Indiana Pulcinella

MONDAY, JANUARY 20
chapter 1

“What are you doing here?” Lori leaned on the doorframe marking the entrance and exit to Lane and Nigel’s office. Lori wore a pair of red knee-high boots, a black skirt, a blue satin blouse, and an attitude. She ran the office, keeping detectives in line and taking a few under her wing.

Lane – remarkable because the six-foot-tall detective appeared so unremarkable – looked at Nigel Li, who sat at the next desk. Nigel raised his black eyebrows, locking his hands behind his neck then rubbing the back of his close-shaved head.

I’m on my own, Lane thought.

Lori shook her head, sighing. “Your nephew Matt called. Your presence is required at the hospital.”

Lane stood up, reaching for the inside pocket of his grey sports jacket. He pulled out his phone. Its face told him he’d missed multiple calls. He looked at Lori, holding up the phone. “But it didn’t ring.”

Nigel rolled his office chair next to Lane and took the phone, flicking a switch on the side. “Ringer’s off.” He handed the phone back to his greying partner and looked at Lori. “He just got it yesterday.” Nigel tapped Lane on the arm of his mauve shirt. “You’ve also got a text message.”

Lane took a second look at the face of his phone, seeing the message from Matt. The text message window asked, “Where the hell are you?”

“Foothills Medical Centre. Fifth floor. They’ll direct you from there.” Lori turned sideways in the doorway. “Repeat it.”

Lane put on his sports jacket, then his winter coat. “Foothills, fifth floor.”

Nigel stood, adjusting the back of Lane’s collar as he made for the door. They were about the same height with a twenty-year age difference.

Lori put her heels against one side of the doorframe. Lane turned sideways to go through the doorway. For an instant they stood eye to eye.

Lori smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re not my type.”

Lane began to laugh. When he got into the Chev parked at the fenced-in police lot, he was still smiling. Why am I so wired? He manoeuvred his way out of downtown by driving under the Centre Street Bridge and over the Bow River. He turned west onto Memorial Drive, thinking about how he’d come to this point. He and his partner Arthur had inherited nephew Matt and then Christine, a niece. Both were teens discarded by their families. Now Christine and boyfriend Daniel were having a baby, and life was about to become even more complicated.

Fifteen minutes later he was parked out front of the Foothills Medical Centre. Within the cluster of buildings stood the original hospital, its three wings roughly in the shape of a Y. Lane locked the car and headed for the entrance, careful not to slip on patches of ice or get run over by people searching for parking spots while talking on their phones. He passed a man wearing a housecoat sitting in a wheelchair. An oxygen tank hung off the rear of the chair. The man lifted a lighter from his lap, lighting what appeared to be a cigarette. He closed his eyes as he inhaled, exhaling smoke and vapour to cloud the mountain air.

Lane recognized the pungent aroma of marijuana. The man pressed the joint between his index and middle fingers, giving Lane a wave with his free hand.

Lane nodded, crossed the street in front of the hospital, and stepped inside. He stamped the snow off his feet under a blast of hot air between the two sets of automatic sliding glass doors. Inside, people lined up for coffee to his right, walked the corridor to Emergency, walked the hallway to the Tom Baker Cancer Centre, bought cards and gifts at a tiny shop, stood waiting in front of the elevators.

Lane stood behind a pregnant woman whose male attendant carried an overnight bag. The woman was taller than Lane and wore a pink T-shirt with a white arrow pointing to BABY. The fabric on the T-shirt was stretched so the arrow was distorted at its point. The woman bent forward, putting her hands on her knees and moaning while her companion rubbed her back. Lane tried not to notice the crack in her backside when the top of her sweatpants drooped.

He followed them into the elevator.

“Fifth floor! Robbie! Fifth floor!” the woman said. Robbie pressed the button. “OOOOOOH!” she said as the doors closed and the elevator climbed. “Ooooooh.” The elevator bounced to a stop, and the doors opened.

Lane followed Robbie, who followed his mate.

The men were content to trail in her wake until Robbie slipped and recovered, Lane veered to one side, and the woman stopped. “My water broke!”

A pair of metal doors stood in her way. On the right was an admittance window.

“Comin’ through!” The woman punched the big round metal button and the doors opened.

“Wait!” The woman behind the counter grabbed the phone and said, “She just went right through!”

Lane followed the pair to the nurses’ desk.

The woman said, “We need a room!”

A tiny grey-haired nurse stood up from behind the counter, looked at the pregnant woman, saw the wet crotch of her sweatpants, and smiled. “A little late for that, wouldn’t you say?” The nurse focused on Robbie and pointed left. “Five zero two. A nurse will be there right away.”

Lane looked up at the names on the white board, spotted Christine’s, then headed for her room.

