much so far. But we were told you have a file on Ritchie?”
They had dropped in to the detachment more as a courtesy than anything else, and had been surprised to hear on arriving that there was such a file, and were eager to see just what it contained.
“It’s not on him, exactly,” Howard said, flipping through the file. “Ritchie laid a complaint for uttering threats.”
“Against who?” Smith and Marshall asked in unison, both knowing the answer.
“John Ridgeway Junior. I interviewed them both myself. There was nothing to it in the end. Ridgeway’s sister —”
“We just came from her place. That’s why we’re here.”
“So you know she was claiming she was pregnant with Ritchie’s baby?”
“Yeah, she mentioned her brother was pretty angry with Ritchie, and that they got in a fight — at a diner.”
“The Hard Luck Cafe, yeah. It’s a student place, near the Trent campus.”
“So what have you got in there?” Smith pointed to Howard’s file.
“Statements from both of them, the sister too, and one of the kitchen staff who saw most of it.” He slid the folder toward Smith, who turned it around and started reading it as Howard continued the summary. “Ritchie admitted he was bad-mouthing the girl, and didn’t know the brother was there. John heard it, and he’d had a few beers, so you can imagine he wasn’t too happy. There was some yelling and shoving, and a couple of the staff broke them up, and that was it, really.”
“But Ritchie wanted to press charges? You’d think he’d want to keep it as quiet as he could,” Marshall pondered aloud.
“I guess it was too late for that,” Howard said. “The lawyers had already started trading letters by then.”
“Listen to this,” Smith said, reading from one of the statements. “According to the dishwasher, Ridgeway said, and I quote, ‘I’ll cut your fucking heart out, you piece of shit. Just see if I don’t.’”
“Lemme see that.” Marshall reached for the statement.
“What’s the cause of death?” Howard asked. “They didn’t say in the papers.”
“It’s not official — the autopsy’s tomorrow — but he was found with a hunting knife sticking out of the left side of his chest.”
There was silence as the three cops considered the possibilities.
“Okay,” Smith said, collecting his thoughts. “This was months ago, but we’re still going to want to talk to the brother, and the witness, too — Stephen Gravelle. Do you know where this is ?” He pointed to John Ridgeway’s address.
“Sure, I can bring you if you like,” Howard said. “Gravelle’s place isn’t far from Ridgeway’s.”
“Let’s go then, and see what they have to say for themselves.”
John Ridgeway’s place was an upstairs apartment located over a Chinese restaurant in a part of town that Howard described as “sketchy.” It was around noon when they climbed the rickety steps to the outside entrance. The only window was covered by a blanket, and after several knocks they saw or heard no sign of movement from inside.
“Maybe he’s out,” Howard suggested, as Marshall rapped for the third time. He seemed ready to turn around when they heard the faint sound of footsteps. A few seconds later the door opened with a squeak and a bleary-eyed man in his early twenties with tousled hair emerged from the darkness, clad in a T-shirt and torn sweat pants.
“Yeah?”
“That’s him,” Howard said, as Marshall and Smith took out their identification.
“We’re with the Ottawa Police,” Marshall said. “I believe you know Constable Howard?”
Ridgeway squinted at the IDs and then at Howard.
“Yeah? So what do you want with me?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Ridgeway.”
Ridgeway grunted. “What … now?”
“We can do it here,” Marshall said. “Or you can come down to the OPP detachment if you’d prefer.”
Ridgeway sighed, slumping a bit before stepping back to let them in.
“Thank you,” Marshall said, as they entered the cramped apartment, consisting of one living area with a small galley kitchen off to one side and the door to what they presumed was the bedroom on the other. It reeked of stale beer and cigarettes, and looked like it had been the scene of a frat house party during frosh week.
“Have a seat,” Ridgeway said, motioning to a stained and dilapidated couch as he slumped into a battered brown recliner and lit a cigarette. “Ottawa, huh? I think I can guess why you’re here.”
“Why’s that, Mr. Ridgeway?”
“Gotta be Curtis Ritchie. I know he was killed yesterday. I figured it was only a matter of time before someone came knocking.”
“How did you know he was killed?”
“Are you kidding? It’s all over town.”
“Before we get started,” Smith said, launching into a standard caution to advise him of his rights. Ridgeway looked perplexed.
“Do I need a lawyer or something?” he asked, when Smith had finished.
“You can call one if you want. And, like my partner said, we’re more than happy to do this down at the detach —”
“Naw,” Ridgeway said, with a wave of his hand. “I got nothin’ to hide.”
“All right then,” Smith said. “Did you know Curtis Ritchie well?”
“Let’s cut the shit, okay ?” Ridgeway said. “I know you know I got in a bit of a scrap with him a few months back. I’m sure he told you all about it,” he said, gesturing to Howard. “You’ve seen the statements and you must know about Nancy and the baby and all, so why don’t you just ask me?”
“What is it you think we want to ask you, Mr. Ridgeway?”
Ridgeway chuckled and took a long drag on the cigarette before exhaling a blue cloud that lingered over them, highlighting the dust particles hovering in the stale air. “I didn’t kill him, but I’m not gonna pretend I’m all broke up ‘cause someone else did.”
“So you don’t dispute that you didn’t like him.”
“Why should I? He knocks up my little sister and then won’t step up and do the right thing. What kinda pussy does that? Not like cash was tight or anything. Fucking cheapskate.”
“We
