A Striking Death Read Online Free Page B

somewhat shaky Detective Sergeant Drumm was back in his office. He was weary because of the hours spent looking over Billinger’s home and property, and the interviews conducted with his neighbours. It took time to canvass a neighbourhood, a lot of time, and even though Drumm and Singh had help, it was a tiring task to talk to so many people. And, none of them had seen or heard anything useful at all.
    Drumm was shaky because he was diabetic, and in the hurly-burly of getting his investigation started, he had neglected to make sure he ate properly. He was a fortunate diabetic, he knew, because he could control his condition with careful monitoring and attention to his diet. But today he had done neither, and his blood sugar had plummeted. Drumm carried a glucose meter; just now, when he checked his level, the reading was 3.7. That was low and it accounted for his weakness and shakiness. His lips were a bit numb too, and that only happened when his blood sugar was seriously out of whack.
    Munching on some cheese, followed up with crackers and a banana, Drumm wondered again if he should mention to someone with York Police Services about his condition. He loved being a detective and he didn’t want to give it up. Could he carry on in the Violent Crimes Unit with diabetes? He was afraid the answer would be “no”, so he continued to hide his situation and fret. Not even Emily knew about his disease.
    Drumm was starting to feel better. He was able to focus more clearly on his notes. Not that there was much useful in them yet. Between him, Lori Singh and the uniformed officers, they had spoken to eighteen neighbours on Arthur Billinger’s street. Most knew the man, at least enough to say hello to, and some a little better than that. All were shocked to hear of his death, and some were openly fearful that they might be next. As far as noticing anyone approaching Billinger’s house, a strange vehicle on the street, noises or headlights in the night, nobody had seen or heard anything unusual.
    Arthur Billinger’s phone records were checked and there had indeed been a call from Cameron Garmand the previous evening at 8:32 p.m. That was the unfortunate teacher’s last telephone conversation, as far as they could tell. Billinger only had a landline and no cellphone, at least none that they were able to find. So, sometime between 8:32 p.m. the previous night, and nine o’clock this morning, a person or persons unknown smashed in Arthur Billinger’s door, and then smashed in his head. And none of his neighbours had seen or heard anything suspicious.
    Drumm rubbed his eyes and yawned. The other calls that Billinger had made and received would be checked, of course, but nothing appeared abnormal at this stage. The phone numbers were local and there weren’t many of them. Judging by his telephone records and his neighbours’ comments, Arthur Billinger had led a quiet life. He went to bed around eleven thirty or twelve most nights, it appeared; at least, that’s when his neighbours said his lights usually went off. He had been wearing blue pajamas.
    Drumm looked again at the one interesting statement they had obtained. When asked if he knew of anyone who disliked Arthur Billinger or held a grudge against him, Richard Carlson, three houses over to the west had furrowed his brow and said, “You might want to speak to Mike Bailey. I don’t think he liked Art much.” Carlson was in his seventies, Drumm judged; he was a widower who lived alone. Questioned further, Carlson could only say that he had heard Bailey speak disparagingly of Arthur Billinger.
    “What do you mean?” Lori Singh asked.
    “Well, he and I spoke a few times about Art. Mike, I mean. Mike thought he was gay. He asked what I thought about having a “fucking queer” living on the street.” Carlson looked uncomfortable and then apologized. “Sorry, those were his words, not mine. I liked Art. Mike didn’t though.”
    “Where does this Bailey live?” Drumm