Forty Words for Sorrow (22 page)

“I’m working closely with Dyson, sir. But for this plan to stand up in court, there has to be no chance of anyone else having the same tainted information as Cardinal. You and I will be the only ones who know.”

“So you must do it, no question. The sooner the better. Is Corporal Musgrave on board?”

“More than on board, sir. He can’t wait.”

“Good. Talk to a J.P. and get your approval.”

“We’ve got it, sir. Musgrave got it.”

Kendall cut loose with that big laugh of his, Hah! Hah! Hah! Delorme felt the variation in pressure on her eardrums along with considerable relief. Then the chief held her once more with that prehensile gaze. “Listen to me, young Delorme. I’m older than you and wiser—they’re possibly the only reasons I’m your boss, but they’re good reasons, so hear me: I have read up on Corporal Musgrave, and Corporal Musgrave is hot to trot, Corporal Musgrave is a barn-burner, Corporal Musgrave does not like our inscrutable Mr. Cardinal. If said Musgrave were under my command, which he is not, he would not be on this case. So you be careful. I’m not saying he’s the type to manufacture evidence, but he
is
the type to blow a case with an excess of zeal. So you be sure and keep your head—which is where, at the moment?”

“Sir?”

“Where is your head on this case, Delorme? How do you see your Cardinal at this point?”

“Do I have to answer that, Chief?”

“Certainly.”

Delorme looked up at the ceiling, staring at the exposed beams.

“I’m waiting.”

“To be perfectly honest, sir, I don’t know. I
do
know there’s no hard evidence against him. Nothing that would stand up to a good defence lawyer. So me, I consider him innocent until proven guilty.”

“You’re being legalistic. Is that out of loyalty? Are you too close to Cardinal to be objective? You can speak honestly.”

“I don’t know, Chief. I’m not a very introspective person.”

Kendall laughed again, hard and loud, as if Delorme had told a fabulous joke, then he stopped as suddenly as he had started, and the quiet that followed was deep, like the quiet that follows the silencing of a car alarm. “You bring this guy in, you understand me? If he has been selling out to some godless thug, I want him off the force and I mean now. If he hasn’t, the sooner you’re off his case the better. I’m not a very introspective person, either, Detective Delorme. Which means without facts I tend to become bored and upset. You don’t want to see me bored and upset.”

“No, sir.”

“So, run your little experiment. And Godspeed.”

34

A
N
O
NTARIO HYDRO LINEMAN
named Howard Bass was repairing a transformer out on Highway 63, about five posts north of the Trout Lake marina. The job required a whole new crossbar, and Howard had been up in the cherry picker most of the morning, freezing his ass off. Twenty feet up like that, he was catching a bad ricochet of sunlight off the snow that practically blinded him, sunglasses and all. A couple of hours into the job, though, and the sun had shifted around, casting a sharp shadow of Howard and the arm of the cherry picker across the snow.

Stanley Betts, who was driving today, had strolled back to the marina to buy them both a couple of donuts and Cokes. He came back whistling a risqué little tune called “Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl,” the cat-eyed Lolita behind the counter having put him in that frame of mind.

This stretch of 63 was always busy. You had the traffic coming down from the NORAD installation, you had the people coming in from Temagami, and you had the residential traffic for Four Mile Bay and Peninsula Road. Stan was stranded across the highway for a good few minutes, waiting for the traffic to clear. “I’m turning into a dirty old man!” he called to Howie. “You shoulda seen the little babe at the store!”

Howie didn’t turn, didn’t hear him over the roar of a speeding eighteen-wheeler.

“I swear, Howie,” Stan said again, when he was across the road and clear, “I’m turning into a dirty old man!”

Although cold as hell, the day was perfectly clear. The yellow arm of the cherry picker seemed to flash against the blue of the sky. Howie looked strange up there, his breath making tiny white clouds. He was gripping the edge of the box in a weird way, looking down at something.

“What the hell you staring at?” Stan followed his gaze, but he couldn’t see over the six-foot ridge of roadside sludge. He clambered to the top of this and shaded his eyes. When Stan saw what Howie saw, one of the Cokes fell and burst open on his steel-toed boot, shooting a miniature brown geyser over the snow.

35

“Y
OU CAN’T POSSIBLY SAY
it’s the same killer.” Dyson spread his spatulate fingers fanlike and counted off his reasons. “One: the victim is in his thirties; the others were teenage or younger. Two: totally different MO. The others were beaten or strangled. Three: he was dumped where he’d be easy to find.”

“Not that easy. If the Hydro guys hadn’t been working on that particular transformer, it could have been months before he was found. Next time they plowed 63, the body would have been totally covered up.”

“Arthur Wood was a well-known criminal. Had to have a lot of enemies.”

