Poison (23 page)

He could keep a lid on his anger. Most of the time. Once, a convicted murderer sat in a holding cell at the station. Hrab felt his loathing build, wanted to plant a little fear in the killer’s head. Hrab walked down to the cell by himself, then right up to the bars.

“You know what?” he sneered. “I’m glad you’re going to prison. So glad. ’Cause you know, in federal prison there will be a lot of guys like you, a lot of predators. But this time they will prey on you—terrorize you the way you terrorized others. A bit of advice: you might want to think about growing eyes in the back of your head.”

The criminal, shocked and enraged, complained to his lawyer. Hrab was forced to write an official letter of apology to the man
at Kingston pen. Obviously Hrab had got to the guy. He felt it was worth it.

While not certified in the field, Steve Hrab counted homicide profiling among his professional interests. It was still a relatively new discipline for investigators, made famous in psychological thriller movies like
Manhunter
and its sequel,
Silence of the Lambs
. Hrab took the courses, traveled to FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, studied under the first FBI profilers, men like John Douglas. In his book
Journey Into Darkness
, Douglas explains interrogation techniques used on killers. You meet the subject on his own psychological level: “Deal with them on their own level or else they can bullshit you for their own self-serving purposes. Remember, most serial offenders are expert manipulators of other people. If you’re not willing to come to their level and see things through their eyes, they won’t open up and confide.”

Hrab knew how to use provocative tactics. Fourteen hours into his questioning by police, Dhillon was about to experience it for himself. He was tired, said his head hurt. It was 10:40 p.m. The Punjabi interpreter who had been Dhillon’s comfort blanket left. Hrab entered the room. Time to play bad cop.

“Okay, Dhillon,” Hrab began, “I’m part of the team investigating the death of Ranjit Khela. I want to tell you before I continue that anything you say can be used in evidence.... It can be used at your trial. You understand that?” Dhillon nodded. “Do you remember a few years ago when you beat up your wife Parvesh, you had to go to court?”

“No.”

“You went to court. You beat up your wife.”

“Oh yeah, yeah, three, four years ago,” Dhillon said, as though he was discussing nothing more than a parking ticket. “Three hundred fine.”

“You got a three-hundred-dollar fine?” Hrab asked.

“Yeah.”

“Right,” Hrab said. “Okay. Today we’re here because Ranjit was murdered. He was killed. Ranjit was murdered and today this machine told us it was you. So what’s gonna happen to you is that you’re gonna have to go to court for killing Ranjit.”

“I no kill him.”

“You killed him.”

“I no kill him.”

“Yeah, you did, and I’m gonna tell you why. Are you a religious man?” Hrab asked.

Dhillon nodded, clasped his hands on his lap. “Do you believe in—”

“Go to the
gurdwara
.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yeah, I believe in God.”

“That’s a lie!” Hrab snapped back.

“Me no lie.”

“You’re lying.”

“No lie, sir.”

“Yes, a lie. A lie. You are a very cold man. And there’s only one thing in your life you worship, and that’s money. That’s your God.”

“No, no money. God.”

“Money. Money.”

“No, sir.”

“That is your God. Right there, you do everything for money.”

Hrab placed a $5 bill on the arm of Dhillon’s chair. Dhillon put it back on the desk.

“No.”

“This is what you live for, money. Don’t say no when I know it’s a lie. Don’t say no. Because I believe in God,” Hrab said.

“I believe in God too,” Dhillon said, placing his hand on his heart.

“No, no, you don’t. You believe in this—this is your God. Money…. Why did you beat up Parvesh?” Hrab asked. “Why did you hit Parvesh?”

“Family problem.”

“What was the problem?”

“Sometime I go mad and drink a little bit.”

“Why were you mad? What made Dhillon mad?”

“No mad.”

“You were mad and you hit her. Why did you hit her?”

“I drink, I told you.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I no lie, sir.”

Hrab paced the room, toward Dhillon, back again.

“You were lying to me. I have the record from court,” Hrab continued. “You hit Parvesh because you were mad because her family wasn’t paying any money to live with you. Your God, money.”

“No,” Dhillon said.

“Yes. It’s in the records. So don’t tell me I’m a
liar
!” Hrab’s voice suddenly boomed. “There’s only one liar here! You! Don’t lie any more!”