He found his partner Arthur in the hallway. Arthur was looking thinner around the middle and his scalp shone on top. His brown eyes stared at a closed door. He turned as Lane approached. Arthur’s face was drawn, and there were dark patches under his eyes.

“You’re here.” Arthur held out his hand. Lane took it.

A nurse rolled a cart down the hall, parking it in front of the door to Christine’s room. Lane and Arthur stared at a pair of paddle-shaped metal instruments.

“What are those?” Lane asked.

“Forceps, I think.” Arthur released Lane’s hand.

Lane nodded, tried looking away from the forceps, found he could not. His index and forefinger worried away at what was left of an earlobe. “Where are Matt and Dan?”

“Dan’s in the room. Matt’s gone to get some coffee.” Arthur resumed staring at the door.

“So you walk right by and pretend like you don’t know me.” Matt walked or rather shuffled/skipped/hopped down the hallway; his CP gait was so unique it was often hard to tell what exactly he was doing. Still wearing his winter jacket, he held out a tray of coffees. When everyone had taken a cup, Matt turned to dump the tray in the garbage.

Lane asked, “What about a coffee for Dan?”

“I’m not going in there!” Strawberry-blond, brown-eyed Matt stood about the same height as Lane and about three inches taller than Arthur, but he was obviously intimidated by whatever was happening behind the closed door.

Arthur said, “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Yes, thank you.” Lane took a sip.

The three of them stood watching the door while nurses walked in and out of Christine’s room. A doctor arrived. She looked to be about thirty-five and weighed about one hundred thirty pounds, with red hair and a face that would launch more than a thousand ships.

Fifteen minutes later, Dan opened the door, smiling. “He’s here.” Then he stepped back into the room.

A nurse pushed a cart topped with a clear plastic crib out of the room. A head full of black hair was visible at the top of a blanket.

Lane looked at the pale face of a boy, frowning at the lights.

The nurse said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get him cleaned up. He’s going to NICU. You’ll be able to visit him soon.” She wheeled the cart down the hall.

Lane’s phone beeped.

Matt asked, “Uncle? You okay?”

Lane wiped the tears from his cheeks, nodding. His phone beeped again. He pulled it from his pocket.

Arthur shook his head, reading the number on Lane’s phone. “Kharra alhikum. They can give us a fucking hour, can’t they?”

Matt grinned at Arthur. “Way to tell ’em, Uncle!”

The text message was from Chief Jim Simpson. “See me ASAP.”

Dan opened the door again and stepped out. He was taller than the three other men and had brown hair. His eyes were underlined with fatigue.

“How is she?” Lane asked.

“Tired and happy.” Dan let his chin drop.

“Congratulations, Dad!” Matt said.

Dan raised his head and smiled. “He’s beautiful.”

Lane’s phone rang. He looked at the number, then looked at Arthur, who shook his head then sighed. “It’s Lori.” Lane answered. “Hello.”

“Well? Is the baby born yet? You said you’d call as soon as you knew,” Lori said.

“Yes. The little guy was just born.” Lane smiled at Dan.

“Good. Congratulations. I was asked to get hold of you. We need you,” Lori said.

Chief Jim Simpson’s administrative secretary Jean had immaculate short grey hair. She waved at Lane while pointing at the Chief’s door.

Lane nodded, opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it.

Simpson frowned from where he sat across the coffee table. His close-cut blond hair and thin face gave him a boyish quality, despite some grey, but his eyes were a different matter. There was determination there, and an underlying anger.

Nigel Li sat across from the Chief. His head shone beneath the five o’clock shadow of thick black hair. He was tall and barbed-wire thin with a long-standing reputation for his prickly tongue. “There you are.”

Is that relief I hear in your voice? Lane wondered.

There was a knock at the door. Lane turned, Jean handed him a cup of coffee, he took it, and the door shut once more.

“Sit down, please,” Simpson said.

Lane sat down between the pair, putting his coffee on the table.

Nigel said, “We’ve got a -”

Simpson threw his hand up, snapping the palm open in Nigel’s face. Nigel’s eyes narrowed.

Lane looked at Nigel, nodding. Just listen. This isn’t the time to piss off the Chief.

Nigel sat back.

Simpson said, “We have a double murder, husband and wife, last name Randall. He’s the CEO of an energy company, and she’s a benefactor of the arts. The pair were executed, the house was robbed, and their dog was nailed to the wall.” He waited.

Lane looked out the window and across to the curved glass of the city’s tallest building. The words of an old friend, Deputy Chief Cam Harper, came back to him: “We keep turning over rocks and finding another pile of shit left by Smoke.” Then Lane remembered former Chief Smoke facing the cameras when he said, “The speedy arrest of the suspect in these murders means Calgarians can sleep easier tonight.”

Simpson watched Lane make the connection to similar murders, then nodded.

Nigel opened his mouth.

Simpson held up his hand again.

