Читать книгу Shallow End - Brenda Chapman - Страница 8

Later that afternoon, Rouleau gathered the team in the area they’d set up behind a couple of dividers. They’d cordoned off this space to post photos of the crime scene and work out scenarios on a whiteboard. It had the feel of a secret clubhouse, not visible to anyone entering the office. Already he’d had photos mounted from the crime scene with Devon Eton’s body lying next to the beach wall. Devon’s black hair was matted with blood, and dirt covered one side of his face. He had been a healthy, athletic kid; muscular build but still not as filled out as a grown man. Much too young to die. Kala Stonechild had tracked down the whereabouts of Jane Thompson and Rouleau had sent officers to bring her in for questioning. They’d come to get him when she arrived.

“What have you found out about Devon Eton?” he threw out to nobody in particular.

Woodhouse looked up from his laptop. “Ed Chalmers was lead detective on the Eton sex case and I was off on training most of that summer so wasn’t involved. Officer Cathy Bryden replaced me before she transferred into the canine unit. Gundersund was working drugs, if I recall.”

“That’s right,” said Gundersund. “I followed what was going on but mainly because the arrest and trial created a lot of press. People were fascinated that a married female school teacher would seduce a boy in her class. The press loved her. She was attractive and as the trial went on, they painted her as one cool customer without remorse. Her nickname was the Seductress. Devon Eton was a good-looking kid and made a sympathetic victim. The entire case was disturbing but impossible not to watch unfold.”

Woodhouse clicked a few keys. “I made some notes. Devon Shawn Eton turned seventeen years old in January and was living with his parents, Mitchell and Hilary Eton, and thirteen-year-old sister, Sophie, at 5342 Beverley Street. I had a look on Google Earth. It’s at the north end and one of the bigger homes on the street. Fenced in, white pillars, black shutters, big front porch, and a two-car garage.”

“So further north and west from where his body was found but within walking distance.”

“Yup.” Woodhouse scrolled further down the page. “Mitchell Eton owns a computer company employing thirty staff that designs accounting software for small- to medium-size businesses. Hilary Eton lives off his avails.”

“I believe she’s called a stay-at-home mom,” Gundersund said.

Woodhouse looked up. “Give it whatever tarted- up name you want. She was freeloading. Never worked a day after they got married.”

“Anything else?” Rouleau asked. He wasn’t about to chase Woodhouse down this particular rat hole.

“Devon played defence on the high school football team and this was his graduation year. I thought about heading over to the school with Bennett to interview teachers and classmates tomorrow.”

Rouleau nodded. “Good plan but I’d like Stonechild and Gundersund to handle those interviews. You and Bennett can go door to door to speak with the neighbours. Can you refresh us on the Jane Thompson case, Gundersund?”

Gundersund’s eyes met his with silent approval. He’d long been encouraging Rouleau to do something about Woodhouse’s negative influence on the team. If only it was that easy, Rouleau thought. Woodhouse knew what lines not to cross and had the police union behind him. Rouleau had had a union rep in once for a hypothetical chat and come away dismayed with the little leeway he had to act. Woodhouse hadn’t done anything to warrant reprimand. At the moment, Woodhouse was glaring daggers at him but wisely keeping his thoughts to himself. He knew exactly how much he could get away with.

Gundersund pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. “Jane Thompson was a grade seven and eight English and history teacher at Winston Churchill Public School. Devon Eton and another boy named Charlie Hanson were in one of her grade seven classes. Devon had skipped a grade and was mature for his age, but then, he was a January baby. From all accounts, before it came out that Jane was having an affair with him, she was popular and considered one of the school’s all-star teachers, not uncommon for this kind of thing, apparently. I found a few articles on past cases where a female teacher was convicted of having sex with one of her students. Anyhow, Devon’s mother, Hilary Eton, discovered a pair of women’s lace underwear when cleaning out his gym bag. Remember he was only twelve years old at the time and hadn’t even had a girlfriend yet as far as his parents knew. After the school psychologist was brought in, Devon spilled that he’d been having sex with Mrs. Thompson. She’d been tutoring him after school to help him maintain his high English grade and that was when a physical relationship developed. She had opportunity and never denied that. Forensics found various text messages between the two, setting up meetings that she swore later were all innocent. Some naked photos of Devon were found on her home computer along with some other child porn, supporting what he told his mother. Charlie Hanson also had seen them together in a couple of compromising positions a few months earlier and said that Devon had confided in him that Mrs. Thompson had started coming on to him and they’d been having sex.”

“So did she ever admit to it?”

“Not before or during the trial. Her defence was that she’d been set up. However, the clincher was her DNA all over the lace undies in Devon’s gym bag. So after initially saying the boys were lying, about a year into her sentence, she confessed.”

“So she was convicted.”

