Chapter 153

Dee Lee and Glen Frederick selected a first-year bottle of Glenny Breton Rare Canadian Single Malt, which was stocked in crates in the basement of Lady Hercules.
The whiskey was pretty good. It was made in ‘Shining’ Bill’s native Glennyville, in Cape Breton.
It would be Sgt. Bob’s last drink.
Rawle Powder, the reporter, had called the night before. The information he shared was short and very sweet, just the way Dee Lee liked it.
His precious cocaine was safe and sound.
They’d recovered it that very morning, still sitting in it’s original duffel bag, untouched all this time, behind the Lost Luggage counter at the Hollis Street bus terminal, in Halifax.
All Dee Lee needed to claim it, was ID in the name of Willard Missions Junior, which he had made up in less than an hour.
Pussylips had apparently left the cocaine bag at Lost Luggage while changing buses in Halifax, possibly because he suspected someone was going to rob him when he arrived in Wolfville.
He was always a crafty bugger.
Rawle Powder had also secured Kurtis Missions’ confession to killing not only his father, but also Jack and Tamara Lee as well.
His motive for killing the Lee’s was that he was hiding oput in the woods around Sunken Lake when Jack and Tee came walkingby. He apparently recognized Jack from one of Dee Lee’s pig roasts or a party and assumed Jack and Tamara were Lee family hitmen coming to kill him.
Kurtis Missions was also dead, which took care of that little detail.
Rawle Powder had taken the initiative and bashed his brains in with a cinder block.
Dee Lee was pretty impressed, to say the least, with his newest asset.
A reporter to boot. A Jack Lee replacement.
Having friends in the media was becoming increasingly important for the Gypsies as the RCMP waged war on bikers more and more in the court of public opinion.
And last, but not least, Kurtis Missions had claimed to be working under the direction of someone he called: “Sgt. Bob.”
There were several ‘Bobs’ in Gypsy gang intelligence databases, but only one ‘Sgt. Bob.’ Det. Sgt. Bob Smith, of CFIU biker squad.
Address: 3065 Highway 1, Mount Uniacke.
They set out at five-thirty in the morning, early enough that Det. Sgt. Smith would not have left for work yet, but late enough that everyone would be awake.
They drove Cst. Paul Astephen’s unmarked Ford Explorer, although they neglected to tell him what they were using it for.
Dee Lee drove, cutting in front of as many drivers as he could manage, to shake any tails, or at least flush them out into the open.
He drove for half-an-hour around Dartmouth and Bedford. As far as he could tell, they were not being followed.
Det. Sgt. Bob Smith’s house was a custom sailboat-shape job with cedar-shake siding. He’d built it right on the lakefront, with just a thin beard of pine trees defending it from the road.
They parked in his steep gravel driveway and hopped out, Glen Frederick holding the whisky bottle like a club.
Smith’s wife Alysson opened the front door dressed in a baby blue housecoat and a baby blue coffee mug in her hand.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry. Ma’am. We work with Bob,” Dee said, handing her the bottle of whiskey. “I know it’s early. But we thought we’d drive him in. That’s his favourite. It’s an inside joke.”
“Okay,” she said, looking at the bottle. She seemed suspicious. “I don’t know you. Are you new?”
“Alysson, this is Glen Frederick. I’m Lewis Black. Halifax PD, he’s RCMP, in New Brunswick. I got my badge here, somewhere….”
“Ma’am,” Glenny nodded at her, smiling.
“We’re working a case that involves Bob’s expertise,” Dee said. “I’m sorry for the early hour. Is Bob sleeping?”
“Nice to meet you. No, he’s upstairs, on the computer.”
They followed her inside. Dee was still rummaging through his wallet. Finally, he pulled out his fake Halifax Regional Police badge. “Here. My colours.”
She nodded and seemed relieved, after seeing the badge.
Glenny locked the door behind him, with a quick hand motion behind his back.
“Go on up the stairs and then turn right,” Alysson said, heading into the kitchen. “Just talk in quiet voices. The baby’s sleeping.”