Lane turned to Nigel. “Three years ago, a well-connected couple was killed, their dog hung on the wall, and the house robbed. A schizophrenic homeless man named Byron Thomas confessed to the crime. It was a feather in Smoke’s cap. His guys made the arrest and got a confession. Thomas ended up in jail.”

It was Nigel’s turn to look out the window at the city’s tallest building.

Simpson said, “I need you on this case but can’t tell you to take it. Whichever way it goes, it’ll cost you. Smoke’s old-boy network is still entrenched, and this case has the potential to embarrass them. If you take it, there will likely be a price to pay somewhere down the road.”

Nigel said, “Not everyone looks at it that way.”

Lane sat back and thought, Okay, Nigel. Go with it. I just hope this doesn’t blow up in your face.

Simpson’s face flushed. He turned his eyes on the young officer, taking a deep breath. “What does that mean?”

Nigel looked Lane in the eye and said, “Most of the younger members of the CPS have a different take on this.”

Simpson reached for his coffee, taking a sip.

Nigel continued. “Most of them have worked with Smoke’s good ol’ boys. A few liked being part of the network, but most welcomed the change after Smoke resigned. And you might be surprised at how many of the older officers like the way Lane stood up to Smoke.” He looked out the window as if waiting to be contradicted.

Simpson put his coffee down, taking another long breath. “Will the pair of you take this one on?” He looked at Lane and waited.

Lane looked at Nigel, who nodded. Lane said, “Okay.”

Simpson put his coffee on the table, looking at Lane. “I hear congratulations are in order. Your niece had a boy?”

Lane smiled. “Just saw him this morning.”

Simpson asked, “Mom and baby okay?”

“He’s in NICU. Something called meconium aspiration syndrome. They have him on antibiotics. The nurses say he’ll be fine.”

Chief Simpson frowned. “Does this make you a great-uncle?”

Lane shrugged. “Just happy.”

Simpson looked at Nigel. “You two can say no.”

Nigel looked at Lane, who said, “It’s our job.”

The Chief handed Lane an address. Lane glanced at the paper and said, “It’s about two blocks from where I grew up.”

Nigel drove the unmarked grey Chev up the hill, guiding them away from the river valley along Crowchild Trail. The pavement was cleared of snow but not of black ice. He asked, “Is your house big enough for a baby?”

Lane watched a panel van slip and grip in the right lane. “Christine, Daniel, and the baby will have the bottom level, we all share the kitchen, and Matt moved upstairs. I imagine it will be kind of crazy until we all adjust.”

“How do Dan’s parents fit into the picture?”

“That’s a good question. Christine and Dan’s mother have this tempestuous relationship.”

Nigel eased into the right lane. “Tempestuous?”

How come so many questions? “Lola’s a successful business woman who likes control. Christine doesn’t like to be controlled.”

“Oh.” Nigel nodded, easing onto a ramp, then a side street.

Seven minutes later, they arrived in front of a stylish yet understated two-storey home renovated to accommodate the established neighbourhood’s architecture. Nigel parked behind the Forensic Crime Scene Unit. They looked at the house and its coat of snow. A freshly shovelled twenty-foot front driveway led to a two-car garage set beneath the right side of the house. Lane saw it was the smallest in a neighbourhood of three- and four-car garages.

Lane stepped out of the Chev, looking around. The limbs of mature evergreens sagged under the weight of snow. Here and there, smoke plumes rose from chimneys. Beneath the chimneys stood four- and five-thousand-square-foot homes, custom-built or extensively renovated. Some were stuccoed, some had brick faces, and one was made of sandstone. A few driveways and curbs were dotted with older Mercedes and BMWs. Not many domestic cars in sight in this part of the city.

A garage door opened, a starter whined, and an engine coughed and caught. Lane watched a silver Mercedes SUV backing out of a garage. Its tires crunched over the snow. The woman behind the wheel looked to be thirty-something. She spotted Lane and looked away.

He walked toward the vehicle when she stopped in the street, shifting into drive. She was facing him. He could see that she was blonde, her eyes were blue, and her left hand gripped the top of the steering wheel. A substantial engagement ring glittered next to a diamond-encrusted wedding band flashing in the sunlight. Lane glanced to his right. The sun sat just above the rooftop of the victims’ home.

Lane reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID, holding it up.

The woman slouched into her seat, her shoulders fell, and she mouthed a curse.

Lane walked up to the driver’s door of the silver Mercedes. He stood on the other side of the glass, waiting a full thirty seconds before an electric motor whirred and the window rolled halfway down. The subtle scent of perfume mixed with leather. Lane saw skin tightly stretched over cheekbones and sunken eyes. I was off by thirty years. She’s at least sixty-five.

“I’m late for a hair appointment,” the woman said.

“How well do you know the Randalls?” Lane asked.

