Chapter 95

The reporter looked like a pudgier version of Ryan Philippe.
He was almost cute, but definitely not what Sgt. Digby expected.
She expected another Jack Lee-type: Grey hair, leather skin, lantern jaw, square shoulders.
Rawle Powder answered the door wearing blue jeans that were badly ripped at the knees, with baby blue long john’s sagging out of the holes.
A white pitbull was going crazy in the doorway, trying to jump up and lick Digby’s face. Rawle blocked the affectionate dog with his knee and grabbed him by the collar. “Sorry. Pork, sit. C’mon in. He’s registered and everything.”
Digby stepped inside the house and crouched down to pat the dog, stroking his head. “He’s cute. What’s his name?”
Rawle smiled and let the dog go, seeing that she was fine with the fact that he was a pitbull.
“I’d rather not say his name. It’s Porkbutt. It’s kind of a stupid name, but he already had it when we got him, and it was too late to change it. People mostly call him Pork.”
Digby let the dog lick her face several times, with his massive, diamond-shaped tongue. “People call me ‘pork’ too. How old is he?”
“Eight.” Rawle felt likelaughing, but was not sure whether or not she had made a joke.
“He’s energetic.”
“I know. He hasn’t changed one bit from his puppy days. He’s been going right out straight, his whole life. One day, I figure he’ll just drop dead with a big smile on his face.”
Digby stood up. She was much shorter than the reporter. The dog curled its back against her leg, just like a cat.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
She could smell a fresh pot sizzling in the kitchen. “Sure,” she said. “Thanks. And where can we sit down, to talk?”
He crossed the kitchen and pointed behind him. “The living room.”
Digby felt a slightly nervous vibe coming from the reporter, but she was not sure why. He seemed so innocent and out of his depth, maybe.
She wondered if she should spring the tape on him. The DVD she’d found in Jack Lee’s basement.
What’s he so nervous about? Does he know what Jack was into?
She followed him into the living room and sat down on the futon. He sat in an ugly rocking chair, across from her. The dog came and crouched at Digby’s feet, wagging his rat-like tail.
“So, you’re the lead investigator? How does that work?” Rawle asked, handing her a coffee mug.
“I’m the highest rank investigator that still goes out and puts my boots on the ground, yes.”
“You’re a sergeant?”
“Correct. There’s also a Staff Sergeant in my unit. He would be the lead investigator. If you ever wrote a story about us, you would call Staff Sgt. J. Keetch, lead investigator.”
“Can I write a story about you guys?”
“No.” She smiled at him. “Maybe after we catch the bad guys.”
“You think there was more than one?”
“More than one, what?”
“More than one bad guy.”
“There’s lots of bad guys.”
“How many killed Jack and Tee?”
“No comment. So, Tee is Tamara Lee’s nickname?”
“Yes.”
“Did she get that working in the massage parlour?”
He gave her a disappointed look. “I don’t know. I only met her after she married Jack and left Halifax.”
“Do you think her previous employment had anything to do with her murder?”
“Do you?”
“Mr. Powder, I appreciate you’re an interviewer too, by trade, but to be honest, I came here to just interview you, not answer questions. I want you to answer my questions, okay? I don’t want to be interviewed back.”
“Do you dislike the media?”
“No, I just need you to focus on my questions.”
“I think you dislike me, or distrust me, automatically, just because I’m a reporter. Do you hate reporters? Because if you do, maybe you shouldn’t be the one on this case? This is a murdered reporter.”
Digby sighed. “I don’t hate reporters. It’s just that, you in the news business sometimes have unrealistic demands. And you throw all kinds of rumours- and facts, for that matter- into the atmosphere, and pollute the air of my investigation. You make my job harder. Do you know how many bogus tips we’re getting, where the tipsters know details of the crime? Hundreds and hundreds of phone calls about the Lee case. We have an almost impossible time determining which are false and which are true, thanks mainly to your story in the newspaper. Your story contained a photograph of the crime scene, for one thing, which I can’t believe. And two, you managed to finagle further details from the medical examiner, who is now in a very deep hole, thanks to you.”
“How do you know it was the medical examiner?”
“How do I know? Because I’m a detective. Your story said the victims were beaten with sticks and rocks. Dr. Eye was the one who first told us that. And we saw you talking to him. He’s facing disciplinary action, thanks to you.”
Rawle felt sick to his stomach. He tried to defend his profession from her assault. “Why do you send us news releases, then? If the media is evil?”
Digby smiled. “To control you. To rein you in. To police you.”
“You need us,” Rawle tried, not giving up easily. “You need us to publicize your cases. Thanks to my story, you’re getting tips you wouldn’t be getting otherwise, whether or not some are bogus. Some of them may also be legit.”
“Your right, but a story like yours, where the crime is dramatically publicized, and the details put out there, we get too many bad for the good. From people seeking to be part of the drama. What do you think happens when a rural detachment gets deluged by hundreds if not thousands of tips?”
“I don’t know,” Rawle said, feeling annoyed.
“The tips go unchecked. They sit un-inputed even into our database. It’s possible that a legit tip that would break the case right now, is sitting in a handwritten note somewhere on a volunteer desk. Like what happened to the killer’s clothing? Someone may have seen something discarding bloody clothing. We don’t have time or the manpower.”
Rawle felt a rabbit-kick of panic dash through his stomach. The killer’s clothing. Why would she bring that up, out of nowhere? Did she know something? The bloody clothing he had foundby the side of Black River Road was still sitting in the trunk of his car.
He had not even hidden the bags in a better spot, while he figured out what to do with them.
A terrifying thought gripped him. Why is she really here? What if I’m a suspect?
He was started to freak out. He felt another panic attack begin to flare up in his chest.
The woman cop’s eyes were so piercing. It’s like he couldn’t hide anything from her, like she knew what he was feeling deep inside.
What if she wants to search the Golf?
“Are you okay? Mr. Powder?”
What if she gets suspicious and wants to search the Golf? What would you do?
Rawle made a silent promise to God that he would get the clothing to the police, somehow, if He saved him now from getting caught. Please, she’ll think I’m the killer.
“You’re making me nervous,” he said, trying to be as honest as possible with his feelings, so he it wouldn’t look like he was lying. “You’re acting like it’s my fault Jack and Tee’s killer is getting away so far. Because of my story.”
He stood up and took his coffee to the window, gazing down at the snowy backyard. “You don’t understand. I’m not just grieving my friends, I’m trying to solve their murder too. I’m trying to catch their killer. Just like you. Or, at least, do whatever I can to help you. Now you’re telling me, I’m actually doing the exact opposite. I’m fucking up the case.”
His answer seemed to divert her attention.
She picked up a large yellow notepad from her lap and began to ask more formal questions. “Okay. Let’s just get through this, okay? Tell me about the story you wrote, entitled: Two injured in jail guard firebombing?”