Dee Lee followed her into the kitchen, instead of upstairs. “We’ll wait. What’s his name again? The baby?”
“Devin.”
“Yeah. I love that name.”
“Devin,” Glenny repeated. “Yeah, that’s cool.”
“And the other young fella’s name’s Josh, right?” Dee said.
Aylsson was leaning with her butt against the steel sink. She put the steaming baby-blue coffee mug to her lips, but said nothing.
Dee and Glenny could hear a TV or radio playing Classical music in a room off to the left. “Mozart?” Dee said.
Glenny reached into the back of his pants and pulled out the long barrel of the silenced HK MP5 submachine gun.
Alyyson saw the gun come out and just stared at it, dumb-founded.
Her face flinched, as if expecting it to fire, but she didn’t drop her coffee cup.
Glenny waited until she looked at him again and then pulled the trigger, pegging her right in the chest, three times.
Her body twitched backward onto the countertop and sent an expensive-looking steel coffee maker shooting sideways into the sink. Then she rolled slowly down onto the floor, her body shuddering and her eyes popping out in surprise. Blood streaked like rain drops down the kitchen window behind her.
“What now?!” They could hear Bob yell down from upstair’s. “Fuck off! I’m busy.”
Dee and Glenny smiled at eachother and shook their heads. Glenny whispered in laughter. “Ah-ah-ah.”
Dee cut him off with an upstretched hand.
There was a little kid in his underwear standing in the doorway to the living room. He had skinny little pale legs, knock-knees and blonde hair. He couldn’t have been more than two years old.
Josh.
The child looked terrified. He was holding his penis with one hand and the side of the door jamb with the other. His chin was pulled down to his neck, nervously and his throat was swallowing over and over. He was not looking at his dead mother, but kept his big blue eyes transfixed on the two men standing in the kitchen.
Smart kid, Dee thought.
Clear piss began to drip from the white fabric of his underwear, down into a puddle forming slowly on the brown tile.
Glenny made a lunging move toward the kid, but Dee grasped his arm in a snatching motion. “Forget the kid. Pretend he’s not even there.”
“He’s old enough to talk,” Glenny barked in protest.
“He’s old enough to speak gibberish. Let’s go!”
The two men turned away from the toddler and moved quickly back into the main hallway of the house, then stalked quickly up the large, turning staircase, heading to the bedrooms.
At the top of the stairs there was a hall and four or five doors, all shut. They chose the first one and kicked it in, forced to act before Josh started screaming, which he did.
Sgt. Bob was not there.
The room was a baby room with a crib and blue walls and some glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling.
Dee turned around in time to see Smith charging down the stairs behind him with no shirt on.
His feet were pounding. He made it around the turn of the staircase before Glenny could reach the upstairs landing.
Glenny leaned over the banister, hanging his arm down and firing randomly into the downstairs hallway.
“Hold your fire!” Dee yelled. Glenny raised his gun and immediately started running full tilt down the staircase.
The baby was screaming in the crib.
Dee felt bad for a second and then ran for the stairs, taking four at a time, following Snowball.
When he hit the main hallway, he went straight toward the front door, but Glenny’s voice stopped him.
“Dee, turn around.”
Dee stopped and turned back. Glenny was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
“He’s in here.”
Det. Sgt. Bob Smith was sitting on the kitchen floor, over by the cupboards, hunched like a nude statue over the body of his dead wife on the tile. His son, Josh was behind Bob’s back leg, curled up on the floor, sobbing quietly.
There was blood everywhere.
No one spoke. It was a sad sight.
“I have children,” Smith said, his bottom lip quivering.
“I know. Tell the kid to leave the room,” Dee said.
“Josh. Go to your room. Do it NOW.”
The toddler burst into tears but stood up, obediently. His little body was shaking all over. The little fellow ran jerkily past Dee and Glenny to the staircase and then stopped at the bottom landing and turned around, wailing something incoherent in toddler gibberish.
His little scream was incredibly loud and carried great anger in it.
The ferocity of the kid’s cry caught Dee by surprise and made him flinch.
