Black Fly Season (4 page)

‘I have no opinion on that point, as I’ve indicated,’ Venn said. ‘But with a suicide you’d expect a contact wound or something close to it. Unless your Jane Doe’s got arms four feet long, there’s no way this wound is self-inflicted.’

‘A defence attorney might say it’s accidental.’

‘Accidental? Within a distance of two feet? You hold a loaded gun to someone’s head and pull the trigger? Well, I suppose some might say there’s a reasonable doubt there.’

Cardinal pointed to the spectroscope obscuring a poster for a Van Damme movie that featured an

exotic machine gun. ‘How about GSR results? Did you get anywhere with those?’

‘Didn’t run them. Don’t look at me like that, Detective. There’s no point in running a GSR on someone who’s just been shot at close range. She’s going to turn out positive for powder and soot whether she fired the gun or not.’

That was true. Cardinal was annoyed with himself for forgetting.

Venn pinned a piece of paper up on the corkboard; it showed a series of grey streaks of varying intensity.

‘Characteristics,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a plain, unjacketed, lead .32 calibre bullet. Looks to me like a .32 long. Normally with a shot to the skull you’d expect it to flatten out completely making it hard to read. In this case, you have a shot to the temple - much thinner bone - and the bullet is pretty much intact. I don’t suppose you have any casings?’

‘You’ve got everything we’ve got.’

‘Then none of this is going to help you much, but here goes.’ He pointed to the printout as he spoke; his fingernail was gnawed to the quick. ‘You’ve got six right-hand grooves with a land to groove ratio of one-to-one-plus. Grooves are zero point five-six; lands are zero point six-oh.’

‘Pistol?’

Venn nodded. ‘Pistol. And you’re lucky in one way.’

‘Oh?’

‘The rifling in the weapon has a left-hand twist. Right away that narrows it down. You’re probably looking for a Colt.’

Venn rolled his swivel chair over to his computer. He started typing figures into the database. ‘From what you tell me of the injury - minimal motion inside the skull, minimal damage to tissue - I think you’re dealing with rounds that are either very old or got wet at some point. Or it could be a defective weapon. If the firing pin is far enough off kilter it could result in a misfire like this. Of course we won’t know that until you bring us a casing. Or, God forbid, an actual weapon.’

‘That’s it? We may be looking for a Colt .32?’

Venn looked up at him. ‘In your impatience, Detective, you’re not letting me finish.’

Cardinal scanned Venn’s face to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

‘This left-hand twist, coupled with this land groove ratio narrows it down to two possibilities. You could be looking for a J. C. Higgins model 80. Or a Colt “Police Positive’”.

‘And I bet there’s more than a few of ‘em, right?’

‘In Ontario? Think in hundreds.’

Ten minutes later Cardinal was back amid the chlorine-and-bandage smells of Toronto General Hospital. Jane Doe had been moved to a semiprivate room on the third floor. The police guard on the door had so many gadgets hanging from his hips he looked bottom-heavy, like a ten-pin.

Cardinal showed his badge and was waved inside. The young redhead was propped up in bed in her hospital gown reading Chatelaine. She smiled when he came in; there was a small bandage on her temple.

‘Are you my doctor?’

‘No, I’m a detective. John Cardinal. We met last night.’

‘Detective? You’re with the police? I’m sorry. I don’t remember.’

‘That’s okay. I bet you’ll get your memory back in no time.’

‘I hope so. Right now, I don’t even know who I am.’

‘Dr Schaff tells me she’s pretty sure it will all come back.’

‘I’m not even that worried about it.’

Cardinal didn’t tell her that Dr Schaff had been less certain about appropriate affect.

The girl turned to adjust her pillows. Cardinal caught a flash of pale breast and looked away.

‘Red, I need your help with something.’

‘Of course.’

‘I need your permission to go through your clothes and see if there’s any identification.’

‘Oh, sure. Be my guest.’

No doubt the hospital had already done this, but Cardinal opened the closet anyway. A denim jacket hung from a wire hanger, with a pair of jeans beside it. On the shelf, a T-shirt, bra, and underpants. Cardinal made notes of the brand

names: Gap, Levi’s, Lucky. Then he went through the jeans pockets. No keys, no ID, no receipts or ticket stubs, just a few coins and a pair of nail clippers. He felt in the side pockets of the denim jacket and pulled out a half-roll of Lifesavers. Nothing useful.

