“Detective Greene,” Hodgson said. “What a most unpleasant surprise.”
“Not many people are happy to be visited by a homicide detective.”
“Especially for a second time.” Hodgson was a broad-shouldered man who wore his initialled shirts undone at the collar, as if his neck were too big to enclose in a shirt. He had a full head of thick hair and a nervous tic of tilting his head to the side and running his hand through it.
“I figured you’d show up on my doorstep this morning when I heard about the second murder in the valley. I’ve already called my lawyer,” Hodgson said. “Your pal Phil Cutter.”
Cutter had been Hodgson’s lawyer at his murder trial. Years earlier, he’d started his career as a Crown Attorney and soon developed a reputation as a rabid advocate, determined to prosecute every case to the max. Greene had worked a number of murder trials with Cutter and never felt comfortable with him. Eventually Cutter’s zeal led him to cross the line, and Greene was the one who caught him and got him turfed out of the Crown’s office.
He’d become a defence lawyer—“I’ve gone over to the dark side,” he liked to brag—and had been up against Greene on a number of murder trials. As a defence lawyer, his ultra-combative style, drilling down on even the most minute detail, was at times brilliant. But often his obsessiveness wound up being detrimental to his clients’ best interests. Greene didn’t trust him, and Cutter knew it.
Greene looked around Hodgson’s office. It wasn’t so much an office as a shrine to his daughter’s golf achievements. Photos of Britt playing adorned the walls, along with tournament champion banners, and an array of brass trophies on a special shelf. A collection of putters was mounted behind his desk, each one longer than the next, tracking his daughter’s growth.
Greene sat across the desk from Hodgson. He didn’t attempt to shake hands, and he didn’t acknowledge any of the golf-shrine décor.
“I’ll take a wild guess,” Greene said. “Cutter told you not to talk to me.”
“You are correct.”
“Then why did you agree to see me at all?”
“Because I wanted to tell you something important, Detective Greene.” Hodgson leaned forward. “I didn’t kill that bum who was killed in the valley a few days ago, and I didn’t kill the one who died today that’s all over the news this morning.”
“Bums?”
“Yeah, bums. I never use the word homeless. That glorifies it. Makes it sound as if these leeches had no life choices. They have plenty of choice. There are available shelter beds in the city every night. Nobody has to live in the valley or sleep on the street.”
“Sounds like a political speech.”
“It is. And yes, the rumours are true. I’m running for mayor in the next election, and I plan to win.” He sat back and smiled. Ran his fingers through his hair.
They both knew what that meant. If Hodgson became mayor, he’d be Greene’s boss.
Greene stood. “I’m apolitical.”
Hodgson stood too. “That’s it?”
“You told me you didn’t kill them,” Greene said.
“You don’t believe me?”
“It’s not my job to believe or disbelieve. I’m interested in facts. Do you want to tell me where you were earlier this morning?”
For the first time since Greene had walked into his office, Hodgson wasn’t looking cocky. He crossed his arms. Defiant. Silent.
“Perhaps you would like to explain this to me,” Greene said, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket. “I’m curious. How did the right front fender of your SUV get scratched?”
“Right front fender?” Hodgson said, unable to contain himself. Answering a police officer’s question with a question was a classic stall. He was playing for time.
“Long and narrow,” Greene said. “Have to see what forensics says, but it looks to me as if it’s the shape of a bicycle fender. Back wheel.”
Hodgson looked flustered. Even though his lawyer had advised him to keep his mouth shut, it wasn’t easy for an extrovert like him. He loved to talk, and the best way to break his cone of silence was to be quiet. Surprise him.
Greene slowly raised his cell phone, punched in some letters, and pulled up a set of photos. He fiddled with the phone, rotating it, upwards and sideways. He didn’t look at Hodgson, but he could feel his agitation and impatience growing.
“There it is,” Greene said.
“What?” Hodgson said, his anxiety getting the best of his vow of silence.
“I took some pictures of your SUV in the parking garage. Want to see?”
Hodgson shrugged.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Greene asked. Without waiting for an answer, he reached across the desk and put the phone right up to Hodgson’s face.
Hodgson couldn’t resist looking at the photo. He shook his head. “Ever since the trial and my acquittal, my car gets vandalized all the time.”
“This scratch looks fresh.”
Hodgson stared at him and didn’t respond. Back to trying to not speak.
“I’ll ask you again. Where were you this morning, say at about five thirty to six a.m.?”
“I don’t have to answer any more questions.”
Suspects often said this. But even saying they didn’t have to talk meant they were still talking. And that was the key. Keep them talking.
Greene reached back into his pocket and pulled out a piece of cloth. He bent over Hodgson’s desk and began to unfold it.
“You recognize this?” he said, taking his time pulling off the last bit of material to reveal a golf ball with Hodgson’s initials on it.
Hodgson stared at it.
“K.L.H. Your initials, and here’s the club crest,” Greene said. “Leonard’s your middle name.”
“Where did you get this?” Hodgson asked. Once again, unable to maintain his silence.
Greene folded the cloth back up around the ball. It was his turn to go silent. He turned to leave.
“I order two dozen balls every April,” Hodgson said, animated now. “It’s a point of pride for me that I never lose all of them during the season.”
This made sense. Hodgson had testified at his trial that he was a scratch golfer. And his order of twenty-four balls in the spring was true. Greene had checked with the labelling company. But that wasn’t the whole story.
“But then you ordered a half dozen two weeks ago,” Greene said.
“One morning a few weeks ago when I was out on the course playing a round, someone broke into my car and stole my last six balls.”
“Did you report the theft?”
“There’s no point. Waterbridge and the old farts who run the club, do you think they give a damn? They’re probably happy about it. They’d love nothing better than to see me gone.”
Greene pocketed the wrapped-up ball.
Was Hodgson being set up? Or had he let his rage get the better of him when he killed the two homeless people? Had he cleverly concocted a plausible explanation? Impossible to tell.
“Pleasure to see you again, Councillor,” Greene said. “And don’t take your vehicle to the car wash.” He opened the door and left without looking back.