Flight of a Boat Tail: A Novel

By W. Bennett

The town of Preston had never known serious crime, but that all changed on a sweltering July morning when Janine Compton was murdered. She was the daughter of the prominent Compton family, and with her death came heavy pressure to find her killer. But was Aaron Tully, the likeable but inexperienced town cop, capable of taking on such an investigation? His pride told him that he was; the townsfolk believed otherwise.

But Tullys investigative abilities soon silenced all doubters. Jordan Finnie, the victims onetime lover, was arrested and charged with the murder. With a mountain of evidence to back up the murder charge, Tully could then sit back and wait for the upcoming trial to commence. He had no doubt that it would be a mere formality.

However, five months later a man walked into his office with a nuisance complaint. While following up on the complaint, Tully stumbled onto a new piece of evidence, evidence which basically eliminated Finnie as the killer. Now, with the shame of his inept police work hanging over his head, his policing contract with the town about to run out, the question became this: was there enough time left to start over again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491735718

W. Bennett

Other works of fiction by the author: The Carriage House; Eleanor Savage; Absolution Denied; Sara’s Lullaby; Flight of a Boat Tail; Tales for the Yuletide. Mr. Bennett lives near Gananoque On.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

Thirty Five

Thirty Six

Thirty Seven

Thirty Eight

Thirty Nine

Fourty

Fourty One

For my sister Margaret,

a loyal fan.

Acknowledgement

To Jill, for giving so freely of her time and teaching skills

PROLOGUE

W HEN A CHILD PRICKS its finger, then places the finger in its mouth and sucks, it learns early on in life that blood has a distinctive taste. Not long ago I learned another lesson concerning blood; if there’s enough of it splashed around, and if the weather is hot, it also gives off a smell, a sugary sweetness that clings to the inside of the nostrils and imprints the memory with its scent.

It never was my ambition to become a cop. Of all the occupations available at the time for me to choose from, law enforcement was not even a consideration. But like most things in life, well-laid plans, and unforeseen circumstances can often clash. I did become a cop, a role I was never comfortable with, a role that made me feel as though I were playacting every time I put on my uniform. From day one I lived with the constant fear of something serious happening and finding myself in over my head. That fear was realized early on the morning of July 8, 2009.

Staggered by the spectacle lying there at my feet, unprepared for the scope of the tragedy I had stepped into, I just stood there, paralyzed by the message my eyes were attempting to pass on to my brain. But it was the smell of the blood more than the sight of it that unhinged me, that nauseating aroma rising up from the congealing pool that had formed around her remains.

Such a contradiction it was to the surroundings where it all took place; on the shore of a beautiful lake, its surface flat and shimmering like a mirror in the morning sun, seagulls floating effortless overhead, tall trees bordering the shoreline like sentries guarding a treasure. The sights and sounds of everyday life filling the air. Off in the distance I could hear the laughter and shrieks of children at play, the hum of a lawnmower, the tap, tap, tap of someone hammering on God-only-knows-what. Odd, I thought, that this level of wickedness could take place in the midst of such a vast backdrop of tranquility.

I never really knew the woman, only to say hello, but I was very familiar with the reputation she had earned for herself. Her indiscretions were open for the world to examine. Everyone knew of her self-destructive lifestyle, so what had changed? What invisible line had she crossed that led to such a brutal ending?

As rational thought slowly replaced queasiness, and knowing that I must see this thing through to the end, I forced myself to look down on her once again, to closely study her, to mentally catalogue the barbarity that had claimed her. How defiled a spectacle she made; scantily clad, curled into the fetal position, blood pooled around her head like a scarlet halo.

Holding a tissue over my nose as a kind of filter, I crouched down, getting as close to her remains as my nostrils would allow, and found myself looking directly into her eyes. I once heard that the eyes were windows to the soul, but her vacant stare relayed no message. Strangely, the experience reminded me of the childhood game of stare-down, a game where youngsters stare directly into the eyes of a playmate to see who will blink first. The victim easily won the contest. The dead never blink.

Digging deeply, desperately searching for a source of hidden strength to get me through this ordeal, fighting to keep my intestinal weaknesses in check, once again I needed to look away. Throwing my head back, gazing skyward, pinching my eyes shut against the brilliance of the morning sun, gasping for air with the desperation of a drowning man, I needed to keep talking to myself to stay in control.

It was picture-taking time. Mercifully, when viewed through the camera lens, the vile setting lost much of its transparency. The shrinking effect created by the lens seemed to take away the realness of everything, compressed it down until I was no longer looking at human remains but at a ceramic statuette, one that had been vandalized with red paint.

