Thenext day was Saturday, but Detective Sergeant Chouinard had cancelled everybody’s weekend and they had a morning meeting just like any other day. They began with a quick rundown of smaller cases. Szelagy was working with the fire marshal on a suspicious blaze in an old warehouse. McLeod was working on a fraud artist. Delorme had a couple of ATM robberies.
Chouinard sat at the head of the table, making the odd note and looking unhappy. “We have the fur auction in town, people, and after that the winter carnival. We need to be quick on this one, and we need to be good. Cardinal is lead investigator.”
“Cardinal’s not available,” McLeod said. “He’s too busy with Scriver.”
“Very funny. Listen, it’s not the carnival I’m worried about so much as the fur auction. It’s still a big deal in this town, and they’re expecting protesters. We’re going to have to be a presence. I’ve already talked to Staff Sergeant Flower, and there’ll be uniforms, but the chief promised the Fur Harvesters we’d have people stopping by too.”
“Harvesters,” McLeod said. “You gotta love it. What’s wrong with trappers?”
“Most of the furs come from farms these days. Listen, we’re talking millions of dollars in a tight economy, so let’s do some serving and protecting. Cardinal, where are we with Schumacher? Have we contacted any actual Schumachers yet? They’re not the victims, right?”
“No, but they seem to be away-we stopped by their town residence last night. We don’t have an ID on the victims yet. At this point, we don’t even have a best guess. We’ve got stuff from the scene that has to be run down. Partial list: blood, fingerprints, footprints, tire prints, spent rounds, hairs and fibres.”
The D.S. shifted in his seat and frowned. “Explain something to me.”
Cardinal looked at him.
“I thought we were going to have a holdback on this case. Why did I hear Detective Dunbar on CKAT this morning telling the world that the guy had a knife in his back?”
Cardinal looked at Dunbar. “Why the hell would you tell them that? What were you doing talking to the media in the first place? When did this happen?”
Dunbar winced. “I was coming back from canvassing the neighbours. He caught me off guard.”
“That’s great. And now if another corpse turns up with a knife in its back and minus a head, we’re not going to know if we’ve got a serial killer or a copycat. To say nothing about ruling out false confessions.”
“Like I say, he really caught me off guard.”
“There’s going to be a lot of press, and I want to control what goes to them. Nobody else speaks to them.”
“Cardinal’s right,” Chouinard said. “What else have we got?”
“Ident,” Cardinal said. “Maybe Arsenault can tell us the plan there.”
Arsenault took a sip from an enormous Tim Hortons mug. “We’re waiting in line for a pathologist. They’ve had three murders in Toronto since Friday and they’re short-staffed.”
“Two beheadings,” Chouinard said, “and we’re waiting in line?”
“Give ’em a call-they don’t care what I think. Preliminaries: female in mid-thirties, male in mid- to late sixties.”
Chouinard shook his head. “Damn it. We should have a holdback. We’re already all over the radio, the Lode is going to have it on the front page this afternoon, and we’ve had calls from The Globe and Mail, the Toronto Star, the wire service. Do you have any idea how big this is? This’ll make papers in the States.”
Dunbar winced again. “Sorry, D.S.”
Arsenault flipped through his notebook. “Footprints. We have two size twelves and one size five, the woman.”
“In what? Snow?”
“Yeah. It was just a thin layer, but we managed to get great moulds. Same for the tire tracks. We’re putting all this stuff through the databases, but it’ll be a while.”
“We’re looking for a third party, too,” Cardinal said. “Someone busted out a back window and left in a big hurry. Got cut pretty bad and then took off into the woods. So that’s going to be our new holdback.”
“Not a word to anyone,” Chouinard said, “or heads will roll.” He paused a second. “I wish I hadn’t said that.”
Arsenault picked the story up. “Tracks indicate a small person, maybe around five-four, five-five, and not too heavy-maybe 120 tops. Tracks head into the trees-running-followed by some size twelves. Much bigger, heavier person. We’ve got blood from the broken window, so if there’s DNA on file we’ll nail the runner.
“Runner makes it to the road, where we found some nine-millimetre casings, so presumably size-twelve took a couple of shots at runner. Tracks pick up again at a utility road a hundred yards away. And lo and behold, another set of tire tracks. Can I go to bed now?”
