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Chapter 24
The flurries had fallen steadily during the night, blanketing everything in sight. It was six in the morning, but reflection off the snow provided an artificial brightness. Katherine was sleeping so Gibson slipped out of the house to carry out his mission. He planned to surprise Tim with a wake-up call.
It was tough going for a bit on the slippery roads. The overnight temperature had dropped below freezing and left large patches of black ice here and there. But he managed to manoeuvre the truck up Verdier Avenue, plowing through the drifts without getting stuck. He turned right on Hagan and crawled slowly down Clarke Road to his destination. Most households had darkened windows as he progressed down the street. People were still burrowed under their eiderdowns—it would take coffee brewing to dig them out.
This time, as he approached Tim’s home, he saw a glow of light behind the curtains. The white painted dwelling with snow-laden roof had all but faded into the wintery scenery. An illumination in the backyard suggested someone had let the dog out for a pee. Gibson didn’t actually know if Tim had a dog. He pulled into the driveway and headed for the front door. After knocking twice with no answer, he wandered down the side of the house toward the back. The pavement was shoveled but still quite slick like the roads. He heard a buzzing noise coming from the rear, so he kept on going. As Gibson rounded the final corner, Tim twisted toward the trespasser. A flash glinted off the axe dangling by his leg.
The DI stopped dead in his tracks holding both hands up at shoulder height. A hearty laugh erupted from the bushes to his right. Tim relaxed his stance and chuckled along with the neighbour hidden from his view. He looked over to where the offending guffaw had resounded. In the next yard, he saw a man leaning on the ramshackle fence. The shadow of a lofty evergreen tree cloaked his face. He was dressed in jeans, a lumberjack shirt and goose-filled vest. His hair stuck out from under a toque. The man gave a shortened wave. A large whack sounded to his left. Gibson turned his gaze back to Tim who had struck the axe into a nearby chopping block.
Tim removed his leather gloves and tossed them aside. He snorted and wiped his nose with the tail of his shirt. Gibson realized the guy had been splitting wood. He took a cursory glance around the lot. There were several rounds of cedar, an assortment of axes and a chainsaw with a UVic label glued on the side. Closer to the house under the eaves was a heap of kindling with a jacket strewn on top.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Tim snarled.
“Is that yours?” Gibson said, paying no heed to the hostility. He went to the wood pile and picked up the coat. He held it up to the light so he could read the inside collar. It was marked ‘Tim Sanderson’ in block letters.
Tim glared at him.
“This must be yours. What about the saw?” He pointed at a brand new saw with its label declaring UVic the owner.
Tim shoved his hands into his pockets and gave an indifferent shrug.
“Good idea. Don’t want it stolen.” Gibson pointed at the collar and tossed the jacket back on the woodpile. He thought Tim was such an ass.
“What do you want?”
“Do you know anybody with the initials, TRS?”
“Sure.”
“Who?”
“Trent Robert Spencer,” he said. “Robert for Robbie.”
Gibson was stunned. It was Robbie’s coat covered in blood. That didn’t make any sense.
“You haven’t explained why you’re here,” Tim said. “Why are you so obsessed with my jacket?”
“You don’t have an alibi for Monday.” Gibson didn’t owe him any answers.
“I do.” A wry smirk twisted his mouth.
“Excuse me.” The neighbour cleared his throat.
“Do you know something?” Gibson looked over to the man.
“Are you talking about this past Monday?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Tim was just telling me about the murder and that he didn’t have an alibi.” He rubbed his gloved hands together to keep them warm. Gibson braced himself.
“Funny thing is that on Monday morning I was staring out my window at the side there.” He stopped to point to the window facing Tim’s backyard. “I was waiting for a taxi to take me to the airport. I saw Tim chopping wood.”
“What time?” Gibson grumbled.
“The cab was late. So about six thirty. I almost missed my flight.”
Tim strutted over to the fence, and the men gave a high-five pump. Tim puffed out his chest. Gibson scowled at him.
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I just found out myself. My neighbour got back from his trip last night.” The smirk stayed.
Gibson had seldom felt so deflated. He thanked the man, took a hard look at Tim and left. As he stomped out of the yard, puffs of steam blew from his mouth. He jumped into the F150 and fired it up. The clock read six so he headed downtown. The sun had broken free from the horizon and spilled its rays across his vision. He had been so involved in the conversation he hadn’t noticed the sky had brightened to an azure blue, the intense blue of a cloudless fall day. It brought him no comfort. The blue only reflected his mood.
As he was driving down the freeway, he decided to skip the office and exited from the off-ramp to slip onto McKenzie Street. The route to the university had been cleared by plows, ready for the onslaught of pupils. He dropped into the Cafe Ottiva for a coffee and a cinnamon bun. From there, he pulled alongside the curb at the maintenance shed and remained in his truck drinking his latte and munching on a pastry. He thought about phoning Katherine, then chose not to disturb her. Today was the final exam—crucial but nerve-racking even for a composed individual. How would his wife handle it? He leaned back in his seat and relaxed against the rest. He would need to contact Scottie soon and give her the bad news. Tim was no longer a suspect. His hate crime theory had crashed. The bully was innocent. That was a laugh. He had been convinced the killer was Tim. They would have to start over. He picked up his cell to call Scottie, but it chirped. He glanced at the caller ID and moaned.
“Gibson.”
“I haven’t had an update for a while,” the police chief said.
“We’re working hard. Nothing yet, Chief.” Gibson would have preferred to say they were getting close, but what did they have now? Zilch. So he faked it.
“I’ve asked Gunner to follow the money,” he said and blew his nose.
“Don’t turn this into a hate scandal.”
Gibson remained silent so Rex added, “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.” It didn’t matter anymore. A hate crime was off the table even for him.
The chief hung up.
Gibson got out of the truck and trudged through the snow to the maintenance building. No one was about. No one was in the garage. He trekked up the steep stairs. The lunchroom was empty. Jason’s door was open, but he wasn’t there. Should he wait or search for him in the shop? He couldn’t remember if there were any trucks in the yard. He was stumbling around in a daze. He rested at the office door, trying to organize his plans. Two chairs were pushed toward the corner where the boots had been. He strode over to the bulletin board and flipped at the sheets pinned to the cork. Nothing much of importance here. There was a notice about dogs running loose, a sign-up sheet for overtime and a volunteer one for the approaching parade. He proceeded along the wall and studied the diplomas framed in black matte. Horticulture and business. Those made him think of Katherine. Gibson took out his cell to call. Still holding onto his phone, he plunged into the same chair he had occupied several days earlier when he had first done the interviews. He hesitated and dialed Scottie’s number instead. It was time to admit his mistake. She answered on the first ring, evidently waiting for some word.
“Well. What happened this morning? Good or bad?”
“Bad.” Better get to the point. Gibson filled her in on the details. The jacket, the initials, T R S, Robbie for Robert. Tim had an alibi collaborated by his neighbour. “And Rex called.”
“What did he want? What did you tell him?”
“Not much. He wants the financial angle investigated more thoroughly. Which I presume means Jeff should be looked at more closely,” Gibson said. Rex was right. What motive is there besides money?
“Revisit the entire crew,” Scottie broke into Gibson’s musings.
“Yeah. Maybe someone stole out of the meeting. Saw something or…?” Gibson swallowed the thickness in his throat. “What are you up to?”
“I’m working on the files. I might check out other campsites in the neighbourhood.” She paused and added, “The homeless guy is on the table. Don’t you think?”