With my faculties now somewhat in check, a burning determination began replacing the sickness I experienced when I first arrived on the scene. An all-consuming resolve had me in its grip. I was now determined to identify the one responsible for this terrible event and make him pay.

I also had a damn good idea who that person was.

ONE

T HE DAY STARTED OUT routinely enough, which is to say that it would be just as uneventful, and just as boring as the previous day had been, only a bit hotter. Small town law enforcement tends to be dull at the best of times, so much so that if it were not for the occasional misdemeanor one would easily go mad.

Like most mornings, I was out of the sack by 6:30, went downstairs to the kitchen, push the brew button on the coffee maker, saunter out to the front porch to retrieve the newspaper, and then sat at the kitchen table in my pajamas reading the paper while waiting for the coffee maker to do its thing. Although I was on call 24/7, the phone seldom rang before 8:30, which gave me an hour and a bit each morning to slowly wake up. After all, how much criminal activity occurs in a town of less than a thousand souls before the sun is up?

The weatherman on the evening news had forecast another scorcher of a day, the same as the previous week had been. I could only hope that I would be able to spend most of my day in the air-conditioned comfort of either my office or cruiser.

I was halfway through the business section of the paper, had just topped up my coffee cup, when wouldn’t you know it; the damn phone rang! It was the house phone, not my cell phone. Mother insisted on keeping her older phone; a bulky, black thing that had been sitting at the same place on the kitchen counter for as long as I could remember. New technologies tended to frustrate and confuse her.

The female caller spoke only seven words before hanging up. Oh, come quick, come quick. It’s terrible.

She never identified herself or told me what had happened. I had no idea who the caller was, but by the frantic pitch of her voice, I sensed that my wished-for quiet morning had just gone up in smoke. Obviously something pretty dramatic had taken place. The worst-case scenario would be an elderly person found dead in bed. Or perhaps a pet had been run over on a street. As I discovered several times throughout my career, a dead pet can be a very devastating event for its owner. Or maybe someone’s business had been broken into? That too was a direct possibility. But more likely than not, it was someone overreaction to a minor event. Whatever the case, I wasn’t overly concerned, just annoyed at having my morning routine disturbed.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and made a mental note of the time: 7:32 a.m.

Ordinarily I would check the caller-display on my cell phone and return the call, but the problem was this: Mother’s old relic of a phone had no caller-display. All I could do was sit and wait for a follow-up call. Nevertheless, my peaceful morning was ruined. After setting the phone back in its cradle I hurried upstairs, took an in-an-out shower, dressed, strapped on my service revolver, pinned my badge onto a fresh shirt—a shirt already dampish to the touch from the humidity—slapped on my unofficial baseball cap with Preston Police stitched across the peak, and I was ready to go to work.

Returning to the kitchen in just under ten minutes, still feeling dampish, I dropped a piece of bread in the toaster, topped up my coffee cup for the second time, then positioned myself by the phone.

Mother entered the kitchen. Who was that calling so early?

No doubt awakened by the phone, and by me showering and clomping around the house, she had switched on the TV in the living room on her way through to the kitchen. Mother was one of those people who require a morning fix of the National News to get her day started.

I don’t know, Mother. And please, turn the TV down? I’m expecting an important call.

Mother’s a bit hard of hearing and tends to keep the TV a few decibels on the high side. After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she shuffled back to the living room. The TV volume dropped.

The bulk of my time is spent dealing with nuisance bylaw infractions; an occasional impaired driving charge, a fender-bender, that sort of thing, but never anything of great significance. To date my greatest investigative prowess involved solving a string of B&Es; two out-of-town teenagers breaking into local businesses looking for drug money. Overall, Preston was a safe and quiet place to work and live. To put it in unadorned terms; it was boring as hell!

***

When the phone rang for the second time I immediately snapped it up.

Hello?

Is this Aaron Tully? This time the trembling voice was that of an older male.

It is.

This is Sydney Plover. I’m a retired United Church Minister. I live by the lake, and… .

Yes, Mr. Plover, I cut him short. I know who you are and where you live. What’s the problem?

It’s not me. It’s Janine Compton, my neighbor. You’d better get here, and fast.

I could hear a woman sobbing in the background. The line went dead before I could say another word. I noted the time; it was 7: 44 a.m. My indifferent attitude swiftly turned to apprehension. I didn’t finish my coffee or bother buttering my toast. I headed straight out the door.