When he turned around, Red was looking blankly out the window as if he wasn’t there. Between the buildings, small white clouds hung in rhomboids of blue sky. Beyond these, the concrete shaft of Toronto’s landmark CN Tower.

‘One more thing,’ Cardinal said. ‘Would you mind if I took your picture?’

‘No, of course not.’

Cardinal closed the blinds to shut out the identifiable view. Then he sat the young woman in front of them, and had her turn her head to one side so the shaved patch didn’t show. He took a close-up with his Polaroid.

She had no reaction when he showed her the result.

‘They’ll be sending you back to Algonquin Bay tomorrow,’ Cardinal said. ‘Are you ready for that?’

‘I don’t know where that is,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know if I’m from there.’

‘We have to assume you are, until we hear anything different.’

A pale, freckled hand reached up absently, feeling the edges of her bandage. Cardinal was sure she was going to ask where she would stay in Algonquin Bay - a question he had been

dreading - but she didn’t say anything. Just that same placid smile. Fine, let Dr Schaff tell her.

‘Listen, um, Red - sorry, I have to call you Red until we know your name …’

‘It’s all right. I don’t mind.’

‘Pretty soon there’s going to be a missing-person report out on you. Young women like you don’t go missing without someone noticing. Then we’ll know who you are and where you’re from. In the meantime we’re going to have a police guard on you at all times.’

‘Okay.’

She doesn’t protest, she doesn’t ask why, Cardinal thought. She doesn’t seem afraid or even curious. He felt duty bound to answer the questions she hadn’t asked.

‘Someone put a bullet in your head,’ he said. ‘And because of the nature of the wound, and the type of weapon used, we think it was a deliberate attempt on your life. So, you’re going to have to keep a low profile until we find whoever did it. In case they decide to make another try at it.’

‘Okay.’

‘Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s not going to take long before you’re tired of being cooped up, but it won’t be safe for you to go out.’

‘Oh.‘The pale brows met in a display of-Cardinal wasn’t sure if it was worry or just confusion. She said after a moment, ‘Whoever I am, I think I must be quite a lazy person because right now I don’t feel like doing anything but sitting in bed.’

‘Well, that’s fine,’ Cardinal said. ‘You take it easy and let the doctors look after you.’

‘I will.’ She gave him a smile and it was as if a lamp had been turned on. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

The Algonquin Bay police department is not the kind of grunge pit one sees on television shows about New York cops. Since the new headquarters opened a dozen years ago, the CID has maintained the bland decor of a small mortgage outfit. The windows on the east side provide good light - in the morning, at least - as well as an excellent view of the parking lot.

Cardinal was in the boardroom packing up the last of the files from a case that had consumed all his energy for the last six months. It had involved a third-generation, felony-prone family who, by way of registering a noise complaint about the noise, had sacked a neighbouring family’s afternoon barbecue. One of the patriarchs had ended up face down in his Worcestershire sauce, dead of a heart attack. Months of Cardinal’s work had resulted in nothing more than a finding of accidental death.

Every now and then, Cardinal’s thoughts were interrupted by a feminine tack, tack, tack of hammer and nail. Frances, longtime receptionist and factotum to Police Chief Kendall, was hanging a set of newly framed photographs on the

pine panelling. So far, she had placed a photo of Chief Kendall being sworn in, and another of Ian McLeod, fully clothed and soaking wet, having just rescued a mother of three from drowning in Trout Lake.

‘What do you think of this one?’ Frances said.

A black-and-white, eight-by-eleven of a much younger Jerry Commanda, back when he was still on the city force, dressed in baseball cap and sunglasses. He was standing in front of a stone gate with a wrought-iron eagle perched on top - iron talons flexed, black wings spread as if about to take off.

‘Is that Eagle Park?’ Cardinal said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I remember that. It was a charity ball game against the Fire Department.’

‘Can you believe how skinny Jerry was?’

‘He’s still skinny. Yet another reason, if one were needed, to find him irritating.’

‘Go on. Everyone loves Jerry.’ Frances had a saint-like immunity to irony.

‘Another reason,’ Cardinal said.