“Yeah. The circumstantial evidence combined with the two boys’ testimony convinced a jury. Plus, one of her co-workers said he’d seen them alone together one Saturday afternoon in her classroom, so that was damning combined with everything else. The judge sentenced her to three years but she got out last month after serving two-thirds of her sentence.” Gundersund checked his notes. “Her husband Adam Thompson divorced her the beginning of the second year of her sentence and got sole custody of their two kids.”

Rouleau was surprised. “Three years. Isn’t that unusually harsh for this kind of crime?”

Gundersund nodded. “Usually women get off lighter than men. Two years is about the longest sentence for a woman teacher in Canada. The States gives slightly longer sentences, but not by much. The judge said in this case that because Jane Thompson wouldn’t admit to what she’d done, he was upping her time. No remorse and possible she’d reoffend without treatment.”

“How did she refute the prosecution’s evidence?” Kala was leaning forward, elbows on her knees. She’d been listening intently to everything Gundersund said. He looked across the room at her.

“She said that she was meeting with Devon to tutor him in English because he’d missed out on the grammar rules when he skipped grade six and his writing was suffering. Nothing major and the prosecution argued that the tutoring was a smokescreen for their affair. According to Mrs. Thompson, Devon told her that he was worried his father would make him quit football if his average dropped at all. She said they met at different times when they could both fit it in, but that was all. No touching. No sex.”

“What about the photos on her computer?”

“She said she had no idea how they got there.”

Rouleau asked, “Anything else?”

“She’d confided in her sister that she was thinking of leaving her husband before this blew up. The sister” — he looked at his notes — “named Sandra Salvo said that Jane suspected he’d been unfaithful but had no proof. Under cross-examination, Adam Thompson admitted they’d had a bit of trouble but said it was because he’d been working long hours and had nothing to do with having an affair. He lost his temper on the stand and said that Jane was grasping at reasons for her unforgiveable behaviour.”

“That was a nail in her coffin,” Bennett said. “Pretty damning when you add it all up.”

Gundersund nodded. “That’s how the jury saw it, too.”

Rouleau looked between the dividers. Jim Nichols was standing by the entrance to the office. “We’re over here,” Rouleau called, and Nichols crossed the floor to join them. He looked around the space, then back at Rouleau.

“Quite the clubhouse you’ve got here, Mouseketeers. They’ve brought in Jane Thompson and she’s waiting in the meeting room downstairs.”

Rouleau stood. “Stonechild can you take the interview with me? I’d like a female present. Gundersund, you can stand inside the door. We go carefully on this one.”

“What are you worried about?” Gundersund asked.

Rouleau tried to put his reservations about the path this case was taking into words. “I don’t want to rush to any conclusions. Jane Thompson was guilty of sexual misconduct but that’s not in the same ballpark as murder. We have to make absolutely certain of the facts before we arrest her because a lot of people would like to see her hang for this whether or not she’s guilty.”

The woman sitting across from Rouleau was not the person he’d been expecting. Dressed in a charcoal grey hoodie and black sweatpants, her spiky blond hair made her look more like a teenager than ex-teacher and mother. Her head had been lowered when they walked in, as if she’d fallen asleep, and she only looked up after Rouleau sat down across from her and called her by name. Her face, bare of makeup, was milky white with purplish bruising under her eyes. He had trouble picturing her as the seductress that media had labelled her until her eyes met his. The startling blue of her gaze sent a physical jolt through him. She transformed from average to mesmerizing with one wide-eyed stare. He could well understand the effect her eyes would have had on her young male students. Rouleau was aware of Stonechild slipping into the seat next to him, and he glanced back at Gundersund leaning on the wall next to the door. Both had settled into stillness but he knew they were watching Jane Thompson’s every move, undoubtedly as transfixed by her eyes as he was.

“Thank you for coming to speak with us this afternoon, Mrs. Thompson. I know it’s late in the day. My name is Staff Sergeant Jacques Rouleau.”

“My pleasure.” Her voice was low and pleasant, husky and sensual at the same time. The slight lift to her mouth let him know that she meant the opposite.

“For the record, we’re recording this interview, Tuesday, October 4. Time is now 4:35 p.m. Detectives Kala Stonechild and Paul Gundersund are with me. You know why you’re here, Mrs. Thompson?”

“Not really. I haven’t broken parole so hope this isn’t about me.”

She smiled again, but Rouleau saw a guarded expression in her eyes this time. She’d be foolish not to be wary, he thought, and she looked far from a stupid woman. “You were released from prison not that long ago.”

“Just over a month.”

“Have you had any contact with your ex-husband and children since your release?”

“I’ve spoken with Adam on the phone. They were out of town when I first got out and we’ve had trouble arranging a date for me to see the kids. I’m hoping it’ll be within the next few days.”