Although the position of Constable for the town of Preston wasn’t much, and didn’t pay all that well, at least it was a steady income with all the benefits. And because of Preston’s backwater status, not much was expected of me in the line of criminology. However, I still made it a point of staying on top of what police work was all about. I refused to sit behind my desk, day after day, wear a badge, carry a gun, and be ignorant of police procedure. If and when something other than a noisy party, or a barking dog, or some other nuisance infraction came along, I had promised myself that I’d be ready.

Mother shouted at me as I went out the front door, What’s happened?

I don’t know, Mother. I just don’t know.

TWO

W HILE DRIVING TO THE Compton home, an odd sense of foreboding tingled down my spine. Was this the day when my abilities would be put to the test? Everything I ever did in life, at least everything involving work, I did well. And I’m not saying that to brag; it’s simply the truth. It wasn’t required of me, but when I accepted the position as Town Constable, I immediately set about qualifying myself for the position. I spent countless hours reviewing court procedures, studied the interpretation of laws, what to look for at a crime scenes, police investigation practices, anything that would help me be a good cop, if and when it was ever needed. I even acquired a passing knowledge of ballistics and a rudimentary understanding of DNA. The internet opened countless legal avenues for me to follow and I took full advantage. Mr. Google and I were the best of friends.

Whatever you do, do it well, my father told me, and told me too many times to count, and when the day comes when you must account for yourself, you’ll be ready. For some unknown reason I sensed that this would be the day of accountabilities.

***

The town of Preston sits on the southern end of Coleridge Lake, at the confluence of the Coleridge River, a picture postcard setting. Coleridge Lake is approximately twelve kilometers in length, is relatively narrow, very deep in some places, and quite shallow in others. The lake narrows down to a width of only half a kilometer at one point, but then widens out to almost two kilometers at its extreme breadth. Spotted with a dozen or so small islands, it’s one of those freshwater bodies of water that tourists flock to during the heat of the summer months.

The western shore of the lake, all twelve kilometers of it, is mostly rocky and heavily treed. It is owned in its entirety by the County Conservation Authority. However, the eastern shoreline of the lake is gentler, rolling land, ideal for building sites. It is also easily accessible from the highway. Over the years numerous cottages and homes popped up along that stretch of water, so much so, that today the entire eastern shoreline is one, continuous line of buildings. The Compton property, the most expensive and largest home on the lake, had been constructed some twenty years earlier; a stained log structure two stories high, seven thousand square feet in area with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water. Its only resident was a woman known to most of the locals, a Miss Janine Compton.

Less than five minutes after hanging up the phone I pulled down the driveway of the Compton home. I left the cruiser in the middle of the driveway to block it off. I hadn’t turned on my roof lights, or used the siren while getting to the scene, and for good reason; in small towns the residents have a tendency to follow sirens and flashing lights. Besides, I didn’t have the slightest idea what the emergency was all about, or even if there was an emergency.

Jumping out of the cruiser, and hurrying down the driveway, I met Reverend Plover standing in front of the Compton house. He had a comforting arm around the shoulder of a woman, a woman with a handkerchief pressed to her face. In his free hand he was holding a cell phone. His face was the colour of chalk. When I approached the couple I then recognized the woman; it was Mrs. Greta Wyle, a woman who does housecleaning and babysitting around the town.

What happened? I asked, doing my best to appear calm, although I was anything but.

The preacher pointed to the side of the house but didn’t speak.

You two stay right where you are, I told them both while steeling myself to meet with the unknown.

Walking cautiously in the direction of the preacher’s pointing, my heart slamming against my ribs, I was doing my best rendition of the brave, fearless cop taking charge.

At the side of the home I came to a large patio. On the patio, lying on her side, wearing only a string bikini, I found Janine Compton. Cautiously approaching the woman, talking to myself all the while to stay in control, the first thing that struck me was all the blood. It seemed to be everywhere. At a guess, I would say that every drop of Janine Compton’s blood was either sprayed about the patio, or had pooled beneath her. Although her face was completely free of blood, the same could not be said of her torso and legs. Wide bands of blood had streaked the front of her body from neck to feet.

Cautiously approaching her, swallowing hard, breathing deeply to steady myself, once my mind had absorbed the full scope of what had taken place, it seemed that my entire body became incapable of movement. It was as though an off-switch in my mind had been thrown.

