Blackfly Season

12

DELORME HAD OTHER THINGS on her mind. The body removal service had come and gone (with appropriate expressions of horror and disgust), and the remains of Wombat Guthrie were now in transit to the Centre of Forensic Sciences in Toronto. That left the rest of the evidence to gather up.

With the help of Ken Szelagy and Bob Collingwood, she was collecting gum wrappers, bits of foil, cigarette packs of various ages and conditions, a rusted Dr Pepper can and countless cigarette butts. There were bits of Kleenex, the odd heel print, a handful of beads and a postcard depicting the citadel at Quebec City. This Delorme retrieved from under a rock.

On the back, written in French in a feminine hand: Dear Robert, Quebec is a fantastic city. Wish you were here with me. I’m missing you all the time.

“Hey, Bob,” Delorme said to Collingwood. “This a letter from your girlfriend?” She held it up for him to see. Collingwood, whose sense of humour had been surgically removed at birth, shook his head.

Delorme slipped the postcard into an evidence bag and tagged it.

A few minutes later she discovered a condom underneath a bush. Even wearing latex gloves, she wasn’t about to touch that one. She picked it up with a pair of ident’s tongs. “Probably belongs to the same guy as the postcard,” she said. Collingwood looked up for a moment, then went back to sifting dirt with a sieve.

“Collingwood, did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?” Delorme dropped the condom into an evidence bag.

Half an hour went by, then Collingwood offered up a single syllable: “Hair.” He held a pair of tweezers in the air; Delorme couldn’t see anything else.

“How long?”

He shrugged. “Twelve, fourteen inches. Black.”

“Good. Let’s hope we can eventually connect it to a person.”

Another half-hour.

“So, you don’t make anything out of these drawings?” Szelagy said. Ken Szelagy, the biggest man on the detective squad, was usually the most talkative. But today he was fascinated by the cave wall, and it had been keeping him uncharacteristically quiet. “You don’t find something creepy about all these weird birds and snakes? Don’t you think they mean something?”

“Yes, I think they mean something,” Delorme said, “to whoever drew them. But personally I don’t make anything out of them because I’m not into astrology or whatever they’re about, and until we find someone who is, I’m not even going to hazard a guess.”

“What’re those things?”

Delorme was dropping some bits of shell into a Baggie. “They look like seashells to me.”

“Kinda colourful ones. Makes you wonder how the hell they got out to the middle of the woods.”

Delorme slapped at a fly and missed. “Well, someone brought them here. The trouble is, we’ve no way of knowing if it was the killer or just some innocent hiker.”

“Yeah. That’s the trouble with all this stuff. But about all these arrows and tomahawks the guy scratched on the wall, I’m thinking we should ask a certain person of the Indian persuasion.” He jerked his chin toward the mouth of the cave.

Delorme turned around and saw Jerry Commanda standing there, hands on hips, his slim build silhouetted against the waterfall. With the quiet roar of the water, Delorme hadn’t heard him approach.

“Who bought it?” he said.

“Wombat Guthrie,” Delorme said. “You know him?”

Jerry nodded. “Wombat Guthrie was a noxious individual from the time he was three. It’s amazing he lived as long as he did. You called me in from Reed’s Falls to tell me this?”

“I didn’t call you, Szelagy did. What’s so hot in Reed’s Falls?”

“Drugs. It’s always drugs. I wish people would take up a new vice.”

“You know we have your picture up in the boardroom now?”

“That must be the nude shot. I asked Kendall not to do that. Now I feel so cheap.”

“Reason I called, Jerry.” Szelagy indicated the cave wall. “We can’t make head or tail of these hieroglyphics. Figured maybe you could help us.”

Jerry stepped up to the wall and peered at the markings. He stood there for a long time, hands folded behind his back like a math teacher checking a student’s work. “Interesting,” he said. “Very intriguing.”

Szelagy looked at Delorme and back to Jerry, waiting for more. When nothing came, he said, “What’s intriguing? Why is it intriguing?”

Jerry squatted to look at some of the marks near the bottom of the wall. “Fascinating,” he said. “I haven’t seen petroglyphs like this since… well, I can’t remember the last time.”

“See, I knew it was some Indian thing,” Szelagy said to Delorme. Then, to Jerry: “What’s it say? Can you translate? This is great.”

“I think so.” Jerry pointed at the first three rows of arrows. “See here? This is a reference to space. And over here, he’s referring to time. Yes, absolutely. It says, ‘Meet me at Tim Hortons, three o’clock on Saturday.’”

“Get the hell outta here,” Szelagy said. “No way it says that.”

Jerry shrugged. “Could be saying Starbucks. My hieroglyphics are a little rusty.”

Delorme shook her head. “Very good, Jerry. Thanks for making the trip.”

“Oh,” Szelagy said. “I get it. You’re making a joke. You don’t know what these symbols mean?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Jerry said. “I know that may shock you. I mean, since it has bows and arrows and all.”

“Hey, I didn’t call you just because you’re Indian,” Szelagy said. His face was turning red. “I called because you used to know all sorts of Aboriginal stuff. I remember you used to be always carrying big fat books about Native history and that.”

“Well, those marks don’t mean anything to me. I’ve never seen anything like them. Bows, arrows, hatchets, but other than that is there any reason to think it’s even Indian in origin? I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m just saying I wouldn’t know. It’s not Ojibwa stuff, I can tell you that. And probably not any of the central or eastern people. But if it’s from out west or from somewhere in the States, I wouldn’t know.”

“Who would know?” Delorme said quietly. “If it was your case, who would you take it to?”

“You could try our behavioural sciences unit in Orillia. They keep up on all the Satanism and supernatural crap the serial killers go in for. Ask for Frank Izzard. He’s a smart guy.” Jerry caught a blackfly in his fist and flicked it away. Then he turned and headed back down the hill.

“One thing you can say about Jerry,” Szelagy said when he was gone, “he’s his own man. Real different sense of humour.”