Julia Gibbs’s high-back chair had barely become cold when Ramon Zdunczyk sat his fat ass in it. With a large double-double in one hand and a Boston cream donut in the other, he swiveled round to face the back wall and planted one foot against it, followed by the other. He bit into his donut while he cursorily surveyed her degrees and testimonials. Ten years had gone by since he had been passed over for the position of Chief of Police. Playing second fiddle to the likes of her irked him. He stuffed the remainder of the donut in his mouth and turned back to the desk. At its corner was a wedding photo of her and Zoe Rovedatti. That is unnatural. And he placed it face down. No word on her condition, he quietly hoped for the worst. He sipped his coffee. The work area beyond the glass wall in front of him had returned to its usual busyness. The memorial for Sergeant Gerald Stuart Mills had been wound up for three hours. He noticed Detective Chris Frohbieter, a lanky individual with auburn hair, heading his way and he waved him in.
“Have you heard anything yet, Chris?”
“Not yet. Everyone out there,” he said with a slight tilt of his head, “is on pins and needles. She’s well liked and would be missed if she doesn’t pull through.”
“And the shooter?”
“That’s it, I don’t think he was the shooter.”
“Come again?”
“His gun hadn’t been fired. The caliber doesn’t match up, anyway.”
“Huh! Has he told you who he is?”
Chris scratched his head. “Nope. Closed tighter than a clam. Didn’t even have any ID on him.” He up-righted the photo of Zoe and Julia. “Lovely picture of the two, don’t you think?”
Ramon bit his lower lip and ignored the comment. “Where is he now?”
“Still in the interview room. Why?”
“I’d like to have a chat with him…alone…no cameras or recording devices.”
“Given the circumstances, are you sure that’s wise?”
Ramon stared at him. “Are you questioning my authority?”
After a nervous clearing of the throat, Chris replied. “No sir. It’s just—”
“Just what?”
“Nothing. I’ll set it up.”
“Good. What do you know about the witnesses?” Ramon asked.
“Lots of those but most were written off as unreliable. You know, the same old same old. Their recounting of events was inaccurate; timing wrong; age; distractions by the weapon at the time; etcetera; etcetera.” Chris passed him the folder tucked under his arm.
“What’s this?”
“It contains the witnesses we thought most reliable.”
Ramon opened the folder and flipped through their statements. A few moments later he glanced up. “Hmm. The common link in all their statements is a person dressed in army fatiques. Anything picked up by CCTVs?”
“That’s the most perplexing point,” Chris replied. “Video surveillance was down at the time. The lightning storm before the ceremony may have knocked it out. I’m waiting for confirmation.”
Ramon dug his elbows into the desk and pulled his hands together to rest his chin on his thumbs. “Once this is out, it could create a shitstorm.”
“I hear you. I may be able to keep a lid on it for a day. Maybe two. Anything beyond that I can’t promise.”
“It will just have to do.” He sat back in the chair. “One last thing. Who’s handling Sergeant Mills’s murder case now?”
“James…James Brant. Transferred up from Toronto about five years ago.”
Ramon wrote his name down on the legal-size yellow pad beside him and peered at his watch. “Time for a visit to our John Doe. Remember. I want no recording devices. Just he and I alone. And that means no one in the viewing room too.”