It wasn’t hard to locate the trauma site. On the back of her neck, on the lower left-hand side, there was a hole roughly the size of a dime. On the front of her neck, also on the lower left-hand side, the hole was the size of a golf ball. One didn’t need to be a pathologist to know what had made the holes. A bullet had obviously entered the back of her neck, severed at least one major artery on its way through, and then exploded out the front of her neck taking a chunk of flesh with it.

My first glimpse of her was like being in a dream, a dream where you find yourself naked in a crowd, and you’re desperately looking for somewhere to hide. Never having witnessed such a gruesome sight before, my legs began turning to jelly as a wave of nausea built in my gut. Everything seemed surreal. Of all the things I could have imagined happening, when I first signed on as the cop for the town of Preston, I never for a moment imagined anything of this magnitude.

Three years earlier I had investigated a tragic death, that of an elderly, depressed gentleman who had hanged himself. There was no sign of violence, no bodily fluids, no blood, only the stench of excrement. Apparently the emptying of the bowels is a natural side effect of hanging. Although that event was also hard on my stomach, and it bothered me for a time afterwards, this was a million times worse.

I was experiencing a panic attack, that I understood, and I had no illusions as to what was causing it, but I also understood that it would pass, given enough time. I had stepped into the middle of a horrific event, one that I was neither physically nor mentally prepared to deal with. How inadequate I suddenly felt. On different occasions I had overheard residents of Preston referring to my position as The Town’s Dog Catcher, and at that moment it seemed a very accurate description of my abilities. Sure, I had seen a few incidents of bloodied faces, at car accidents, but never before had I witnessed such a slathering of blood. And this was no accident; this was deliberate.

To help alleviate my feelings of nausea, to get myself back in control, I needed a temporary distraction. Looking away, I cast my gaze out over the lake. When I did that, it seemed just another warm summer’s day, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Turning my attention back to the patio, but keeping my eyes off Janine Compton’s remains, I mentally began cataloging the surroundings. The patio had been excavated into the side of the sloping shoreline, as one would prepare to build a house basement, somewhat like a giant step. The patio’s location and layout, offered a breathtaking view of Coleridge Lake, its islands, and most of the western shoreline. The sides of the excavation were held in place by poured concrete retaining walls, walls cosmetically capped off with various coloured bricks and landscaping stones. I knew the patio would have cost a fortune to construct, but then, everything about the property would have cost a fortune. The back retaining wall, the highest of the three retaining walls, stood about six feet in height with a built-in fireplace as a centerpiece. The two lower abutting retaining walls, each about four feet high, ran the full width of the patio. The side of the patio facing the lake was left open so that nothing would interfere with the view of the lake. A set of stone steps continued on down the slopping bank to a floating dock. An eighteen-foot bow rider and a jet ski were moored to the dock.

The floor of the patio had been paved with various coloured interlocking bricks in a herring bone configuration. A walkway, made with the same styled interlocking bricks, led to a door off the kitchen of the house. The tops of the three retaining walls were adorned with ornate lights for nighttime entertaining. Scattered about the patio were the usual outdoor requirements: a large table with centre-mount umbrella, four lounge chairs, a stainless steel food preparation table on wheels, and two massive flowerpots with flowers cascading down their sides. Built into the back retaining wall, directly beside the fireplace, in its own niche, was a stainless steel barbeque. Near the outer part of the patio, the side closest to the lake, a sturdy wooden recliner was situated. A small refreshment table was strategically placed beside the recliner.

Whether planned or not, the enclosed nature of the patio allowed for the capture of the early morning sunlight and warmth. The design was certainly proving its worth. The heat on the patio was already reaching unbearable levels, and it was only 8:00 o’clock.

After forcing myself to study the victim once more, I was instantly hit with an urge to vomit. Struggling to stay in control, I scolded myself, aloud. Get with the program, Tully. Follow procedure. For God sakes man smarten-up and do your job. You’ve got a situation here that needs attending to; this is what you trained for, so stop acting like a child and get it done.

With that bit of self-chastising, I gritted my teeth and got busy. Slowly, ever so slowly, the nauseous churning in my gut began slacking off.

***

On a small serving table, the one beside the recliner, sat a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and an ashtray. On the patio’s interlocking paving bricks, directly beside the serving table, lay the shattered remains of a coffee mug, the coffee it once held splashed in a wide circle. On the other side of the recliner, also down on the interlocking stones, lay a paperback novel, its cover airbrushed with a fine spray of red. That same fine red spray was visible all across the patio, including on the back retaining wall, as well as the stainless steel BBQ.

