INSPECTOR PASCAL MYSTERIES 1000
#21 Gone by T.K. Naliaka ©2016
 
     The leading trio of two women and a man stopped and waited.  Twelve people, escorted by five policemen formed a semi-circle as a third collection of people stood behind them to watch and listen.
     The prosecutor, Angus announced. “As per the jury’s request to visit the site, this is the trail where the defendant testified he brought his four-year-old daughter for a hike. The document you all have in hand is his original police statement.  We will progress along the path the defendant claims he was on with his daughter before he claims she vanished.”
     She continued. “The prosecution asserts that it is simply not credible that Mr. Heath could have lost his daughter under the circumstances he described.  We remind the jurors of the testimony of his ex-wife that she had protested the court-mandated joint custody.  An intensive search of the area by police, with tracking dogs after the accused reported the child gone never found any evidence that the girl had ever been here in the first place.”
    Guarded by two court officers, a man in an orange coverall with his hands shackled to a belly chain cried out. “It had rained!  I carried her on my shoulders!  I put her down here!”
    Angus rebuked him. “Mr. Heath!  If you cannot adhere to the conduct you are required to maintain during this field visit, you will be escorted back to the county jail!”
     Heath’s face darkened.  He sharply shook his head, but he stayed silent.
     Two men standing slightly apart from all the others, waited as the prosecution team continued on, followed by the jurors. Big and broad-shouldered, the uniformed officer leaned over and murmured. “Sir, what do you think?”
     He replied. “I don’t know.”
     “Sir, if he’s innocent, this would be tearing him apart.  Wouldn’t a guilty man behave as if he was a reasonable person?”
     He was non-committal. “Accomplished liars are convincing.”
     “I’m aware of that, sir. I deal with them every day.”
     He sighed. “I know.  I am obligated to maintain my neutrality since they called me as an advisor.”  He took a moment to study the diagram of the original search grid.  He glanced up, “Uh-oh!”
     They hustled forward to help one of the jurors who had stumbled, “Madame!  Are you all right?” They helped her up and back on her feet.
     The assistant prosecutor worriedly picked his way along the path past the other jurors, “Inspector Pascal! Sergeant Braque!  Is there a problem?”
     Pascal replied. “She just tripped.”
     She brushed her clothes. “I’m not very good at hiking, I’m sorry!”
     “It’s only a little farther.  See?”
     “Oh, I’m sure I can manage that.”
     They gathered by a jumble of rocks to find a trickle of clear water coming out of a small hole, flow in a shallow crack across a flat boulder, dribble down and then run along a narrow, gravelly depression across the trail to continue downhill. “This was the last place the defendant stated he saw his daughter.”  The prosecutor hiked about one hundred feet further and called to them. “Mr. Heath, you stated you were here.  Is that correct?”
     Tears began to roll down his cheeks. “She was playing with the water!  I just wanted to take a photo!”
     Angus called back. “As it is apparent, it’s not probable that the accused could have lost sight of his daughter!  There is an unimpeded view in all directions!”
     Braque frowned, but when he glanced at Pascal, Pascal was staring at the little rivulet.
     Pascal tapped Braque’s arm. “Let me have your nightstick.”
     Three jurors turned slightly when they noticed that Pascal had climbed off the trail to jab between the rocks with the black baton.  Braque inserted himself between them and Pascal to provide a bit of cover as Pascal picked his way around the outcropping to poke among the stones.
     Pascal felt around with his foot to test the ground.  Between some of the rocks the soil was soft and moist.  He pushed the tip of the nightstick into the dirt.  It penetrated slowly to half its length, then suddenly Pascal pitched forward as the nightstick broke through all resistance.
     The jurors cried out in fright.  Braque lunged and grabbed Pascal’s leg as he upended, flailing to catch at anything solid as the earth crumbled away in front of him. Two dislodged rocks barely missed his head before tumbling into the hole.
     Braque dragged Pascal to solid ground.  Scraped and bruised, dirt and grass-streaked, Pascal gingerly sat up.  The crowd - jurors, the accused and the court officials - fell silent as Braque handed his torch to Pascal who got back down on his stomach and eased over to the edge of the hole to peer down inside.
     Pascal finally pushed himself away, got up and grimly handed back Braque’s torch.  The jurors held their breaths with dread as Pascal gravely went to the shackled father, gently rested his hands on the man’s shoulders and leaned close to quietly speak to him.  After a moment, Heath cried out, sank to his knees, bowed his head and began sobbing.
     Pascal finally turned  and explained to them all. “It seems insignificant, but a constant trickle steadily erodes out spaces under the surface.  While playing about the rocks when her father walked away for a minute to take a photo, the child simply stepped on a hollowed-out spot and fell through. The unstable hole collapsed and a few rocks tumbled down to obscure what had happened.  The constant wetness made it practically impossible for the dogs to pick up any trace of her scent.  It seemed as if she had gone, but she is still here... just a few meters from where her father saw her last.”
     The jurors began to cry.
     Pascal appealed to all of them. “Mr. Heath’s child cannot be restored to him, but his honor can be.  It wasn’t any sort of murder or negligence… just a tragic accident.  Please allow him to be free to grieve in peace.”
                                                                                      by T.K. Naliaka ©2016 all rights reserved