Bob Smith’s eyes began to water. “Upstairs, Josh. NOW!”
The little tot bolted and clambered up the staircase, all the way to his room and slammed the door as hard as his little arms could manage, wailing all the while.
“I know you’re going to kill me anyways,” the prostrate cop said, “so I got no reason to ask. But just so I know. Why are you here, now? Why now? What did I do?”
“Kurtis Missions,” Dee Lee said, quietly, turning his face away.
“He talked,” Glen Frederick said, smiling.
Smith looked stricken and guilty. He blushed. “What did he say?”
They said nothing.
“Does it matter?” Dee said. “You tried to rob me. Why?”
Smith flinched, expecting the gun to fire at that moment, for some reason.
But nothing happened. “Will you leave my kids alone if I tell you?”
“We will,” Dee said, nodding and looking thoughful. “We will leave them alone. Won’t we, Glenny?”
Glenny nodded.
“Kurtis told me he wanted to kill his father. I saw an opportunity. He said if I helped him disappear, if I gave him a witness sprotection ID, he’d give me half the cocaine money. His father molested him, as a child.”
Dee nodded. “Okay. So you’re a dirty cop. Doesn’t surprise me. You’re all dirty when given the opportunity. Aren’t ya?”
Smith shook his head. “I don’t care what you do to me. I don’t care if you kill me. My wife’s dead. I don’t care if you kill me…”
“Then shut UP!” Dee yelled.
Glenny aimed the gun, tilting his head down to look through the ring-shaped sight on the end of the barrel.
“-Diddler division!” Smith blurted out, out of nowhere. He winced his face as he said it, as if fearing the words would get him shot immediately.
Glenny raised the gun barrel back up into the air, and relaxed his stance.
“What?” Dee said. “What did you say?”
“Diddler division,” Smith repeated, lettinghis face relax. “Kurtis told me all about it. He said… I’ve made a lot of notes about it. On Diddler division, over the course of the Lee homicide case. I keep talking about it, over and over again, in my notes. We saw you say it, Dee, at the funeral. It’s on tape. When you kill me and they investigate my death, they’re going to read my notes and that part is really going to intrigue them. ‘What’s Diddler Division?’ they’re going to say. ‘Why was ole Bob Smith so obsessed with Diddler Division? Is that what got him killed? We’d better find out.’”
Dee Lee smiled and his face turned red.
The anger was boiling furiously in his chest and he could barely breathe. He turned and stalked over to the breakfast table beside the kitchen and drove into it like a bull, knocking over the chairs and clattering the large table over. He swung wildly at the wall, smashing a deep hole in the dry-wall, then grabbed up a large wooden chair and splintered it against the wall. Wack, wack, wack… The colostomy bag attached to his abdomen wall swung violently under his shirt and the waxy ring sealing the bag to his colon stoma began to loosen, causing wet brown feces to spill out and run down his belly and the front of his pants, filling the room with a stench of fermented feces.
Dee picked up the next chair and did the same. He did not stop, and his anger did not subside, until he had broken all eight chairs around the table and his colostomy bag had come completely detached, spraying the room with brown liquid.
When he was done, the house fell silent, except for the muffled crying of Devin and Josh upstairs in their rooms.
“My kids!” Smith said, getting emotional again. “Please, let them go.”
“I am going to leave them alone,” Dee said, picking up the slippery colostomy bag and sticking it back over the pink nub of colon sticking out slightly from his stomach wall. His belly was streaked brown. “I told you, already. Jesus!”
Smith’s eyebrows relaxed and some of the tension drained out his face. He was visibly relieved, but he still couldn’t help but worry. He pictured what would happen precisely with his children once he was dead.
“Are you going to leave them here, in the house?”
Dee said nothing. His hands were covered with shit. He walked over to the kitchen sink to wash them off.
“Okay,” he said when he was done, turning to face Det. Sgt. Smith again. “Where are all your notes of the case? I’m going to need all your fucking notes that mention anything to do with ‘diddler division.’ Tell me where they are before I drown your baby in the sink.”