“I don’t understand,” Dhillon said, looking unperturbed.

“Oh,” Hrab sneered, “you understand
everything
. You hit Parvesh for money.”

Hrab placed the $5 bill on the arm of Dhillon’s chair again. Dhillon picked it up and put it back on the desk. “You know when someone dies, they do an autopsy?” Hrab asked. “A doctor looks at her when she’s dead and he cuts little pieces out of her. He takes little pieces. What he does is cut little pieces out of her, from the body, cuts them out and keeps them.” He motioned with his hand toward Dhillon, as though digging pieces of flesh. “They don’t know why she died, she’s a young woman. People 36 years old don’t die in Canada for no reason.”

“Maybe I go tomorrow die?”

“I don’t care about you dying.”

“Okay.”

“I wouldn’t care less. But Parvesh died, and nobody knows why. She didn’t have a heart attack.”

“Talk to the doctors,” Dhillon said.

“I talked to the doctors!” Hrab shouted. “They have the little pieces of your wife. You cremated her but we still have these little pieces.” Hrab gestured as if he was ripping the heart out of Dhillon’s chest. “They took little pieces from Ranjit that they cut out of his body and they send it to the laboratory in Toronto. The doctor asks why is Ranjit dead and the laboratory says we find strychnine, a poison.”

“I no give poison to him.”

“Strychnine. Strychnine. Which is
kuchila
.”

“I no remember, no.”

Hrab turned to a white board hanging on the wall. He drew arrows to show the trail of death—Parvesh, Ranjit, the Indian marriages. “Parvesh dies, two months later you’re in India, you marry one young woman, you don’t like her, you throw her out, you go marry another one.”

At 10:59 p.m. Hrab pulled a pill out of his pocket, held it in front of Dhillon’s face.

“Did you give Ranjit a pill the day he died? Right? ‘Hey, Ranjit—
kuchila
. Makes you very strong with a woman so you can perform.’”

“I don’t tell that to you, sir, no.”

“No, not to me, but you tell Ranjit. Ranjit is saying he needs something to be strong with his wife. ‘Tonight when I go to bed I want to be strong.’”

“No, I no give to him.”

“Six days before, you signed a $200,000 life insurance policy on Ranjit.”

Dhillon said he planned to give the money to Ranjit’s father.

“No,
you
get the money,” Hrab said.

“No, sir.”

“Liar.”

Hrab pointed at the polygraph machine. “This is the truth, not you. The machine is the truth, not you. The machine says you’re a liar.”

Later, Hrab told Dhillon the police in India were waiting for him.

“They’re gonna arrest you. ’Cause you killed a girl in India.”

“I no kill.”

“Yeah, just like you killed Ranjit here. Didn’t ya.”

“No.”

Later, Hrab called Kevin Dhinsa into the room to translate. “If he starts with the bullshit here, Kevin, you tell me right away. I don’t want any bullshit.”

“I swear to God,” Dhillon said after several questions, “I didn’t give any medication to anybody, even if you cut me into pieces, every piece will say the same thing. From now on, even if somebody asks me for a headache pill at my home, I am not going to do that.”

“Even if I believe you, for now my suspicion is that three young people died and you are right in the middle of it,” Dhinsa said.

“Yeah, everybody is blaming me.”

Hrab spoke. “I hate to interrupt this, but is he telling us the truth now, Kevin?”

“No,” Dhinsa said.

“Why are you wasting our time, why are you talking bullshit?” Hrab said.

Dhillon said nothing.

“I’m the boss here!” Hrab shouted. “I’m the boss! No more lies and bullshit. Don’t look at Kevin. Look at me!
Me!
Why are you telling Kevin anything? You killed because of money, so tell us the truth. Don’t look at him. Tell me the truth.” Dhillon said nothing.

“Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth.”

Dhillon looked at Dhinsa.

“No, tell
me
the truth. No more lies.”

“If you’re going to kill me, kill me,” Dhillon said.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Hrab said. “In India they might kill you. Kevin, tell him—ask him what they do to murderers.”

“Death sentence,” Dhinsa said.

“Yeah, hanging,” Dhillon added.

