A Striking Death Read Online Free

Canadian?”

 
    five
     
    Cameron Garmand was not French Canadian, as it turned out. At least, he did not speak with any trace of an accent, and he told the two detectives that his surname was pronounced to rhyme with “hand”.
    “Art and I had a date this morning for coffee. We got together most every Tuesday at Tim Hortons. A bunch of us retired teachers have been meeting there for more than a year now.” Garmand, Drumm and Singh were standing behind the police tape on Arthur Billinger’s front lawn. “I called him last evening to make sure that we were on for today. So, when I rang his bell this morning and there was no answer, I was surprised.”
    Lori Singh was writing in her notebook. Drumm studied Cameron Garmand. He saw a man in his late fifties dressed in baggy blue jeans and a checked shirt, holding a black jacket which he had removed in the course of the conversation. He had thinning grey hair, bags under his eyes and the typical paunch that most middle-aged men sported. He was five feet eleven at the most, and so he was looking up at Drumm, as most people did.
    “You’re a retired teacher, Mr. Garmand?” asked Drumm.
    “We both are – were. I used to teach in the intermediate division, Art was my French teacher.”
    Lori Singh looked up. “So you were going to meet for coffee with some friends and he didn’t answer the doorbell. What did you do then?”
    Garmand gestured to the side of the house. “I went around the side there because I thought maybe Art was outside. Sometimes he does a little gardening while he’s waiting for me. But I didn’t see him at all.”
    “Let’s take a look,” said Drumm. He led the way around the side of the house. The grass was short and patchy with unraked leaves crackling underfoot. “Is this where you came to then?” At Garmand’s nod, Drumm went on, “What did you do next?”
    “I was going to go right around the back but then I looked in the window and I saw him… he was lying on the bed.” Garmand stopped because they could all see that the body was still there and that there were various people working in the room. “It was pretty obvious that something was wrong. So I went back around to the front and called 9-1-1 on my cell.”
    “What time was that?” interrupted Singh.
    “That would be just after nine, I guess.”
    “Go on,” said Drumm.
    Garmand shrugged. “Not much more to tell. I waited on the front walkway; the first cops – cop, actually – showed up a few minutes later. We came around here and looked in, then went back around to the front. He told me to wait and then he tried the door. He went back to his car and got a crowbar and jimmied open the door. He went in and came back out a minute or so later and by then the paramedics and more police were starting to arrive.”
    Drumm said, “Did you go in the backyard at any point?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “Let’s go back around the front,” said Drumm.
    Back at the front of the house, Garmand asked, “You haven’t actually said, Detective Sergeant. Art’s really dead, isn’t he?”
    “To be honest, sir, we aren’t sure who is on that bed, but whoever it is – well, yes, he’s dead. And we have no reason to think it’s anyone other than your friend.” Drumm paused. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” said Drumm. “Were you two close?”
    “Colleagues, rather. Retired colleagues. Aside from this coffee get-together thing, we didn’t see each other much.”
    Lori said, “It seems odd that you would call ahead and then pick him up. Why wouldn’t you just meet at the coffee shop?”
    “Oh, we usually did that. But I was bringing over a leaf blower that Art wanted to borrow. His place is on the way, more or less.”
    “A leaf blower?” Drumm asked. “Where is it then?”
    “It’s in the trunk.” Garmand led the way to his car and opened the back of his car to show a Black and Decker cordless leaf blower. “All charged up, ready to go.”
    Drumm nodded. “Mr.