“-You can’t leave them here, all alone,” Bob said wistfully, ignoring the demand and the threat. “A toddler and a newborn baby can’t be left alone in a house all night with murdered parents… You just can’t do that.”
Dee stayed silent.
Det. Sgt. Smith spoke again, almost in a whisper. “The baby will need bottles… And to be changed and rocked to sleep. Josh won’t know what to do. He’s too small. Don’t leave them here. Just drop them off at the neighbours when you leave.”
Dee couldn’t help but grin at how ridiculous the request was. “Yeah. I’ll walk over to your Jesus neighbour and say ‘Can you watch the kids?’”
Glenny adjusted his grip on the black plastic handle grips of the submachine gun.
“I said I wouldn’t hurt your children. I promised you that.... But I need you to tell me where your notes are. Tell me, right now. Or you won’t die with peace of mind.”
Smith began to cry, blubbering audibly. “Oh, please… please, Jesus.”
“Tell me what I need to know, and you can have peace of mind. I’ll watch the news tonight and if no one’s found you guys yet, I’ll get someone to call in a tip to 911. At most, your young fellas will be alone for a few hours. They’ll be fine.”
“No.” Smith was upset and still crying, but tried to calm himself for the sake of his children. “Don’t leave them here.”
Dee picked up the bottle of Glenny Breton from the counter and unfastened the cap. He passed the bottle down to Smith on the floor. “Here. Take a drink.”
Smith looked at each man and then put the bottle to his dry lips, letting the amber liquid fill his cheeks. The liquor caused his eyes to flicker.
“Thank you,” he said. “That’s nice. Okay. My notes are on my computer upstairs. Just take the whole thing with you. Delete my files, whatever.”
“What about your computer at work?”
“It’s the same as here. If you delete them here, you’ll delete them there too.”
“What about your notebooks? Paper notebooks?”
“There’s a grey filing cabinet upstairs. I keep all my notebooks there, dated, front to back. Just take the last one in the top drawer. That goes back four months.”
“Okay.” Dee gestured with two fingers to Frederick. Snowball immediately let a burst of orange gunfire spray out the end of the HK.
The bullets ripped and punctured Det. Sgt. Smith’s chest, causing his lungs and ribs to heave outward, sucking wind in through the bullet holes. The holes started oozing oxygenated bright blood, like water from tiny blowholes.
Bob’s body tipped over, sideways, onto the body of his wife. He twitched and his eyes bugged out in terror. The house became silent once again, after the last echoing swish of the silenced submachine gun.
Then they could hear the baby crying upstairs again.
Then a wet, sputtering sound from Det. Sgt. Smith’s ass as he filled his trousers for the final time.
“Let’s move,” Dee said, pointing upstairs. “I’ll take the harddrive. You take the last ten notebooks in the cabinet. Ah fuck, take all the notebooks you can carry, just hurry up.”
Glenny put his finger up in the air to signal ‘one minute.’
He took the HK and ran it under hot water from the tap, then gently placed the small gun in a dishwasher that was built into the cupboards beside Allyson Smith’s prostrate body.
He filled the little soap pan in the dishwasher door to overflowing with dishwashing powder and then put it on the pots and pans cycle.
“I need my hands free.”
“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Dee said again, impatiently.
“What about the kids?”
“Leave ‘em alone.”
“What about your shit all over the place?”
“Do you want to clean it up?”
“But what if it has your DNA or something in it?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Dee kicked the bodies aside and began to rummage in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. He found a white jug of No Name bleach and started splashing it around, anywhere there was visible feces.
Glenny ran upstairs to get the harddrive and the notebooks.
The two men did their work relatively quickly and were out the front door in a matter of minutes.
The door handle could be locked from the inside by turning it to the right and pushing in.
Dee locked the handle and closed the front door behind him, locking the children inside with the bodies of their murdered parents.
They loaded up the Explorer with the notebooks and the harddrive and climbed in, talking about hockey.
Glen Frederick was going to catch a Leaf game when he drove out to Toronto tomorrow morning.

*