“No, you may not,” Chouinard said. “But that’s damn fine scene work.”
“Of course, we don’t know for sure what relationship the runner has to the others,” Cardinal said. “Intended victim? Fellow perp in a scenario that went bad? We’re still trying to piece together what happened inside the house. Today’s agenda is almost totally Ident: they prepare fibres, blood and hairs, and I’ll take them down to T.O. later in the day. Delorme, you can come with me. In the meantime, you can track down the Schumachers, and I’ll get to work on ViCLAS.”
–
Delorme drove over to the Schumachers’ town residence on McGibbon Street. This was a good neighbourhood of old houses and neat lawns. Delorme had been through it a lot recently, because one of her ATM robberies had taken place just around the corner. And late last night she had shoved her card through the Schumachers’ mail slot, noting that there were no footprints around their house and no car in the drive. The house was a large red-brick Edwardian, nicely restored and maintained. Now there was a late-model Lexus in the driveway.
She knocked on the front door. It took a while, but a man eventually opened it. He looked about seventy-five, with a badly sunburned face. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Delorme identified herself and asked if he was Joseph Schumacher and if he owned the house at the end of Island Road.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s me.”
“Were you away yesterday, sir?”
“Yes, we were on a cruise round the Mediterranean. Just got back to Toronto last night. Flew back from there and just got in”-he looked at his watch, then back to Delorme-“half an hour ago.”
“Did you find the card we put through your mail slot?”
“Haven’t had a chance to look. I just tossed all the mail on the kitchen counter.”
A woman appeared on the staircase behind him. “What’s going on, Joseph? Why are you standing there with the door open?”
“This young lady’s from the police. Wants to ask us some questions. See, I told you we should never have joined the Hells Angels, but no, you had your own ideas.”
“Mr. Schumacher, maybe we could sit down for a couple of minutes. It seems you haven’t heard the news, and I’m afraid I have something bad to tell you.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Schumacher said. “Has there been an accident? This isn’t about our son, is it? His family? No, surely we’d get a phone call-”
“I don’t think it concerns your son,” Delorme said.
“Well, you’d better come into the kitchen.”
They went in and pulled out chairs from the Formica table and all three of them sat down.
“Who has keys to your house on the lake?” Delorme asked.
“Just us,” Mr. Schumacher said. “We each have a key. Far as I know, we’re the only…”
“The only ones,” his wife said. “We’re the only ones with keys.”
“And have you lent the house to anyone recently? Or rented it out?”
“No, we don’t rent it out,” Mr. Schumacher said. “No one even goes out there unless…”
“Unless we’re there,” Mrs. Schumacher said. She completed her husband’s sentences almost as if it were an act they had rehearsed together.
“Well, people went out there,” Delorme said. “We’re not sure when exactly, but within the past two days at least three people were in your house. Two of them ended up dead.”
The Schumachers looked at each other. They looked back at Delorme. Finally Mr. Schumacher said, “You’re telling us people were murdered out in our lake house?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Schumachers turned to each other again.
“I don’t know what to say,” the man said. “We’ve-this is-we lead ordinary lives. There’s never been any…”
“Discord,” the woman said. “No discord.”
“But you have to tell us,” Mr. Schumacher said. “Who are these…”
“People. Victims.”
“We don’t know,” Delorme said. “We were hoping you might be able to help.”
“But we need something to go on. We need to know what they…” Mr. Schumacher looked at his wife.
“Look like,” she said.
“The man’s in his late sixties. The woman’s in her mid-thirties. They were both dressed in expensive fur coats.”
“We don’t know anybody like that,” Mrs. Schumacher said. “Nobody who owns furs. You said the man was wearing a fur too?”
“Yes, ma’am, the man too.”
“We don’t know anybody like that. Not that I can think of.”
“But your place is for sale, no? You have a sign up. Carnwright Realty?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Schumacher said. “Carnwright’s son-in-law’s looking after it for us. Randall…”
“Randall Wishart,” Mrs. Schumacher said. “That’s right, we did give Randall a key. To be honest, we’re asking too much for the house-on purpose to discourage actual buyers. Mr. Wishart doesn’t know that, of course. We’re actually trying to prod Michael-that’s our son-to move back here and decide to buy it. He lives in the States, but he keeps saying he’s going to move back.”
