The covert operation began a little before seven-thirty that evening as a Strike Force operative, wearing faded jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, and scuffed boots, strolled past the low-rise building near the Stampede grounds where Dummett rented a one-bedroom apartment.
The next day Dummett went about what Chris liked to call his "lawful occasions," remaining indoors for the most part, lunching by himself at a Wendy's outlet, and shopping for supplies at a Safeway grocery store.
Things picked up on the second day, Thursday, when he drove to his mother's home and stayed for an hour before driving away in her Toyota, leaving his Solstice parked at the curb. He went directly to Bud's Auto Parts, an automobile bone yard at the intersection of Glenmore and Deerfoot. After checking into the office, he was observed walking through rows of compacted and stacked auto bodies, then returning to the office with what the spotter was able to identify with his binoculars as a plastic tail light cover.
"Ron Donlevy from Hit and Run told me how that works," Chris said to the other two members of his team. "If you want a part, say from a Toyota, you check in with the office, then go out into the yard and help yourself. If you find what you want, you take it back to the office and pay for it. He also said that replacing the cover of a tail light is so simple anybody with a screwdriver can do it."
"Here we go again," sighed Gwen. "He replaces the tail light cover so the car can't be traced to the Cunningham murder—that's too civilized a word for what was done to her—or he replaced it as a favour to his mother like a dutiful, loving son would."
"Looks like you're going to have company," the tactical commander radioed in to Chris. "The target parked the Solstice in a lot on Fifth and is walking in your direction."
"What's the breaking news, Phil?" asked Chris when they were seated in an interview room down the hall and around a corner from the temporary command post. Once again Dummett had failed to make any mention of the children's toys, but had cast a beseeching look at the door leading into the Homicide section. "Any word from TLC?"
If Dummett had sent himself a message purporting to be from the killer, surveillance should have spotted him doing it. But Dummett was shaking his head. "Zilch. But I'm doing another piece. The news services are lining up for it. I was hoping," he cleared his throat, "to get a quote that I could use."
Stroking his chin, Chris stared at his visitor. Here was the prime suspect sitting across the table from the lead investigator, calmly asking for help in writing about the heinous crimes he himself was suspected of committing. How cool was that? Maybe he and his team were way off base in suspecting the guy. Mavis Ross had agreed that Dummett could be a possibility when he had run it by her. But still. So many police resources were dedicated to tracking his every movement. What if the real TLC were to strike once again while Dummett was under surveillance?
"You know I can't do that," Chris finally replied, while his internal debate continued unchecked. "Dining with tigers." Where had that come from? Oscar Wilde probably. It sounded like something the sardonic Irish playwright would say. That could be what Dummett was up to. Feeding on the danger and excitement of working in close quarters with the enemy.
"What tack are you going to take in the article?" Chris asked after another pause.
"That TLC is old news. That he's run out his string, and there will be no more killings."
"Jesus, Phil. You can't do that!" This was precisely the tactic that Patterson had suggested—goad the killer into action by stating publicly that the killing spree was over and that TLC had retired from the field, fearing that he was about to be arrested. Chris had vetoed the idea immediately, saying, "We can't invite him to kill again and put some innocent woman's life in jeopardy." Now Phil Dummett was proposing to do precisely that, and Chris couldn't stop him.
"Hell, Chris!" Dummett protested when Chris brought up the risk. "He's going to kill again regardless. We both know that. That way we might flush him out. I'll write something that will get him so mad and upset he could make a mistake that will give him away."
"The target is back in Varsity Acres," the tactical commander reported.
"He'll be going to see his mother again. Maybe take her to lunch." The mention of lunch reminded Chris he should do something about his own. It could turn out to be a long day. Maybe Gwen would go out and get some sandwiches.
"He's still in there," the commander reported an hour later.
"Copy that." Finishing his sandwich, Chris squeezed the wrapping into a ball and dropped it in a wastebasket. "His mother must have given him lunch."
"If you say so." The commander's tone was mildly disapproving, as if chastising Chris for tying up the line of communication with irrelevant domestic detail. But it wasn't irrelevant for Chris, still trying to sort out what made the freelancer tick.
"Attention." The commander's voice was brisk as he alerted his team, a grey Chevy Impala sedan slowly cruising the streets of the subdivision and a Honda SUV idling in a Market Mall parking lot. A five-man tactical team was on standby alert at the Police Centre in the northeast sector of the city. He was also in communication with a police Cessna 182, flying patrol over a known grow-op in the southeast sector. It could be diverted to Chris's operation if required.