Obviously the victim had been stretched out on the recliner, reading a novel, when the bullet ripped through her neck. On closer examination I could see there were also tiny particles of body tissue mixed in with the spray, as though the patio had been vandalized with an aerosol can of red paint, and then sprinkled with finely chopped liver. And there was a definite pattern to the spray. It was fan shaped; narrowest at the recliner, widest at the back retaining wall. Strangely, at that moment I remembered throwing water balloons when I was kid. Those balloons made the same pattern on the roads and sidewalks when they burst. I point out that fact because the spray pattern told me from which direction the bullet came.

So, where’s the bullet? I asked myself. Logic told me that somewhere in that gross mixture of blood and body tissue a slug was hiding. Obviously the bullet had exited the front of her neck with tremendous force, so it had to have left an impact mark somewhere.

It didn’t take long to solve that puzzle. A gouged brick in the back retaining wall pinpointed the bullet’s exact location. Taking cautious steps, careful not to disturb anything, I worked my way over to the impacted brick. I could actually see the copper end of the bullet embedded in the brick. Touching nothing, I slowly worked my way back over to the recliner.

My next step was to establish the bullet’s flight path. That proved to be an easy matter. Examining the back of the recliner, I found the small entry hole the bullet had made. It had passed through the very top wooden slat on the back of the recliner, those thin strips which support the cushions. It then passed on through the cushion knocking out a bit of stuffing in the process. From there it had passed through the victim’s neck before imbedding itself in a brick on the back retaining wall.

By standing directly behind the recliner, and lining up the bullet hole in the wooden recliner slat with the bullet’s impact mark in the back retaining wall, the answer couldn’t be clearer. Undoubtedly the bullet had come from the direction of the lake, but from where on the lake?

***

It was picture-taking time. In the trunk of the cruiser I kept a small carrying case. It contained my camera and pocket recorder, two items I had purchased with my own money because the Town Council refused to buy them for me when I was first hired on. When I made my request for those two essentials, our illustrious mayor snidely remarked, Certainly not! Good God, Tully, where in hell do you think this is, downtown Chicago?

On my way to the cruiser I stopped to speak with the minister. Reverend Plover, would you take Mrs. Wyle over to your place and wait for me there?

Of course, he said, his voice somewhat steadier.

With camera in hand, I hurried back to the patio and began snapping pictures. I would take a step, then click. Take another step; click. My camera, a top of the line Cannon with an infinite focus lens, was equipped with the largest capacity chip available at the time. I was prepared to fill it if necessary. Ever so cautiously I worked my way around the entire outer perimeter of the patio, clicking as I went, careful not to disturb anything, looking for anything of interest. When that was completed, I turned my attention in the direction of the lake. I began taking pictures of the registration numbers on the hulls of the distant boats that where out on the water. I counted five boats in total, obviously anchored and fishing, but none were positioned directly out in front of the Compton house. The owners of those boats would be questioned later.

Now it was time to examine the remains of Janine Compton more closely. Again I needed to have a conversation with myself. It was a gruesome task, and yet, after the initial shock had passed I went at it in a businesslike manner, keeping my thoughts focused and my camera clicking. Without realizing it, I had spent the last six years of my life training for this one moment, and I had come frightening close to failing my first real test. Zooming in on every part of her body, and as difficult as it was, I paid particular attention to the bullet holes in her neck; the smaller one at the back of her neck, the larger, more gapping one in the front.

That being done, I stood, looked away, breathed deeply and whispered, Okay, Tully? You managed that quite well. So let’s move along.

Understanding only too well, that with my limited resources, and my non-existing experience in such matters, I needed to call in help. Pulling my cell phone from my pocket I punched the saved number for the OPP, my backup.

THREE

P ROVINCIAL POLICE. HOW MAY I help you? It was a female dispatcher.

This is Aaron Tully, over in Preston. I have a serious situation here and I need to contact Sergeant Hughes?

I had met the big sergeant several times. His detachment encompassed a large area, which included the area surrounding the town of Preston, but not the village itself. Preston was my territory. A couple of times Hughes had stopped by and paid me a courtesy call. We had coffee, shot the breeze, and he always had a good joke to tell.

He’s out on the road right now. Can I pass him on a message?

Yes. Tell him I’m requesting OPP assistance.

Could you be a little more specific? the dispatcher asked.

Tell him I have what appears to be a homicide. I’m also requesting a CIB team?

One minute please. The casualness instantly vanished from the dispatcher’s voice.

CIB teams, or Criminal Investigation Bureau teams, can be called in by any police force in the province. In smaller centers, where investigative resources are minimal, but have their own police force, it’s the usual procedure