promptly, and the DI.
As Gibson rode over to the maintenance yard, he was thinking about something else. Who was the blurred person in the Facebook picture? He would have to examine the photo again—with a magnifying glass. Looking up, he saw the clouds piling into a sinister mass. His eyebrows converged into a singular clump. The creases on his forehead would become permanent soon. There were so many unanswered questions. He squeezed his fists on the steering wheel tighter. He pulled his F150 by the garage doors next to a white Chevy with grey lettering on the door. He wondered if Scottie had questioned the dog walker about the truck yet. He added that to his mental list of things to find out. They were all working overtime. All his team were pursuing leads, sorting what might be relevant and what was insignificant. They were painstakingly hunting for any evidence—a direction. This jacket could prove to be the turning point.
A van pulled onto the gravel and parked next to him. It was a crime scene guy, Raymond Dolinski, transferred in from Alberta. They stepped out of their vehicles in unison. The technician’s outfit was neat and clean which was a tough thing to manage in his line of work. He looked stern with a curled upper lip and flared nostrils, but his eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile. He saluted his superior with a snappy flick of his hand. Gibson gestured back with a beam of acknowledgement. People assumed Raymond was a prickly individual because of his exterior appearance, but he wasn’t.
They entered the shop together, one man trailing behind the other. Scottie was seated on a stool with her cell stuck onto her ear. She bobbed her head several times and muttered a few words before she hung up. She pointed to the rear wall where the bloodied jacket stood in plain sight and unpretentious.
“Could you make this a top priority, Raymond?” Gibson asked.
“You bet.” He plucked a huge evidence bag out of the case he was carrying and shoved the parka inside, labeling the outside with a black Sharpie. “Okay. I’ll be on my way.” He slipped out. They could hear the pinging of stones hitting the metal sheathing as he sped off.
“Down to earth guy,” Gibson said.
“I think Jason and Tony are in the upstairs office.”
They crossed the courtyard and flew up the now familiar stairs. Behind the closed door, a heated discussion drifted into the hallway. Scottie knocked loudly to get a reaction. The entrance swung open with Tony still holding the handle. He stretched over, balancing on the edge of his seat almost to the point of toppling. With some effort, he corrected himself and drove his chair into the floor with a smack. He bared his teeth. Jason was seated sideways at his desk with his feet spread out in front and hands behind his neck. He had a haughty sneer that formed hollows in his cheeks. When he saw who his visitors were, his lips tightened. With a flick of his hand, he pointed to the low bench under the notice board. Gibson dropped onto the hard surface, wishing he had stayed standing. He sat uncomfortably with his knees touching his chest. Scottie stood by the exit, arms held at her side. The room was cramped with four bodies. Tony made a move to leave, but Gibson waved him back.
“Need a word with both of you. We found a bloodied jacket. Any guesses whose it is?”
Tony and Jason exchanged a fleeting glance but remained silent.
“There’s an insignia on the shoulder with one hundred and fifty under a Canadian flag,” Scottie spoke up. “Does that help?”
Tony was gazing in all directions. To the bulletin board, the mounted diplomas and the ceiling fan. He made no eye contact and bit at his nails.
“That was a special order for the Confederation anniversary. We all got one,” Jason said.
“What about you? The jacket was in your shop?” He fixed his stare on Tony’s double chin.
Tony raised his palms in a ‘don’t know’ gesture and returned to examining his nails.
“A few got worn out. Some guys took them home,” Jason said, trying to be accommodating.
“What about the initials inside the collar?”
“What are they?”
“TRS.”
A trickle of sweat rolled down Tony’s temple and gathered at his chin. He pulled a tissue from a hidden pocket in his shoddy sweatpants and wiped his face. He stole a glance toward Jason. For a moment they locked eyes.
Gibson noticed the mute communication but didn’t understand what it meant so he guessed, “Tim Sanderson?”
“I suppose.” Jason brushed a fleck of imaginary dirt from his neck.
“Anyone else with those initials?” Gibson let the crew names flash by his vision. He came up with another name.
“Tony Sarcone.”
Tony folded his arms over his stocky trunk. “I don’t have a middle name. No R. And it’s Anthony.” He barked out a laugh. The room resounded with the heavy bellow.
“What’s Tim’s middle name?”
Tony snubbed him.
“Don’t know,” Jason said. His half grimace contorted his features.
“Where is Tim working?”
“He wasn’t feeling well and left early.”
“Okay.” Gibson cast a look over to his partner.
“What do you know about AJ getting hit over the head?”
“What? Where?” Jason sat up.
“He got taken by surprise in the workshop.”
Both men were rendered speechless and folded into their chairs.
“Any ideas who would do that?”
“Is he okay?” Jason asked. “He should have reported it.”
“We’re looking into it. We’ll talk again. Let’s go, Scottie.”
Gibson battled to get off the bench and almost stumbled when his leg cramped. They trotted down the steps and hopped into the truck.
“Where are we going?” Scottie asked.
“Tim’s place.”
* * *
Scottie fired up the truck and roared down the street to Brentwood Bay. She manoeuvred through the light traffic and reached Hagan Road in record time. They parked on the grass verge because there weren’t any curbs in this part of town. The house they were looking for was one house up from the corner. It was a nineteen fifties post-war structure with the typical white clapboard siding and black asphalt shingle roofing. The window trim was a deep shade of purple. There were no lights on and the drapes were drawn. No one answered the door when Scottie knocked. She tried again, banging louder with her fist. Nobody was home.
“I thought he went home sick.” Gibson lingered on the porch. He was sure this was a hate crime and Tim was the killer. He wasn’t willing to leave in a hurry. Maybe the guy just popped up the street to a store.
Scottie could tell that Gibson was digging in about the hate crime hypothesis. She was doubtful the jacket proved anything. But she wasn’t the boss.