“Woody didn’t have an enemy in the world. You couldn’t hope to meet a nicer guy—long as you kept your eyes on the silverware.”

“Bad blood from prison, maybe. Talk to his old cellmates, talk to the guards in his wing. We don’t know everything about our clientele.”

“Woody was a hard-working thief. This time he broke into the wrong house. When we find that house, we find our killer.” He’s going to assign it to McLeod; Cardinal could see the decision forming in Dyson’s all but transparent dome.

The letter opener stirred a furrow through the dish of paper clips. “Look,” Dyson said, “you’ve already got enough to do.”

“Yeah, but if this is the same guy, we’re just going to be—”

“Let me finish, please.” The voice was soft, still thoughtful. “You’ve got more than enough to do, as I say. But why don’t we do this: you take the Woody case for the time being. It’s your case so long as nothing comes up that definitely
dis
connects it from Our Local Maniac. Moment that happens, and I mean
instantly
, it’s McLeod’s case. Understood?”

“Understood. Thanks, Don,” Cardinal said, and flushed a little. He never used the detective sergeant’s first name; it was just the excitement of the moment. Before he opened the door, he turned back and said, “Sudbury TV got hold of the thing on Margaret Fogle.”

“I know. That was my fault. I apologize.”

Dyson apologizing—one for the record books. “Didn’t exactly help. I don’t even see why it would come up.”

“Grace Legault is not Roger Gwynn. That woman is not going to linger long on Sudbury’s esteemed channel four. That’s a Toronto-bound bitch if ever I saw one. Knows what she’s doing. Somehow she got hold of a bunch of Missing Persons and—well, it doesn’t matter—she caught me off guard. Obviously, I should have kept you informed. My mistake. Now I think we’re done here, aren’t we?”

As he came out of Dyson’s office, Cardinal bumped smack into Lise Delorme. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said. “Woody’s wife is out front. She wants to report him missing. We’ll have to take her up to the O.H. to identify the body.”

“Don’t jump the gun here, Lise. I don’t want to tell her right away.”

Delorme looked shocked. “You have to tell her. Her husband is dead, for God’s sake. You can’t keep that from her.”

“The moment we tell her, you can forget about getting any information out of her. She’ll be too upset. I’m just saying we don’t tell her right away.”

Martha Wood hung her coat on a rack in the hall and beside it her son’s tiny down parka. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans—an outfit that on her tall, lean figure looked like something out of
Vogue
. She sat in the interview room where both cops had interviewed her husband numerous times over the years. Her toddler, like his mother dark-haired and dark-eyed, sat quietly on the chair beside her, squeezing a plastic Yogi Bear that from time to time emitted a nasal moan.

Martha Wood twisted her wedding ring as she spoke. “When Woody left the house, he was wearing a blue V-neck sweater, Levi 505s and cowboy boots. They’re black. Lizard skin.”

“Okay. It was cold on Saturday. What kind of coat did he have on?” The body, with its nine bullet wounds, had been found naked. Woody’s clothes might turn up somewhere else.

“A blue down parka. Shouldn’t I be filling out a form or something? A Missing Persons form?”

“We’re taking it all down,” Cardinal assured her.

“You need his height and weight, right?”

“We have that,” Delorme said.

“Oh, right. I forgot about his arrest records. It’s weird, all this time I go around thinking of cops as the enemy. Now Woody’s disappeared, I feel different.”

“We do too.” Cardinal said. “Was Woody driving that old ChevyVan of his?” They had already put out an all-points for the van, licence plates and all.

“Yes. I should give you the licence plate number.” She reached into her purse for keys.

“I have the plate numbers from before,” Delorme said. “His van, it’s still blue?”

“Still blue, right.” Mrs. Wood paused with her hand in her purse. “But he liked to change the licence plates sometimes when he went on a job. I don’t know if he did that or not this time. The sign is new: it says
Comstock Electrical Repairs
on the side.”

“You knew he was going out on a job?”

“Look, Woody’s an electronics repairman. That’s what he tells me, okay? I long ago learned to stop asking questions. He’s a loving father and a dependable husband, but he’s never going to change his line of work—not for you, not for me, not for anyone.”

“Okay. Do you know what area of town he was going to … work in?”

“He never tells me things like that. Look, the operative word here is ‘dependable.’ Woody said he’d be back by six o’clock. That’s a day and a half ago, and I’m fucking scared.”

“It may help us find him,” Cardinal said gently, “if you have any information about the likely area of town to look in.” He ignored Delorme’s hard stare.