“Have you been back to your old neighbourhood?”

Her eyes travelled across his face to Stonechild sitting next to him and back again. “Why did you bring me here, Sergeant? Surely not to talk about my relationship with my family. Unless …” She straightened and lifted a hand to cover her heart. “Something has happened to one of them. Has something…?”

Rouleau raised a hand. “No, no, your family is fine.” He looked down at his notebook, open on the desk in front of him, to give her a chance to regroup. He hadn’t meant to scare her and was not convinced that he had, because if she’d killed Devon, she’d know full well that they’d be interviewing her and would have prepared her reactions. He looked up. “You admitted to having had a sexual relationship with Devon Eton a year into your sentence and undertook counselling and rehabilitation courses in prison.”

“I did.” Her face had relaxed and she was leaning back in the chair, her hands folded on the table. “I learned many important things about myself. The reasons that my strict upbringing led me to become the monster I am, my sexual need to be with children arising from being raised by a cold mother, techniques for holding myself in check. I undertook rehabilitation with an open mind and am now fully aware of my predilections and how to restrain myself, but on guard. Always on guard, like a recovering alcoholic.”

Her direct gaze hadn’t wavered and he wondered at the self-mocking lilt to her words. The smile was back, as if she’d shared a dark, intimate secret with him. He paused and forced himself not to look away from the trap set in her incredibly blue eyes. “Devon Eton’s body was found this morning by a homeless man walking his dog along the waterfront.”

He tried to see a reaction but could not. Her face remained a polite mask, no sign of disturbance on the smooth, clear surface. He might have given her a weather report for all the impact his words generated. Her silence stretched into uncomfortable seconds but he remained still and observant. At last a flicker of something crossed her face that looked like regret but could have been anger.

“Are you telling me he’s dead?” Her voice was huskier, lower than before.

“Yes. He was murdered last night and left on the shore of Lake Ontario at Murney Point.”

She shook her head before dropping her chin to her chest and closing her eyes. The room was silent, the seconds ticking by. This time, Rouleau didn’t try to outwait her.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you with this news.”

“I have mixed emotions.” She opened her eyes and he couldn’t begin to guess what was going on inside. “He was a student in my class once upon a time. I felt responsible for his well-being.”

The irony filled the space between them. She looked down at her hands still resting on the table.

“Where were you yesterday evening?”

“Nowhere near Lake Ontario.”

“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

“I doubt it. I worked my shift and then went back to my apartment around six. I don’t speak to anyone as a rule, except when my sister Sandy and I talk on the phone. We might have last night.”

“You don’t remember?”

“All of our conversations are the same. She usually calls when I’m half-asleep so I can never remember which night we spoke.”

Rouleau knew his team would be checking and didn’t press the issue. “Did you go out after you got home, say, to the grocery store?”

Jane appeared to think deeply before shaking her head. “You’re going to have to take my word for it that I wasn’t at Murney Point last evening.” The Mona Lisa smile came and went. Her eyes were iridescent pools that a man … a twelve-year-old boy could drown in.

Rouleau shut his notebook. “We’ll leave it there for now. We’ll need to ask you more questions as the investigation unfolds.”

“Of course. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s answer questions from the police. I could give lessons if ever called upon to teach again. Can I go now?”

“Yes, you’re free to go.”

She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and stood. When she reached Gundersund, he opened the door and escorted her into the hall.

“What do you think?” Rouleau turned to look at Stonechild. She’d started to rise from her chair but lowered herself back into the seat. Her dark eyes were thoughtful.

“There’s a lot going on in her head but not on her face. I got the sense that she’s holding in anger, but I’m not sure if it’s directed at the system or the people who’ve deserted her.” Kala paused. “You couldn’t help but notice her eyes. They’re mesmerizing, and that voice … I got the sense she was downplaying her looks, but she couldn’t hide the fact she’s a magnet for men.”

“I thought much the same. She’s going to be hard to figure out.” Rouleau checked his watch. “You’re going to have a busy day interviewing people tomorrow. Head home and get some supper and some sleep. Everything going okay?”

“No complaints, sir. Thanks.”

They stood at the same time. Rouleau was aware that she’d withdrawn from him and the rest of the team over the summer. He’d been half expecting her to announce her departure for some time, but had felt helpless to change the situation.

They walked side by side down the hallway and he left her at the door to their office, continuing on toward Heath’s office for a command debrief so that Heath could face the media for the nine o’clock news. At this rate, Rouleau thought, I’ll be lucky to make it home for supper before Dad has himself tucked in for the night. As usual, the first hours of a murder investigation would fill every waking hour, but this was the time Rouleau liked best. The thrill of the hunt was fresh, the trail still warm, and the slow-going slog of following up on leads that led nowhere hadn’t started to grind the team down yet.