Winston Patrick Mystery 2-Book Bundle. David Russell W.

“They would like me to meet them at Carl’s house. They’ve got a warrant, and they’re going to arrest him.”

       Thirteen

      Carl and Bonnie Turbot lived in an East Vancouver house architects anachronistically refer to as a “Vancouver Special”. Vancouver Specials began to appear on the local architectural scene in the 1960s, mostly in the eastern parts of the city.

      It was in the East End towards the Vancouver suburb of Burnaby. Scarcity of land and its ever increasing price had led city planners to permit, if not smaller lots, at least narrower ones. Thus, home designers were faced with the difficult task of developing profitable homes that everyday, working class people could afford and that would somehow fit this new, thin slice of land zoning that was unique to Vancouver.

      The result is an often-mocked long shoebox of a house that looks a lot like a two storey version of a mobile home, without the trailer park and rental pad. There are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of these Vancouver Specials dotted throughout the city, and while designers and “artistes” scoff at their boxy image, for many years it was the home of choice for people anxious to break into the home-owning segment of society. In recent years, architecture students have begun a kind of a love affair with the homes, attempting to develop selected Vancouver Specials into a respectable genre of home building. Largely, it hasn’t worked.

      Carl and Bonnie’s house was white—as almost all of them are—with green trim around the windows and front doorway. Their shoe box abode was sandwiched between two houses of obviously different vintage: 1930s hard stucco bungalows. In the front yard, if you could call it that, stood two willow trees whose drooping branches hung well out onto the quiet street. When I arrived, Furlo and Smythe were already waiting outside in their unmarked Crown Victoria police cruiser.

      “Good evening, Mr. Patrick.” Detective Smythe smiled at me as she opened the driver’s side door of the car. It struck me as odd that Smythe would be the driver and Furlo the passenger. He seemed the macho type who would have a hard time letting a woman drive. Come to think of it, he seemed the macho type who would have a hard time just working with a woman partner, particularly one senior to him.

      “Keeping you up late?” I asked by way of reply.

      “The life of the weary flatfoot,” she replied. Smythe had the look of someone who knew for herself the job she was doing was important, just and honourable, but a little distasteful at times. To her credit—and I gave the credit to her because I was convinced Furlo had nothing to do with it—there was no need for them to include me in their plans to arrest Carl. The phone call could as easily have come from Carl after he arrived at central booking.

      “No doubt. I had forgotten how much fun it can be when you’re on call. At least with teaching you don’t generally get called out to work in the middle of the night.”

      “Maybe you should stick to teaching then,” Furlo snarled as he rose up from out of the passenger seat. And the testosterone battles began anew.

      The three of us stared across the car at each other for a moment that was more awkward than tense. Furlo and Smythe at least both appeared to recognize how uncomfortable a situation we’d all found ourselves in. The murder of a child, even one who was nearly embracing adulthood, is about the worst type of case anyone can be assigned to. Given that the prime, about to be apprehended, suspect was in a role we all like to believe is relatively sacred just made working anywhere near this case all the more unpalatable. Though I had given up law to move into teaching, over the past year of my teaching practicum I had still consulted on a number of cases and picked up the odd bit of pre-litigation work for friends’ firms just to keep myself in legal shape. But we all seemed to know, standing around in the cold November air, that this was not the type of extra-curricular moonlighting I would have taken on had I known where it was going.

      Finally, Smythe broke the uncomfortable silence. “Would you like a few minutes alone?” she asked, gesturing towards the house.

      “Yes,” I replied graciously. “Thank you.” I turned towards the elongated homestead before pausing. “Does he know you’re here?”

      “We’ve been quiet as a mouse,” Smythe replied, smiling. “Two mice actually.”

      “What, no S.W.A.T. teams?”

      “You’ve been watching too much TV,” Furlo condescended to me. “We call them E.R.T.’s here.” He was making reference to Vancouver’s elite Emergency Response Team, generally dispatched to assist in the apprehension of violent criminals or in hostage scenarios. Taking down a mild-mannered biology teacher was likely below them.

      “Ten minutes?” Smythe asked, as though we were making an appointment to meet for lattes after I picked up the dry-cleaning.

      “Sure, that will do,” I replied as I began to make my way towards Carl’s front door. Because I am who I am, I couldn’t resist suggesting to Furlo, “You wanna watch the back door?” I nodded my head towards the side of the house.

      Furlo’s top lip curled up in a lop-sided grin-come-sneer. “You’re not out in ten minutes, we’re coming in. Anyone’s missing, I shoot you first.” Generally, once fire arms are mentioned, I find it best to surrender the last word. I’d had to do that a lot that week. I wondered if Furlo would like to meet my ex-wife.

      By that time, I was convinced that not only Carl and his wife but also all of his neighbours must have been aware of our presence. How often do people stand in the rain chatting outside grey sedans at ten thirty at night? Apparently, often enough that as I tentatively rang the doorbell, the people in Carl’s neighbourhood continued to take no notice.

      It was nearly two minutes before a dishevelled and sleepy looking Carl opened his front door behind a safety chain.

      “Yeah?” he asked groggily. Through the small crack he had permitted in the doorway, I was already aware of the distinctive odour of alcohol.

      “Carl, it’s me, Winston Patrick,” I told him. “Open the door. I need to come in.”

      “Winston?” He considered this carefully, squinting through the barely open doorway at my now soaking wet visage on his doorstep. “What are you doing here?”

      “It’s important. I need to talk to you. Come on. Open up. Now.” As a rule, semi-drunk people are about the only people I ever have success with talking forcefully to. I turned towards the street and waved and smiled at the two detectives, both still standing against their car. I wondered if they were going to stand in the rain for the full ten minutes I’d been allotted, or if they’d seek refuge in the car. Smythe gave me a bendy fingertip wave back. It almost looked like flirting, but then it was late, and I do have a vivid imagination.

      The door closed momentarily, and I could hear Carl wrestling with the front door safety chain. I figure those are more for show than anything else; it doesn’t really take much to push through cheap chain link.

      Carl opened the door and, seemingly recovering the good manners I had always seen him demonstrate at school, waved me into the entrance hallway. “Come in. Come in. Sorry to keep you standing in the rain.” He was oblivious to the two detectives at the curb.

      As I entered Carl’s house, I couldn’t help but come to the conclusion that most of what my ex-wife had suggested about the earning potential of a teacher was apparently true. Looking into Carl’s modest home, I sheepishly felt the teensiest bit grateful that my previous profession, coupled with some relatively savvy investing, had permitted me to live with a lifestyle a few degrees higher than what Carl and Bonnie Turbot appeared to be living. Clearly, no one becomes a teacher as a get rich quick scheme.

      From the front hallway, Carl led me immediately up a flight of stairs to the main living room area. As we reached the top of the stairs, Carl gestured into the narrow living room at the front of the house. The Turbots had done a pleasant job of decorating the shoe box. It at least looked homey. “You want something to drink?” he offered.

      “No, thank you,” I replied.