"Target has opened the garage door and is backing out a black Toyota Corolla sedan, licence number QRS 814. Now he's driving a Pontiac Solstice, licence number MNE 374, into the garage. Target is waving to older, somewhat overweight, female, probably the mother, standing at the front window, and is now driving off. Unit 5 is to pick up the tail, staying well behind target. Unit 8, take up position and remain one block in front. You are reminded that the safety of the general public has top priority. Repeat. The safety of the general public comes first."
Now the commander's voice came on tight with urgency. "Attention, all units! Target has pulled into the curb and is talking to a young female. Unit 5 reports that they appear to know each other. She is smiling. Female is of ethnic origin. Apparently East Indian. Attractive. Wearing an ankle-length skirt and blouse. Target is out of car and escorting her to passenger side. She appears to be going willingly. Smiling up at target. They have driven off. Do we intercept?"
"Negative intercept. Not at this stage." Grey eyes darkened with apprehension, Chris stared at Gwen, sitting across the table from him. "Activate tactical squad."
"It's the right call, Chris. We don't know anything for sure. It's logical they would know each other. She probably lives in Varsity Acres, and he's around there all the time visiting his mother. He could be just giving a friend a lift, or they could be going for a harmless drive."
"Your journalist friend would love it if we did an intercept and it turned out to be a false alarm. What a story! He would crucify us in print. It would be a lifetime career ticket for him."
"You're right about the crucifixion part, Ken. I can see it now. Jesus."
While Chris and his two partners were having this anxious debate, the tactical squad, clad in camouflage battledress uniforms, climbed into an ordinary-looking Ford Explorer painted a neutral brown colour. The vehicle had been fitted with an extra bench seat, facing backwards. The rear door would spring open at the touch of a button, allowing two of the squad to leap out and confront the target. Bulletproof vests and helmets, and the weapons—Remington 700 rifles for long-range sniping, C-8 CQB assault rifles for short-range, and Glock handguns—were already stowed on board. The overhead door of the police garage opened, and the Explorer drove out.
Back at the downtown headquarters, Chris was trying to reassure himself and the others, mostly himself. "We can always move in at the first sign of trouble."
He had barely finished saying this when the mobile crackled with the terse message: "Contact lost. Repeat. Contact with target lost. Unit 8, circle back to resume contact."
Chris pressed the talk button. "Call in the air unit. Target could have turned off onto a side street."
"Air unit is joining search."
"What happened?" Chris asked when he was sure the commander had finished giving his instructions.
"What else?" the frustrated officer replied. "Construction. A backhoe reversed onto the street right after the flagman stopped traffic. The target was the last car that got through. Our unit was three cars back."
The commander's frustration was easy to understand. Road repairs and construction were the daily norm in the exponentially expanding city.
"I guess Unit 5 couldn't drive around the backhoe?" Chris inquired, already knowing the answer. If it had been possible they would have done it.
"That's right. There's a telephone pole on the sidewalk and the bank drops right off. Unit 8, where are you? Report."
"We're back at the site of the road construction. The backhoe is being loaded onto a flatbed."
"Has contact been established with the target?"
"Negative that."
"The bastard's given them the slip!" Patterson cursed.
"We don't know that. There's nothing to indicate Dummett knows he's being followed." Chris sounded considerably more confident than he felt.
"They could be heading downtown. Units 5 and 8, turn east on Bowness Road and try to overtake them. Take no further action, just keep them in sight." The commander was once more cool and in control. "Air Unit 2, report your location."
"Passing over Canyon Meadows on a northwest course. Will be on the lookout for a black Toyota sedan on Bowness."
A few tense minutes later the observer in the Cessna reported that they had identified both police vehicles but there was no sign of the target.
"He's on the loose. And he's got that girl! Let's move!" Grabbing the radio, Chris led the way to the elevator and ran out the rear of the building to where a cruiser and uniformed driver waited for them.
The tactical squad reported they were heading west on John Laurie Boulevard. They were not using the siren or lights, so as not to attract attention.
"The air unit should be able to spot them." Chris, sitting in the passenger seat, kept on staring through the windshield as he spoke. "The Cessna is a high-wing monoplane, ideal for this kind of work." Why was he blathering like this? Tension. That's why.
"We may have the target in sight. A black sedan of what appears to be Japanese manufacture is proceeding west on the Old Banff Coach road."
"Ask them to try and make a positive ID," said Chris into the headset mike. "They can fly lower without attracting suspicion. They're getting close to the Springbank Airport, where light aircraft are always taking off and landing." The Cessna's radio was on the same frequency and the crew could hear what he was saying, but protocol demanded that the order come from the commander.