“I don’t know. He did mention the old CN station the other day. He’d only just noticed they’d boarded it up. Maybe he was in that neighbourhood, but I don’t know.” Suddenly she stood up, her purse spilling open on the floor. “He’s in some kind of trouble, I’m telling you. Just because he steals things doesn’t make him evil, you know. This is the first time he’s ever not come home without phoning. Ever. The only time that happens is when he’s under arrest—and if you’re holding him, you’d better tell me, or so help me I’m going to have Bob Brackett on your case until you’re bounced off the goddam force.” Bob Brackett was Algonquin Bay’s best defence attorney. There wasn’t a cop on the force he hadn’t humiliated.

“Mrs. Wood, would you sit down, please?”

“No. If you haven’t arrested my husband, I want to know why you aren’t doing anything to find him!”

Her little boy stopped squeezing Yogi Bear and looked up at his mother with a worried expression.

“John, would you give me a minute alone with Mrs. Wood?”

Delorme took him by surprise—this wasn’t in the script, and he didn’t like it.

“Why?” Martha Wood wanted to know. “Why does she want to talk to me alone?”

“John. Please.”

Cardinal went down the hall and into the monitor room. He put some coins in the Coke machine before he realized it was sold out of Diet. He bought a Classic and sat down at the table, watching the video monitor, which was turned on but without sound.

From its high corner angle, the video camera looked down pitilessly on Martha Wood. Both she and Delorme were absolutely motionless. Mrs. Wood was still standing, hands slightly away from her body, absorbing the blow, not yet feeling the pain, her face a picture of pure inquiry. The full lips came together as if to speak, but she said nothing.

Delorme reached out and touched her arm, but the woman still stood, swaying slightly. One hand came down slowly to touch the table, steadying her. Slowly she lowered herself to the chair, covered her face with her hands and folded forward. The little boy started poking at her shoulder with Yogi Bear.

36

“W
HY HAVEN’T WE SEEN THE GODDAM
truck?” McLeod was unloading his Beretta as he spoke, neatly setting nine rounds nose up on the conference table. It looked like an exaggeration to Cardinal, he was so used to six rounds. “I’ve searched that ChevyVan myself; probably we all have at one time or another. It just boggles my mind that it hasn’t been spotted yet.”

“If we’re right that Woody made the mistake of burgling the maniac’s place, then the killer’s probably stowed the thing somewhere. All he’s gotta do is park it indoors and how’re we gonna find it?”

Dyson put in, “Narrows the field a little, if we can assume the guy has a garage.”

“I don’t think we can assume that just yet. Woody’s only been dead twenty-four hours. We’ve got an all-points out with the OPP. We’ll find the truck.”

The phone rang and Cardinal by pre-arrangement picked it up. “Okay, Len—I’m going to put you on the speaker. There’s me and Delorme, Detective Sergeant Dyson’s sitting in with us, and also Ian McLeod.”

They were assembled in the conference room—a first, as far as Cardinal could remember. The conference room was usually reserved for commission meetings, state visits from the mayor—in short, for very special occasions only. But this was the biggest investigation the Algonquin Bay police department had ever handled, and now all eight detectives on the force were assigned bits and pieces to follow up.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Len Weisman said. “There are nine bullet wounds on the body. Clearly, they were not fired in a frenzy; they were too carefully placed. He was shot in both shins, both thighs, both forearms and both upper arms. That gives you all the major bones of the human body—and I believe the killer was trying to break them all. He succeeded with both tibias. These were contact wounds, by the way—muzzle against flesh—inflicted at leisure, when the victim was totally helpless.”

“I make that eight bullets, Len, not nine.”

“Aren’t you sharp. He was shot in the back first—it’s the only one that wasn’t a contact wound. It was from maybe ten feet away, with an upward trajectory. Dr. Gant’s note: she says a stairway would be consistent with the damage, killer shooting from below. Oh, and there’s residue from duct tape around the mouth.”

“Jesus.”

“There’s blood on him other than his own, but I can’t match the type to the semen that was in the envelope. Whoever that belongs to, he isn’t a secretor. We won’t know if it’s the same guy until the DNA test comes back—that’s gonna take another week.”

“A week! We’ve got kids being murdered up here, Len.”

“It takes ten days, that’s just the reality. Now, the facial injury: at first we thought the facial injury was the result of a fall—you know, the guy gets shot, falls face down and breaks his nose. But we found traces of gun oil in the wound.”

“He was hit with a pistol?”

“Exactly. What’s amazing is, this victim has nine bullet wounds in him, but he was killed by a broken nose. With the tape over his mouth, he couldn’t breathe—aspirated a ton of blood trying.”

“What have you got from Ballistics—Beretta? Glock? Gotta be something that shoots nine rounds, right?”

“The microprint is in my fax. He used a regular Colt thirty-eight.”

“Can’t be, Len. Colt only holds six rounds.”

“Like I say, we’re not dealing with a man in a frenzy. Bastard takes his time to reload so he can have a little more fun.”