“Aside from Mr. Wishart and your son, who else knows the house is empty?” Delorme said.
“Well, anybody who goes by on a snowmobile, of course,” Mrs. Schumacher said.
It was too early in the winter for snowmobiles. The ice on the lake wasn’t nearly thick enough.
–
The Violent Crime Linkage and Analysis System, ViCLAS for short, revolves around a national database that categorizes crimes, both solved and unsolved, according to MO. Most murderers not thinking to leave bits of nursery rhymes or other riddles at the scene, investigators have to rely on things like choice of weapon, victim, location and a host of other variables. But before the investigator can glean any information from the system, he or she is first required to fill out a form demanding answers to a great many questions about the current case.
When Cardinal got fed up with trying to answer them, he headed over to Carnwright Real Estate. The Carnwright family had been a force in Algonquin Bay’s housing market for three generations. Lawrence Carnwright, the current avatar, was a highly active public figure, constantly turning up on committees and associations, a handsome white-haired gent who would appear on the news when an opinion was wanted on the economic future of the city. Lately his daughter seemed to be following in his footsteps.
The office was located in an exquisitely maintained corner house on Woodrow at Sumner, with a wraparound porch and casement windows and a well-tended lawn. It looked like a set from a TV series about a happy family; all it needed was a swing set on the side lawn. Cardinal had been here several times, when Larry Carnwright had handled the sale of his house.
The receptionist informed him that Randall Wishart was representing the Schumacher property. Wishart came out and shook hands with him and led him back to an office decorated with flattering photographs of Algonquin Bay houses that the Carnwright firm had sold. This being a high-end outfit, there was also a fair bit of art around the place. A small, squat Inuit sculpture of a polar bear sat on top of a bookcase full of binders, and a large, colourful painting or print-Cardinal was never quite sure of the difference-had one wall to itself. There were also plenty of pictures of a sharp-eyed blond woman-in a skiing outfit, in a poolside lounge chair, and a professional portrait in a blue pinstripe suit. She had the startling blue eyes of the Carnwright family.
“Have a seat,” Wishart said, indicating a chair. He was handsome in a conventional way, late twenties or so, with something of the look of a politician. Not a hair out of place. “Are you here on police business or about a house?”
“Both. I have some questions about the Schumacher place out on Island Road.”
“Don’t tell me they’ve had a break-in.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Happens all the time with lake properties-well, I’m sure you know. Was there a break-in?”
“You didn’t hear the news on the radio this morning?”
“What news?”
“You’re the Schumachers’ agent, correct?”
“I guess so.”
“You’re not sure?”
Wishart smiled. “Well, this is confidential, but the Schumachers are not serious about selling. I knew that right off. I wanted to take a video of the place-it’s standard for the online listings-but they wouldn’t let me. They’re asking way above market, and I think it’s really just a ploy to get their kids to move back to Algonquin Bay. Kind of an empty-nest thing. I took them on for goodwill-if they ever really decide to sell that place, I’d love to handle it.”
“Have you been out there recently?”
Wishart pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not recently. Not for a few weeks, anyway. I’m gonna go out there and take that sign down. It’s just an invitation to trouble, obviously.”
The key was not a crucial matter-the back door of the house had been jimmied, after all-but Cardinal asked anyway.
“Yes, I have a key. I should probably return it. They’re a nice old couple, the Schumachers, but believe it or not, we do actually like to sell houses, not just put up signs.” Wishart sat forward and opened a desk drawer. He rattled around and pulled out a key and put it on his desk. “That’ll remind me to get it back to them.”
“Have you shown the house to anyone?”
“Not a soul. Had a lot of inquiries, though.”
“Phone calls? Or did you actually meet with anyone?”
“Lots of calls. The asking price put ’em off pretty quick. And a few people looked at the picture out on the veranda and came in to ask about it. That stopped soon as I added the price to the posting, though.”
“Did any of the inquiries strike you as suspicious?”
“Suspicious in what way? People are always inquiring about houses they can’t come close to affording.”
“Perhaps someone just trying to determine if the house was unoccupied at the moment? Asking after the owners’ whereabouts or habits, for example?”
