Blackfly Season

30

“EXPLAIN SOMETHING TO ME, CARDINAL.”

Detective Sergeant Chouinard didn’t ask Cardinal to sit down. Even if he had, there would have been no place in his office to sit. Every chair in the room served as part of Chouinard’s idiosyncratic filing system, if it could be called a system. But even if his own routines were haphazard, Chouinard was a man who prized precision and reliability in the men under his command, which was why he was looking a little flushed just now. The detective sergeant suffered from high blood pressure, and when he was angry his face got very red, very fast.

“Explain to me, if you can, how we manage to misplace an attractive young woman with red hair and a bandage on her head. How is that possible, and who was guarding her when it happened?”

“Larry Burke was on duty, but it’s my fault. I should have briefed him better.”

Chouinard shook his head, his face getting redder. “Spare me the street-cop solidarity. Burke fucked up, is what you’re saying.”

Cardinal explained as best he could. Luckily for Burke, as a uniformed officer he wasn’t directly under the detective sergeant’s command.

“You’ve put out an all-points on this young woman, I trust.”

“Yeah, I did that right away.”

“Bloody Burke. I’ll kick his ass.”

Chouinard’s phone buzzed; he picked up the handset. “I’ll tell him,” he said, and hung up. “Bob Brackett’s here for you. You’re saved by the shark.”

Bob Brackett was a roly-poly little man with a plain gold hoop in one ear. You wouldn’t have known to look at him that this pudgeball was Algonquin Bay’s most lethal defence attorney. Naturally, this gave him a reputation around the Algonquin Bay Police Department as an irredeemable pain in the ass, a champion of the criminal classes, a cowboy of the courtroom who’d never seen a technicality he didn’t like or a cop he did. Bob Brackett, Q.C., was so mild-mannered that many an unsuspecting policeman or -woman (Brackett was all for equality when it came to dishing out legal mayhem) had had his or her testimony rendered worthless, if not outright ridiculous, before he or she even knew what had happened.

“Please note for the record, Detective Cardinal: My client did not have to come in.” Brackett was seated at the interview table, almost hidden behind his open briefcase and a panama hat. “In the first place you have no warrant, and in the second place he resides outside your jurisdiction.”

“I realize that, Mr. Brackett. That’s why I called you. I could have called the OPP. I’m sure the provincial police would have been happy to round up a few bikers for us.”

“Then why didn’t you call them?”

“I wanted this meeting to be as friction-free as possible. We’re only trying to weed out obvious suspects at this point.”

“Fine. Please note that Mr. Lasalle is only here out of a sense of civic duty and loyalty to a fallen comrade.”

“We’re talking about bikers, Mr. Brackett, let’s not make them sound like war vets.”

“I merely point out that—”

“Noted, Mr. Brackett. Let’s move on.”

“So tough,” Steve Lasalle said. “Maybe you could have made something of your life if you hadn’t become a cop.”

Brackett silenced his client with a raised forefinger. Lasalle sat back and propped a foot on one knee, smiling at Cardinal as if they were old buddies. He was wearing an expensive sports coat with an open-necked shirt and pressed jeans. His loafers gleamed, making him look more like the head of a small Internet concern than president of the Viking Riders.

“When did you last see Wombat Guthrie?” Cardinal said.

“Exactly twenty-one days ago. Around four in the afternoon.”

“And what were the circumstances?”

“Wombat was on sentry duty. He was supposed to be guarding a certain property of ours. When we came back next day, Wombat was gone and so was the property.”

“He ripped you off, in other words.”

“Your words, Detective. Not mine.”

“This is what you said a couple of days ago …” Cardinal flipped back through his notes. “‘Last time I remember seeing him we had a few people round, we watched a video, Wombat passed out on the couch. Not unusual for him. I expected to find him here next morning but I didn’t.’ Your story’s changed since then.”

Lasalle conferred with his counsel.

“I don’t think my client should say any more.”

“You also said …” Cardinal consulted his notes again. “Let’s just say old Wombat has some ’splaining to do.”

“Yeah, well, it never occurred to me back then that Wombat was gone for good.”

“Oh, I think you can count on that.”

Cardinal pulled a forensic photo from his file and tossed it across the table.

Lasalle looked at it for a moment. He tried to maintain his cool posture, but his neck turned pale where it joined the jaw.

“My, my,” he said. “That looks nasty.”

Brackett took the photo from him, glanced at it and tossed it back on the table with a snort.

“Really, Detective. My client is already cooperating. Shock tactics are beside the point.”

“Your client has admitted having a reason for revenge, Mr. Brackett.”

“No, he has admitted he believes his colleague is the victim of foul play. That’s why he’s here. To help find out who has committed this extravagant act of violence upon his colleague. His lifestyle differs from yours; it doesn’t make him a liar.”

“How did you know Wombat was a victim until I told you?”

“You think you told me?” Lasalle said. “Get real. Believe it or not, I don’t rely on cops for my information. I’ve known Wombat was dead pretty much from the moment he was gone.”

“Like I say, how would you know that?”

“His bike. His hog is still right where he left it last time I saw him.”

“Hardly conclusive evidence of murder, Mr. Lasalle.”

“We’re talking about a bike that’s worth forty thousand dollars. Not something you leave unattended for long.”

“Where, exactly, did he leave it unattended?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Cardinal looked at Brackett. “So much for cooperation.”

Brackett whispered in his client’s ear.

Lasalle looked at Cardinal. “It’s not in your jurisdiction, I can tell you that much,” he said. He picked up the photograph again, looked at the headless, handless corpse and shook his head.

“That’s not very helpful,” Cardinal said. “You’re telling me you know where Guthrie was last seen. That his bike is still there. That in all probability he was abducted from this site and then tortured and killed. But you won’t tell us where that is. This must be the biker loyalty we hear so much about. That famous code of honour.”

“He runs the Viking Riders,” Brackett said into his double chin. “Be reasonable.”

“Suppose we call in the OPP or the RCMP to take a look at your clubhouse. How long do you think it would take them to do a really thorough job?”

“It’s got nothing to do with the clubhouse,” Lasalle said. “Give me some credit. Assume I’m not an idiot.”

“At the moment, Mr. Lasalle, all I see is one dead Viking Rider and another one who had a motive to make him that way.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Lasalle said. “None of the Riders did.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because if we had, you’d never have found him.”

Lately, Lise Delorme found herself spending a lot of time thinking about what she would have done had she not become a cop. After finishing her B.A. in Ottawa with a major in economics, she had thought seriously about getting involved in business. But then she had taken a course in business ethics and that had done two things for her: It took the shine right off private enterprise, and it provoked an interest in white-collar crime. It was that interest that led Delorme to the police college at Aylmer and eventually to her six-year stint in Special Investigations, where she dealt not only with internal police matters but also with crimes deemed to be “sensitive”—which is to say crimes committed by sectors of the population that normally consider themselves law-abiding. Bankers, lawyers, politicians and so on.

Working Special had had its moments—arresting a former mayor was a highlight—but it was also a lonely endeavour. Other cops had never quite trusted her. Besides, the people in CID had looked like they were having a lot more fun, and eventually she had asked for a transfer.

Today was one of those days she was regretting that decision. First, she had reread the pathologist’s report on Wombat Guthrie. Histamine tests had confirmed that the horrendous injuries had indeed been inflicted before death. The body had also been virtually drained of blood.

The second reason Delorme felt a pang of nostalgia for white-collar criminals was that she was sitting face to face with Harlan “Haystack” Calhoun, and Harlan “Haystack” Calhoun was a biker through and through. He looked as if he had never seen a white collar, let alone worn one. He was slouched on a plastic chair in the interview room, his snakeskin boots propped on the table.

“Do you not have a lawyer, Mr. Calhoun?”

“I haven’t done nothing. Why would I need a lawyer?”

“If you wish to call the legal aid office, we can put this matter off until you’ve had time to discuss it with counsel.”

“Just ask your questions, and let’s get on with it.”

Delorme pointed out the video camera high in one corner, and the other one off to one side. “We are taping this conversation, and although you are not facing any charges at the moment, I must tell you that anything you say can and will be used against you should any charges be laid at a later time.”

“Big deal.”

The plastic chair emitted a shriek as Calhoun shifted his weight. He sat forward and propped his chin on his two fists.

“When was the last time you saw Walter, also known as Wombat, Guthrie alive?”

“Three weeks ago. Next question.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“The circumstances were I saw him for the last time.”

“Where were you?”

“Clubhouse.”

“The clubhouse off Highway 11? The one where I saw you the other day?”

“How many clubhouses do you think we got?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“Yes, the one where you saw me the other day. Next question.”

“What day was this, exactly? Take your time.”

“It was Tuesday, May 12th, at three o’clock in the afternoon. Is that exact enough for you?”

“What were the two of you doing?”

“Splashing this little biker freak.”

“Splashing?”

“He was doing her one end, and I was doing the other. If you want, we can set up a demonstration.”

“What was her name?”

“Ginger Ale.”

“What was her real name?”

“That’s what was on her ID. She carried it around to prove she was old enough to drink. If that ain’t her real name—guess what?—I don’t care. Wombat called her Ginger.”

“Where can I find her?”

“Fucked if I know. Try Who’s Ho.”

“And what day was this?”

“Tuesday, May 13th, at 3 p.m.”

“You just changed the date. That’s not usually an indication of sincerity, Mr. Calhoun.”

“May 12th, then. People don’t call the Viking Riders when they want sincerity.”

“We want to find out who killed Wombat Guthrie. Are you saying you don’t care? You just told me he was your sex partner.”

Calhoun made a slight movement of the head, and his right eyebrow lifted a little. Although there were several feet between them, Delorme suddenly had the sense that he was sniffing her.

“You’re not answering.”

“How’d you get that cut over your eye?” Calhoun said. “Looks recent.”

“The person who killed Wombat first cut his fingers and toes and genitals off and tried to skin him alive. Do you really have no interest in catching this person?”

Calhoun leaned forward. Leather wept; plastic cried. “I’ll tell you what I’d be interested in. I’d be interested in bending you over and fucking you up the ass a few times.”

He leaned back and smiled.

“Someone said exactly the same thing to me just the other day,” Delorme said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“It was at the Penetang hospital for the criminally insane.”

Delorme snapped her notebook shut.

“Note for the record that Mr. Calhoun is not cooperating with the investigation. This interview is over, subject to resumption at a later date. Good day, Mr. Calhoun.”

“That Cardinal prick around?”

“Good day, Mr. Calhoun.”

Delorme was holding the door open.

Calhoun got up. Delorme felt like honey, seeing the bear approach. She stepped back at the last moment, so that he couldn’t brush against her.

Now that he was out in the CID area, Calhoun shouted. “You tell Cardinal I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”

A couple of heads popped up over acoustic dividers: Szelagy, McLeod.

“Are you threatening a police officer, Mr. Calhoun?”

Calhoun winked at her.

“Catch you later, puss.”