"Subject vehicle has continued on to Springbank Road," the air unit reported. "We are circling north and will fly past the rear of the vehicle in a climbing mode as if we had just taken off. We might be able to make out the plate with the scope."
Minutes later the observer, the engine noise of the climbing airplane loud in the background, said they had a positive ID. The spotter had been able to make out the letters QRS.
"It's a nice day for a drive in the country," Patterson murmured as Chris told the driver to increase speed and they began the awkward process of struggling into bulletproof vests.
"I'll try his cellphone." Chris punched in the number. "Maybe that's all it is. An innocent outing with a pretty girl." A pause. "No answer. He's turned it off. Not good."
"Subject vehicle has passed through the Springbank intersection and is proceeding west toward Highway 22."
"Maybe they're going to Banff," Patterson said, then fell silent as the driver flipped the siren on and off to run the traffic lights at the intersection of Bow and Sarcee trails. The south boundary of Edworthy Park paralleled Bow Trail, stirring a fleeting memory in Chris of the morning when Adrienne Vinney's body had been discovered.
"We're gaining on them," he said, shaking off the too vivid image as they raced along the Old Banff Coach Road and tore past 101st Street.
Patterson leaned forward over the back of the front seat. "FYI, we have just passed the city limits and are now in Rockyview where we have no jurisdiction."
"Hot pursuit," Chris replied cheerfully, buckling a strap of his vest. "A well-known doctrine of international law from rum-running days. You're allowed to follow a suspect into foreign waters if you're in hot pursuit. As we are."
Gwen's only response as Patterson sat back and rolled his eyes was an amused little smile.
"Subject vehicle has crossed Highway 22 and is proceeding west on an unpaved township road."
"Well, they're sure as hell not going to Banff." Chris instructed the constable driver to use both the siren and the flashing lights.
As matters entered what could be the final stage, the commander handed off to Chris. "Copy that," Chris confirmed, then asked the tactical unit to report their position.
"Heading south on Sarcee. Will turn west on Bow."
"Maintain speed," Chris instructed his driver. "We can't wait for them."
The landscape they were racing through consisted mainly of open fields where cattle grazed, dotted here and there with small enclaves of two or three newly constructed houses. A huge transport rig, its cargo destined for Vancouver, ground to a halt to let them cross Highway 22. A cock pheasant stood transfixed on the edge of the ditch as they tore past on the narrow, hard-packed road, its washboard surface devoid of gravel.
"Target is slowing down," the spotter on the Cessna reported. At a gesture from Chris, the driver turned off the siren and flashing lights.
"He's turning off into what looks like an abandoned farm. He's getting out to open the barbed wire gate. He has a handgun. He's pointing it at the passenger. Now he's driving through and hooking the gate back on the post. There's an overgrown track leading to an old barn that looks ready to fall down."
"Can you land on the property?"
"Negative that. It's overgrown with bushes and groves of poplars. What is your location?"
"One and a half kilometres west of 22. You say it's an abandoned farm?"
"Affirmative. The old barn is the only building still standing."
Undoubtedly the farm would be part of a develop-er's land bank, neglected and in limbo until the time came to turn it into a residential subdivision. Perfect for the evil purposes of a serial killer.
"Now he's making the passenger—a young woman—pull the door open. It's stiff, and she's really tugging at it. Now he's driving in."
"You haven't been made?"
"Negative. To him we are just another airplane. Likely on a training flight. They're both inside now. Do you want us to make a low pass over the barn to let the target know he's got company?"
"Negative. We can't take a chance on what he might do. We must be almost there. Report our location."
"You are approximately one kilometre east of the farm. It's on your left. You can see the barn through the trees. The tactical squad is not far behind and closing fast."
"Roger. We have the barn in sight."
"Give him a blip of the siren," Chris told the driver as they bounced over the track and pulled up some distance from the barn. Weathered and sway-backed, its planks silvered with age, it looked as if the next Chinook would send its timbers tumbling to the ground.
Taking the bullhorn the driver handed him, Chris climbed out and walked closer to the barn. "Phillip Dummett, this is Detective Crane. You are surrounded. Come out peacefully. It's all over."
He could hear something like a shout coming from inside the barn, but there was no way of making out the words. If they were to initiate a two-way conversation with Dummett, they would have to provide him with a bullhorn. The tac team could handle that. Once again, Chris raised the loud-hailer to his mouth. "Everything is cool, Phil. We can resolve this. Nobody needs to get hurt."