“Hanging? You’re going to go there and hang?” asked Hrab.

“I—”

“For killing that girl?”

“I don’t kill her.”

“Well, they say you did.”

“You hang me, shoot me.”

“I’m not going to kill you,
you’re
the killer. You kill people. You killed those people, people in India. Yeah! Tell him Kevin, he’s caught. You’ve been caught.”

“You kill me,” Dhillon said.

“We don’t do that in Canada. I’m not a killer, I’m not like you. I have a job to do. My job is to put people like you in jail.”

“Are you going to take me home?”

“I’m not taking you home right now, I want to hear the truth. Do you work hard?”

“Yes, I work hard.”

“You like money.”

“You want my money, house.”

“I don’t want those. You love money so much you killed for it. Six days after you took out life insurance on Ranjit, he died. A couple of months after Parvesh took out life insurance, she died. It had to be you. Your kids didn’t give it to her. It’s you.”

Dhillon said nothing.

“Who killed them?”

“I don’t know.”

“It was you! You killed them!” Hrab was thundering again. “Tell me the truth! Tell me who killed them! Right now. You haven’t told the truth once here tonight. You are the killer, and we will tell everyone you are the killer, and we will find out about more people you killed. We will find them all. Because they will find out in India.”

“I’ll go to India, no problem.”

“The Indian police will take care of you and we’ll never hear of you again. You’ll go to India and will never come back.”

Dhillon said nothing. Hrab approached the end of his inquisition.

“You use the word f—k a number of times,” he said. “You understand the English language really, really well eh? You know what? Don’t f—k me over. Okay? Don’t f—k me over because you are f—ing me over and you are f—ing Kevin over by lying. You know, you’re a used-car salesman. That’s what you do for a living and you lie every f—ing day of your life. You lie about everything you do in your life. You lie for money.”

“Yeah.”

“You lie every f—ing day. Lie, lie and it’s always money, money, money, money, money and you lie. You kill for money, you lie for money.”

Remarkably, Dhillon sat through Hrab’s verbal attack, outwardly showing no emotion, offering denials but not taking the bait, not arguing back, showing little exasperation. He did not crack.

“Tomorrow morning I’m gonna talk to the newspaper, the television, I’m gonna tell them that Ranjit Khela was murdered. I’m gonna call your lawyer tomorrow and I’m gonna tell him the truth.”

“Can I go now? Would you send me now?”

Dhinsa answered him in Punjabi. “If you want to go, go. You should go and talk to your lawyer, all right.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And also tell him that you murdered Ranjit.”

“I haven’t murdered him, why should I tell him? Send me home.”

“We will be back in a minute,” Hrab said. “You have no place to hide now, Mr. Dhillon. No place to hide.”

Hrab and Dhinsa left the room. Dhillon fiddled with the lie detector attachments still on the desk, took a sip of coffee, made a circular pattern with the chains from the polygraph, set the mug down, took another sip. He rubbed his head, picked fluff off his pants. Then, tired, he put his right hand under his jaw, holding up his head, rubbed his mustache. He looked bored. The time was 11:41 p.m. Three minutes later, the door opened and he was led from the room. The interrogation was over.

It was 10 minutes past midnight. Korol and Dhinsa drove Dhillon home. Dhillon spoke to Dhinsa.

“
Mein kujh naheen keeta. Mein kisey nu zehar naheen ditta
.” (I didn’t do anything. I didn’t give anyone any poison.)

“You failed the polygraph test,” Dhinsa said in Punjabi. “We believe the results. We think you poisoned Ranjit.”

“I did not, I did not,” Dhillon said, his English returning.

Korol shook his head, turned it to one side and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“Dhillon,” he said, “you are a pathological liar.”

Warren Korol’s day did not get any better. That afternoon, he filed a request with a justice of the peace for a search warrant for 362 Berkindale Drive. The form came back to him. “Process not
issued,” it said. Korol steamed over the rejection. There had to be enough information to warrant a search. He needed to look for traces of strychnine in Dhillon’s house. The JP said any search was too far removed from the time of the deaths to find anything. How would he know? You never know what a search will unearth. Things got no better two days later, when Korol read a faxed letter sent from a local lawyer named Richard Startek: