Forty Words for Sorrow

36

“WHY 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.”