“No one like that. Just people who like the idea of owning a house out on Trout Lake. No shortage of those.”
“All right. Is there anything else you can think of to tell me?”
“Well, no. I mean, it could be anybody, right? We’re talking about a break-in.”
“Actually, two people were murdered and had their heads cut off.”
Wishart went very still and blinked a few times but didn’t look away. When he spoke again, his voice was solemn. “Did I hear you right?”
“You did.”
“My God. You said they were… decapitated?”
“That’s right.”
“My God,” he said again. “But-so, are you looking for some insane individual, like a psycho of some sort?”
“Of some sort.”
“My God.”
“Just for the record, Mr. Wishart, can you tell me where you were Thursday night?”
“Thursday night? That’s easy. I was watching the game at a friend’s place. Leafs lost, of course. Troy was destroyed. He’s a serious Leafs fan. I mean serious. God, I can’t get over this.”
“Troy?”
“Troy Campbell. We went to high school together.”
“I’ll need his address. Home and work.”
“What? Oh, of course.”
Wishart gave him the addresses and Cardinal wrote them down. Then Wishart went with him to the front door, still a little stunned.
Cardinal asked him about the Acura parked outside.
“Pardon me?”
“The black Acura. It’s yours?”
“Oh. Yes. Speaking of things we can’t afford. God, I can’t get over this. It’s horrifying. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”
“You can. We need you to come down to the station to be fingerprinted.”
“Sure. Absolutely. I’ll try to get down later in the week.”
“Today, Mr. Wishart.”
–
On his way back to the office, Cardinal stopped off at the local hockey arena, which was called Memorial Gardens, although no one knew in memory of what. It was only a couple of blocks from work. Cardinal couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a game, but even though the concession stands were not open at this hour, the smells of popcorn and caramel hadn’t changed. A janitor mopping the front lobby directed him to the security office.
A lot of security people are former police officers, or people who want to be police officers. Troy Campbell was neither. A tall man with shoulders that looked like they could support a small cathedral, Campbell was a former captain of the Algonquin Bay Trappers, the local Junior A hockey team. A photograph on the cinder-block wall showed him swooping away from a goal, stick high in the air. He still had the blond hair of the photograph, but it was thinner now, unlike the rest of him.
“What can I do for you, Detective? The only time I see police is when we have to charge some drunk for throwing bottles on the ice.” Campbell had the easy confidence of a man who is used to being the biggest in the room.
“I’m investigating a major crime, and right now I’m just nailing down a few corroborating details.”
“Nothing at the Gardens, I hope.”
“No. But I need to know where you were Thursday night.”
“Where I was.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I don’t understand. Why do I have to tell you where I was?”
“You don’t have to. But it’s pertinent to our investigation, so it depends how helpful you want to be. Or not.”
Campbell laughed. “Sorry. Don’t get me wrong. I’m just mystified. I’m glad to help. Thursday night I was here. Intramural game.”
“You were here.”
“Yeah. No, wait. Thursday? Thursday I was home. Watching the Leafs on TSN. Total, blatant robbery. You see it?”
“Leafs lost, I take it.”
“It was obscene, no other word for it. There was no way Komisarek threw the first punch. Five minutes for fighting and they go from one-nothing to a three-one loss. Ref that called it was Desrosiers. Biased much? Anybody but a French Canadian could see that fight was started by Laraque. I mean, look at the tape, for God’s sake. I’m telling you, some people think refs don’t know what they’re doing, but refs know exactly what they’re doing. They know exactly.”
“Anybody watch it with you?”
“Yeah, Randy Wishart. Buddy of mine. Ask him. I nearly threw my beer at the TV screen, and I’m not gonna tell you what I paid for that sucker.”
Cardinal got a few more details, and then thanked him for his help.
“Hey, any time. Let me give you some free tickets to the Trappers.”
“Thanks, but I really can’t. It makes me too crazy.”
“Crazy?” Campbell’s wide brow furrowed, and he rubbed a hand through his thinning blondness. “You mean cuz of all the fights?”
“The refs. It’s just too painful.”
“Well, yeah, but up here when they make a mistake, it’s cuz they’re old or blind. Montreal, it’s an outright conspiracy.”