“Guy’s an animal,” McLeod muttered.

“Genital mutilation was post-mortem. Dr. Gant thinks the guy tried to literally kick his balls off.”

“That links it to Todd Curry, boss.”

Dyson nodded sagely, as if he had thought so all along.

Weisman said, “I’ve told Ballistics to call you direct, soon as they have more on the slugs.”

“All right. Thanks, Len.”

“I’m not done yet.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Fingerprint section picked up partials. Both thumbs.”

“You couldn’t have. Our body was found nude—not even a belt to lift a print from.”

“They lifted them from the body itself.”

“You’re kidding me. Our guys didn’t get anything.”

“Little something we picked up at the Tokyo forensics conference last year: soft-tissue X-ray. We X-rayed the subcutaneous tissue of the neck. If you get it within twelve hours, you can do that and get a decent print. Looks like he tried to choke the guy—maybe before he decided to aerate him. It’s on the fax too.”

“Jesus, that’s great, Len. Tell ’em we said, ’thanks guys.’”

“Better not. Those
guys
happen to be women.”

Delorme dipped her head, smiling slightly.

“You know what stinks?” McLeod said to the whole table. “What stinks is we’re buried in leads here. We’re practically drowning in evidence. The guy hands us a tape of his
voice
for Chrissake, and we can’t do anything. He shoots his wad into an
envelope
for us, and we can’t do anything. Now he leaves us thumbprints. It’s like we’re holding out for his business card or something. Guy’s playing with us, and we’re not getting anywhere.”

“No, we’re making progress,” Cardinal said, wanting to believe it. “We’re doing classic footwork. We just haven’t found the connecting link yet, that’s all—something that’s gonna whack all these little bits of info together.”

“It better happen soon,” Dyson said. “If I get one more call telling me to call in the OPP or the Mounties …”

“The horsemen?” McLeod seemed to take it personally. “The horsemen don’t have any fucking jurisdiction.”

“You know that and I know that. Would you care to educate the public on that point?”

“Anyways, the first thing the fucking horsemen’d do, they’d blow something up, or steal some fucking evidence, or sell some dope to the wrong fucking judge. Besides which, you never know if what they
say
they’re doing is what they’re
really
doing. I’ll tell you the problem with the horsemen.” McLeod was warming up now. Cardinal usually enjoyed a good McLeod rant, but not today, please. “The problem with the horsemen is they’re broke. Fucking five-year pay freeze killed ’em. They’re all fucking broke, and they’re looking for creative ways to make up the difference. I liked it better when they made more money. You can
trust
a rich Mountie. Now that they’re practically fucking homeless, all they’re good for—”

The intercom crackled and Mary Flower’s voice came over. “Cardinal, OPP’s on the line. Patrol unit on Highway 11’s got a make on Woody’s truck. What do you want to do?”

“Where exactly are they?”

“Out near Chippewa Falls, heading back to town.”

“Patch it through, Mary. I’ll speak to them from here.”

Every cop at the conference table had shifted position; the air in the room was charged.

“Don, we need the war room. Shotguns, body armour, the works.”

“It’s yours. Fuck the Mounties.”

The phone rang and Cardinal snatched it up. “Detective Cardinal, CID. Who am I talking to?”

“OPP patrol unit fourteen—George Boissenault here, and my partner, Carol Wilde.”

“Are you sure it’s our man?”

“We have a blue ’89 ChevyVan in view, Ontario plate number 7698128, stolen. Sign says
Comstock Electrical
something.”

“My show, partners. Your driver is primo suspect number one in the Pine–Curry case. My show, understand?”

“Roger. They gave us the lowdown in muster.”

“Good. I want you to follow him, but don’t stop him.”

“We may have to stop him. He’s really hoofing it.”

“Do not stop him
. He has a hostage and we do not want this kid to end up dead. Radio home and have them close the road, but they stay out of sight, follow? Have them close the on-ramps.”

“Will do.”

“You’re in a regular patrol unit, I take it.”

“Regular patrol, that’s right. He’s got to see us pretty soon.”

“Keep a low profile, but don’t lose him. Do you have kids, Wilde?”

“Yes, sir. One’s eight and one’s three.”

“Our hostage is just out of high school. I want you to think of him as if he’s your own, understand? We can save this kid if we play this right.”

“Looks like he’s going to turn down Algonquin. Nope, I’m wrong, he’s sticking with the bypass.”

“Stay on him. Detective Sergeant Dyson is here with me, and in five minutes you’re gonna have more backup than you’ve ever seen. If he breaks for it, stay on his tail. I don’t have to tell you this guy is armed and dangerous.”

“We’ll stay on him. We can match frequency, if you want to co-ordinate from a command post.”

“You read my mind. Work it out with Flower. We’re on our way.”