Chapter 12: Beneath the Surface

Welcome to Chapter 12

Chapter 11 cracked the case wide open.

The autopsy report left no doubt: Ian McLeod was ambushed—shot three times in the head with a .22 rifle shortly after eating Irish stew at the Green sisters’ home. His death wasn’t a mystery anymore. It was murder. And more importantly, the McLeod brothers’ story no longer holds.

For Detective Jean Lavallee, the evidence rewrote the timeline and dismantled the lie: Ian never left for Vancouver—he died within hours of that cheerful dinner. And the stew in his stomach may turn out to be more damning than any confession.

With arrest warrants in motion and suspicion tightening around not just Gerald and Jerome—but also George McLeod—Lavallee begins assembling his team. Enter Constable Murray Mannion: young, observant, and eager to prove himself. A new generation joins the hunt for truth.

In Chapter 12, surveillance begins, secrets strain under pressure, and the final pieces begin sliding into place. But beware: when truths surface, so do consequences.

Click here to subscribe for new chapter updates

Chapter 12

 

Arrests

 

Brothers Arrested – Day 3:

 

The morning sun shone deceptively bright, hinting at spring as it melted the snow on Blackstone Isle. By late afternoon, a sharp breeze swept through, cutting through the brief warmth.

 

Jerome McLeod stood in the front yard, his face tilted toward the rare March sunlight, when he noticed movement in the distance.

 

“The cops are coming!” he shouted, his voice breaking with alarm.

 

Inside the house, Gerald heard the cry. Pulling on his coat, he strode outside, his face hardening as he spotted two Sûreté vehicles bouncing down the muddy road.

 

“Two cars,” Gerald muttered. “This isn’t a visit.”

 

Jerome’s panic grew. “What about the car?”

 

Gerald glanced at the driveway, his mind racing, but shook his head. “Too late. Let’s not give them a chase. We’ll call O’Grady. He got us out before; he’ll do it again.”

 

Jerome nodded reluctantly, his hands twitching at his sides. Together, they stood their ground as the vehicles stopped in front of the house. Their postures were steady, but their stiff movements betrayed their unease.

 

“Gerald and Jerome McLeod,” an officer announced, stepping forward. “You’re under arrest for the murder of your father, Ian McLeod.”

 

The words hung in the crisp air, heavy and undeniable. The officers methodically read them their rights; their voices steady against the rising tension. The brothers didn’t resist, though fear flickered in Jerome’s eyes, and Gerald’s confident expression faltered for a fleeting moment.

 

The Detention:

 

By 6 PM, Paul O’Grady arrived at the detachment, his polished demeanour commanding attention. With calm efficiency, he demanded to see the arrest warrants and ensure his clients’ rights were respected. Sergeant Michael Gilbert greeted him with professional courtesy, though his tone carried a hint of triumph.

 

“A Crown prosecutor is en route from Hull,” Gilbert informed O’Grady. “She’ll begin formal interviews tomorrow morning.”

 

O’Grady’s lips tightened, but his tone remained measured. “I assume I can see my clients now.”

 

“Of course,” Gilbert replied, gesturing for an officer to escort him.

 

In the shared cell, Gerald leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Jerome perched uneasily on the edge of the bunk. At the sight of O’Grady, Jerome bolted upright.

 

“Mr. O’Grady, what’s going on?” Jerome asked, his voice trembling.

 

O’Grady seated himself on the opposite bunk, his expression calm but serious. “The police believe they’ve found evidence connecting you to your father’s murder. A prosecutor will explain the charges in detail tomorrow morning.”

 

Gerald’s jaw tightened. “This is bullshit. They don’t have anything solid.”

 

O’Grady held up a hand. “Calm down. The evidence is enough for them to bring charges, but it doesn’t mean they’ll get a conviction. For now, you’ll appear before a judge to determine whether you’ll remain in custody or be granted bail.”

 

Jerome’s voice cracked. “How long could we be stuck here?”

 

O’Grady’s tone turned serious. “In most murder cases, bail isn’t granted. If the charges proceed, you’ll stay in detention until the trial, which could be a year away.”

 

Jerome’s shoulders slumped, tears pricking his eyes. Gerald shot him a glare. “Don’t lose it now,” he muttered, though his own voice lacked its usual confidence.

 

The Next Morning – Day 4:

 

The interview room was dimly lit, its oppressive atmosphere matching the gravity of the situation. Sheila Summers, a seasoned Crown prosecutor, sat at the head of the table, her sharp features framed by a calm, commanding presence. Across from her, Gerald McLeod sat with forced bravado, his posture rigid, his dark eyes locked onto hers. Beside him, Paul O’Grady remained steady, his sharp gaze monitoring every move.

 

“Good morning, Gerald,” Summers began with quiet authority. “You’ve been here before, so I won’t waste time. We now have evidence that doesn’t align with your statements.”

 

Gerald leaned back, tilting his chair slightly. “Here we go again. I told you—my dad went to Vancouver.”

 

Summers slid a folder across the table, opening it to reveal autopsy photos and reports. The stark images caught the light, and while Gerald’s expression remained neutral, the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

 

“According to the autopsy,” Summers said coldly, “your father died in the early hours of February 5th, just after having dinner at the Green sisters’ house. That’s days before the phone call you claim to have received from Northern Ontario.”

 

O’Grady glanced at the folder; his expression unreadable. “Stomach contents?” he said dismissively. “Circumstantial at best. This isn’t a smoking gun, Ms. Summers.”

 

Summers’ gaze remained locked on Gerald. “The science doesn’t lie, Mr. O’Grady. But people do.”

 

For a moment, Gerald’s composure cracked. He glanced at O’Grady, searching for reassurance, before muttering, “The autopsy’s wrong.”

 

Summers pressed on, her voice slicing through the tension. “Let me ask you, Gerald. Did you feel free under your father’s roof? Or were you just another pawn on his farm?”

 

The question landed hard. Gerald stiffened but quickly recovered. “We did what we had to do. That’s how farms work.”

 

“You did what you had to do,” Summers echoed. “And now your father is dead. If you hated his control so much, why not just leave?”

 

Gerald’s fists clenched. “I didn’t kill him. And neither did Jerome.”

 

Jerome McLeod’s Interrogation:

 

In the adjacent room, Jerome sat hunched over, his hands fidgeting with the edge of the table. Summers’ tone was softer this time, almost coaxing.

 

“Jerome,” she began, “this is your chance to set the record straight. Gerald is strong, isn’t he? Always took the lead. Always told you what to do.”

 

Jerome shifted uncomfortably. “We’re brothers. That’s how it works. We look out for each other.”

 

“Do you?” Summers asked gently. “Or does Gerald make the decisions while you follow along?”

 

Jerome’s voice wavered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Summers leaned forward. “You’ve been living in his shadow for years. But this is your chance to break free. Testify against him, and I’ll recommend a lighter sentence. Just a few years, and you’ll be free—really free.”

 

Jerome’s breath quickened. “No deal. I’m not turning on my brother.”

 

Summers’ gaze hardened. “Think carefully, Jerome. Gerald won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus to save himself.”

 

O’Grady interjected firmly, “This line of questioning is over. My client has no further comment.”

 

As Summers left, Jerome slumped in his chair, trembling. O’Grady placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Stay strong, Jerome. You’ve done nothing wrong. Let them prove otherwise.”

Books.by/keith-landry-books.com