‘Oh, you …’

Cardinal settled back into the quiet. The boardroom was plush, compared to the squad room. It even had carpeting, royal blue, with a deep pile that went some way toward damping the noise of Frances’ hammer and the general hubbub of the booking area. It was not, however, deep enough to dampen the noise of one Jasper Colin Crouch.

Jasper Colin Crouch was a permanently unemployed and unemployable construction worker, built like a Grizzly but with a temper much worse. Crouch was, as the cliche has it, well known to the police, owing to his penchant for battering his wife when sober and his numerous offspring when drunk. Detective Lise Delorme had hauled him in a few days previously on a charge of criminal assault after his twelve-year-old boy had been hospitalized with a broken arm. The boy was now a temporary ward of the Children’s Aid.

A tremendous bellow - a sort of high-volume moose-honk - made Cardinal look up. He knew exactly who it was. The bellow was followed by an equally tremendous crash.

‘My goodness,’ Frances said, and covered her heart.

Cardinal jumped up and ran to the booking area.

The floor was flooded, Crouch having somehow toppled the water cooler. Now he was squared off with Delorme, who was fivefoot-four but looked a lot smaller facing the cathedral of fat and muscle that was Jasper Colin Crouch. Delorme was down on one knee in the water, a cut above her eye.

Bob Collingwood had hold of Crouch from behind but Crouch just made a kind of operatic shrug and Collingwood went flying. Before Cardinal could intervene, Crouch leaned into a full-force kick at Delorme. Delorme dodged to one side, caught his heel in her left hand, and half-rose.

‘Mr Crouch, you’re going to stop right now or I’m going to drop you.’

‘Suck my dick.’ He jerked his leg, but Delorme held on.

‘That’s it,’ she said. She propped his foot on her shoulder and stood up. Crouch’s skull connected with the tile floor, and he was out as if someone had pressed the off button on a remote. There was a pattering of applause.

‘That really needs a stitch or two,’ Cardinal said when Delorme came back from the washroom. Her left eyebrow was bisected by a gash about a quarter of an inch long.

‘I’ll live.’ She sat down at the cubicle next to his. ‘How’s our Jane Doe doing?’

Cardinal had called Delorme after he’d got the ballistics report.

‘Jane Doe is still a Jane Doe,’ he said. ‘Neurosurgeon thinks her memory will come back, but there’s no saying when.’

‘Bullet in the head - me, I take it we won’t be putting any ads in the paper asking Do You Know This Woman?’

‘No. We don’t even want whoever shot her to know she’s been found, let alone found alive. I don’t suppose you dug anything up on the gun?’

‘Used in recent crimes?’ Delorme shook her head. ‘Doesn’t match anything.’ She added in an offhand, nothing important, probably shouldn’t mention it tone: ‘On the other hand, I did check

out reports of stolen firearms. Surprise, surprise, turns out we had one three weeks ago.’

‘You’re kidding. A .32 pistol?’

Delorme held up a scrap of paper on which she had written a name and address.

‘Missing. One pistol. Thirty-two calibre. Manufacturer: Colt. Model: Police Positive.’

Rod Milcher lived in a nicely maintained split-level in the Pinedale section of town, at one time a desirable address, but now, owing to the proliferation of drab concrete apartment buildings, an area mostly populated by the newly married. Pinedale is where you find what real-estate people like to call starter homes.

Unlike Jasper Crouch, Milcher was not well known to the police. In fact, not known at all. And his house, with its neatly clipped lawn and its pretty cedar hedge, did not look the home of a felon - more like the home of a dentist. The only unusual thing about the whole place was what was parked in its driveway: a plump, much-chromed motorcycle.

‘Six-fifty Harley,’ Cardinal said before they were even out of the car. ‘Serious bike.’

‘You couldn’t pay me to ride one of those things,’ Delorme said. ‘Friend of mine got killed on one at the age of twenty-six. Lost an argument with a cement truck.’

‘Male friend?’

‘Male friend. Thought he was tough, but he wasn’t.’

Cardinal rapped on the side door. It was just after six o’clock; they had waited until Milcher was likely to be home. The door was answered by a thirtyish woman wearing a business suit. As if to balance the boardroom look with something more homey, she was also clutching a saucepan. ‘I’m not interested in religion,’ she said through the screen door. ‘I get tired of telling you people.’

Delorme held up her badge. ‘Is Rod Milcher at home? We need to ask him a few questions.’