INSPECTOR PASCAL MYSTERIES 1000
#20 An Imaginative Man, by T.K. Naliaka ©2016

     “Inspector Pascal, what makes you think I’m not telling the truth?”
     He looked up from his writing. “Why do you say that?”
     She pouted. “I can tell by your expression.”
     He turned the page on his notepad. “Nothing intended, Madame Droxford.”
     She dismissed this. “I’m not that easily fooled.  Your questions have been quite different from the other interrogations.”
     He raised an eyebrow, “How so?”
     She sat down, leaned back, crossed her legs and languidly pushed back the sleeves of her shirt. “That other fellow out there wanted to know where I was on the night of 2nd June.  Very inspector-like.  You asked me what was the first thought that entered my mind when I heard that Randolph had been murdered.”
     Pascal paused and raised his pen slightly. “Have you decided what it was, yet?”
     Her mouth curled slightly. “What’s the right answer; yes or no?”
     Pascal clicked his pen and slipped it into his pocket. “If only we could dispense with this case that easily.”
     She propped her elbows on the chair arms and gave him an up-from-under look. “What’s the issue you’re having that is keeping this case from being dispensed with?”
     Pascal considered her for a long moment before he replied, “A lack of truth and honesty.”
     She held his gaze. “Does that anguish you?”
     He shrugged. “All crimes, especially murder, are thickly obscured by deliberate lacks of truth and honesty, so frankly, we arrive with that expectation. Our job is to sort it out correctly - fact from fiction and fantasy.”
     She straightened. “Why did ‘fantasy’ come to your mind?”
     Pascal considered her oil paintings as he paced slowly past the fireplace.  He turned to her. “We have the crime of murder.  A man was killed on this property.  We don’t who did it or why. But it’s very important that we find the killer, first for justice for the victim, and second to protect society.  Once someone crosses that line to kill, it’s not very hard to cross it again.  It’s not any occasion to be playing games for attention.”
     She finally stood up and walked to stare out the tall wooden-paned windows. At last she spoke. “I hated Randolph.  When I heard he was dead, I thought, I’m free.” She turned to him with her mouth twisted bitterly. “Happy?”
     Pascal replied blandly. “I can appreciate that it must have been very hard for you to articulate that.”
     She scoffed. “Translation: I got her to confess.”
     Pascal leafed through his notes. “At the time of Randolph’s murder, you were at the theatre.”
     “I adore Shakespeare…” Her eyes widened “… and you?”
     He turned another page. “I’m having some difficulty pinpointing Gerard’s whereabouts at the same time, however.”
     She shrugged. “Gerard dropped me at the show.”
     “Dropped you?  He doesn’t fancy Shakespeare?”
     She smiled. “What sorts of things fancy you?”
     “Sir.”
     Pascal turned to the big, broad-shouldered uniformed policeman posted at the door, “Yes, Sergeant?”
     “A message for you, sir.”
     Pascal walked over to him, “Yes?”
     Braque leaned over and whispered. “This is excruciating.  What’s going on?”
     Pascal murmured back. “She’s flirting with me.”
     “That’s cringingly obvious.”
     “I’m letting her.”
     “That’s the excruciating part of it!  It’d be more appropriate if she was chasing you with an axe!”
     “But, there’s something rather odd about this.” Pascal frowned. “How’s Inspector Juneau doing with Gerard?”
     “They’re still inside the salon.”
     “Can you ask Sergeant Lu?”
      Braque peered out the half-opened door. “She just went inside.”
     “May I call you just… Pascal?”
     He turned to see her crossing the room to join him.  He replied. “If you’d like, but it strongly evokes being ordered by superiors."
     She blinked, but recovered. “What’s your first name?”
     “Inspector.”
     She frowned, but Braque seemed much happier.
     Pascal looked at Braque, then at her. “You know what?”
     She shook her head.
     “All I can think of is we’re wasting our time here with you.”
     She complained. “That’s not a very nice thing to think.”
     Pascal tapped his notepad in his palm. “But you know when I get a thought, it always leads to another thought, then another.”
     She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
    “We aren’t wasting our time – Inspector Juneau was tasked with interviewing Gerard and we were tasked with interviewing you, and that is what we’re doing.  So, could it be that you are wasting our time… here?”
     She laughed. “You are such an imaginative man!”
     Pascal pulled the door closed and gave a slight jerk of his head, “Sergeant.”
     Braque didn’t need more prompting.  Before she could react, she was already in handcuffs and firmly in his grip.
     She almost got out the first loud syllable of protest at the top of her lungs, but Pascal stuffed a wad of cotton kerchiefs in her opening mouth. “Shush!”
     She shook her head and tried to work them out “Mmm-mmm-mggg!”
     Pascal opened the door. “Sergeant – don’t let her get out or make a peep until I know what’s going on.”  He held up his phone.  A moment later, Braque’s phone rang. “You can monitor me over the open line.”
     Pascal left them, crossed the foyer, un-holstered his pistol, listened, then carefully eased open the salon door.  He took it all in at once. “Freeze!”
     Gerard was straddling the window sill, with one leg out and the other in. He raised his hands as if complying, then he threw himself back, outside.  Pascal ran to the window.  Eight feet below, Gerard rolled over, scrambled to his feet, then fell with a curse as his left ankle collapsed. 
     Pascal watched him fall and then get up to hop, then fall again. Pascal considered the expanse of open lawn, holstered his pistol and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Sergeant, she wasn’t wasting our time, she was occupying it.  Inspector Juneau and Sergeant Lu are out cold on the floor and Gerard is absconding out the back.”
     “I’ll get him, sir!”
     Pascal nodded appreciatively as Gerard fell again and began crawling. “He’s all yours!”
                                       by T.K. Naliaka ©2016, all rights reserved.