Lowering the bullhorn, he saw Gwen pointing back at the Ford Explorer bumping its way along the overgrown track. Guns at the ready, the team jumped out. Chris was pleased to recognize the leader, a tall, fit-looking man with sergeant's stripes on the sleeves of his battle dress. From past experience, Chris knew how Sergeant Floyd would deploy his men. Faced with a stand-alone building, whether a dwelling or a barn, he would station a sniper—they were known as Sierras, for some reason, presumably because of the initial "S"—at each of the four sides of the building. Sierra 1 would be at the front of the building, with the others numbered like a clock, so that Sierra 4 would be on the far side of the barn. They would have to work in close, so each man was armed with a C-8 assault rifle and Glock.
As the snipers reported their positions, an ambulance drew up beside the other vehicles and two para-medics joined the group.
"Sierra 4 says he has some loose boards on his side of the barn," the sergeant told Chris. "He thinks he can pry one of them free, but he needs us to distract the hostage taker while he works on it. Talk to him, Chris."
"You have a lot to live for, Phil." Chris turned up the volume. "You can write a book. Publishers will be clamouring for it. You'll be famous. World famous. Sought after. Biographers and reporters will fight to interview you." Still talking, he glanced at the clip of paper Gwen was holding out with the name of Dummett's captive. "Do not harm Veena, Phil. If you do, all bets are off. Repeat, do not harm Veena."
"He's saying something, but we can't hear it." said Gwen.
"Sierra 4 got the board off," the team leader said. "He's got a clear view of the inside of the barn. The target's holding a gun to the girl's head. The bastard knows what he's doing. He's got his head pressed up against hers. There's no way the sniper can shoot him without hitting her."
"We can't hear you, Phil. What are you saying?" Chris lowered the loud-hailer. Turning to Sergeant Floyd, he said, "The guy is a communicator. That's what he does. He'll be frustrated as hell not being able to make himself heard. I'll tell him we're going to throw in a bullhorn so he can talk to us. If he reaches down for it, it could give the sniper a chance to get off a shot."
The sergeant sent off one of his team with a bull-horn to roll in at Dummett's feet.
"Target appears more and more agitated," reported Sierra 4. "He's jamming the gun hard against the girl's head. He's looking kinda wild. He just hit her! On the side of her head with the butt of his gun."
"Condition Green," the team leader said into his helmet mike in a voice of steel.
Chris could almost feel the sideways look Gwen gave him, but he stared straight ahead. Condition Green meant the sniper was to shoot to kill if he got a clear shot.
"Roger," Sierra 4 acknowledged. "The bullhorn is going in now. Tell him to pick it up."
Chris shook his head. "No. That will only make him suspicious. If I'm right, he won't be able—" He broke off at the sharp crack of a rifle.
"Target down. Hostage standing." The sniper's voice was professionally dispassionate.
The procedure in hostage-taking situations required the tactical team to secure the scene before any further action could be taken. Chris watched the leader and another member of his unit, assault rifles cocked and ready, open the barn door and burst in. A few tense moments later, Sergeant Floyd came out and beckoned the others to join them.
As he entered, and as he had been trained to do, Chris automatically checked to see that the premises were secure. All five members of the squad were now inside the barn, guarding the perimeter. Carrying a stretcher, the two paramedics rushed past him. One knelt beside Dummett's body lying motionless on the dirt floor, while the second tended to the young woman, dazed, holding a hand to her head, silk skirt drenched with blood, but still on her feet.
"No vital signs," the kneeling paramedic pronounced. Indeed, there was no need for him to look for them. An unholy halo of bright red blood, flecked with grey bits of brain matter, fanned out from Dummett's shattered skull. Sierra 4 had executed his assignment perfectly. A single bullet to the non-reactive zone—the area between the upper lip and the eyebrows. A shot in this zone dropped the target instantly, with no chance to pull the trigger or do anything else.
"Veena." The young girl blinked and focused on Chris as he spoke her name. "Are you all right?"
"She'll be okay," the paramedic told him. "She's had a knock on the head, and she's in shock, but she's not hurt bad."
"Thank God. But the blood? She's covered with it."
"That's his. Lie down on the stretcher, dear, and we'll take you out of this awful place."
The Strike Force operative who had said she was attractive had understated the case. Pale and traumatized as she was, she was nonetheless stunning, with the aristocratic features of a young maharani.
"I liked him," she murmured faintly, dark eyes fixed on Chris as she was gently lowered onto the stretcher. "I even had sort of a crush on him." A shudder ran through her slender frame. "He told me all the terrible things he was going to do to me."
"He can't hurt you now, Veena." Chris held the hand she reached up to him. He watched as she was carried out to the ambulance, then rejoined the other detectives gazing down at Dummett's lifeless body.
"Well," he muttered finally, "he always did want to be in on the takedown."