“I did know them.” The woman nodded in the direction of the house.

Word games. I’m tired of this already. “Name?” He waited before he said, “Please.”

“Do I need a lawyer?” The woman sat up straighter, attempting to look down on the detective.

Lane shrugged. Calling a lawyer will make you even later for your appointment. Stop wasting my time by establishing a pecking order.

“Megan Newsome.”

Lane got the distinct impression she thought the name should ring a bell with him, and it did. The Newsomes were regulars at his father’s church. I saw your face at my father’s funeral. He decided to wait for an answer to his initial question about the Randalls.

Megan sighed. “I didn’t know them well. We travelled in different social circles. Met them at a charity event once and at the theatre last summer.”

“Did you see anything unusual last night?”

Megan shook her head. “Not a thing. Are we finished?”

“For now.” He stepped back, turned, and walked toward Nigel, who was tapping the face of his phone. “Get the plate?”

Nigel nodded. “Why? Did she lie to you?”

“I think so.” Lane walked up the sidewalk and then the steps. Reaching the front door, he turning the knob and stepped inside. His nose was assaulted with the stench of blood, piss, bleach, and shit. Nigel closed the door behind them.

As he looked around the room, Lane spotted Dr. Colin Weaver, or Fibre, as Lane referred to him, head of the Forensic Crime Scene Unit. The doctor had the face and physique of a Michelangelo male on a Sistine ceiling, and the social skills of a shag carpet. Let’s hear what Fibre has to say. Lane was one of the few who knew Fibre was the father of triplets. They lived with him and the extremely fertile PhD who’d seduced him and co-parented in the other half of Weaver’s duplex. And he’s amazing with his kids. Lane recalled seeing Fibre animated and smiling in the company of a trio of toddlers in the mall.

Weaver looked over his shoulder. He stood at the entrance to the living room. Lane noted the nine-foot ceiling was spattered with blood and brain matter.

“Hello, Detective,” Weaver said.

“Can we take a look?” Lane asked.

Weaver nodded as he pulled back the hood on his white bunny suit. His blond hair stuck to his scalp. “Take a look if you like. Be careful, we’re still working the scene.” He used his right hand to wave them closer.

Lane and Nigel stepped under the curved opening in the wall. The corpses sat facing each other. Robert Randall was dressed in a black tuxedo. Elizabeth Randall wore a leather coat, a white blouse, and red pants. The back of Robert’s head was visible, his chin on his chest. The exit wound was a pulpy mess of blood, bone, and tissue.

“It appears Mrs. Randall was shot in the mouth after witnessing the execution of her husband,” Fibre said.

A chocolate-coloured Labrador retriever was crucified on a wall of birdseye maple, its sightless eyes staring at its masters.

It’s all staged. The crucifixion of the family pet. The pair killed facing each other. The blood spatter on the ceiling. Whoever did this wants us to think it’s art. Lane looked at the floor, seeing three round indentations in the carpet. And the killer recorded it.

Lane heard rapid breathing beside him and turned. Nigel’s eyes were wide, staring at the scene.

His eyes aren’t focused. Lane knew Nigel was reliving the horror of another scene.

Nigel’s hands began to shake. He looked at them as if they belonged to someone else.

Lane looked back at Weaver. “Thank you. We’ve seen enough.”

Lane grabbed Nigel at the elbow, got him turned around, opened the front door, and guided him down the front steps. He watched the cloud of frosty air puffing out of Nigel’s open mouth. He’s hyperventilating.

They made it to the Chev.

Lane opened the passenger door, got Nigel to climb inside, closed his door, and walked around the front of the car. He got in behind the wheel, closing his own door, and started the engine. Then he pulled the glove off of Nigel’s left hand and handed it to him. “Breathe into your glove.”

Nigel nodded, wide-eyed, placing the glove over his mouth. He exhaled. The fingers of the glove filled with air, imitating an open hand. Nigel inhaled. The fingers formed a fist.

Lane waited, watching Nigel’s eyes as they began to focus. Nigel blinked, continuing to breathe into the glove.

What do I say to him?

Nigel closed his eyes and his chin dropped.

“You worked with Netsky?”

Nigel nodded.

“What was that like?”

Nigel took the glove away from his mouth. “He talked. I was supposed to listen.”

“Then?”

“Netsky didn’t like it when I asked questions.”

Lane waited.

“He figured out I was smarter than he was. It pissed him off.” Nigel put his hands over the dash where hot air was blasting onto the windshield. “Of course I didn’t help the situation much. You know me. I understand that telling an unpleasant truth will piss people off, and I should keep my mouth shut. Then I say it anyway.” He turned to smile at Lane.

“I need to ask this because we’re partners.”

“You want to know what happened in there?” Nigel asked.

Lane nodded.

“My father staged my mother’s body. He had her sitting in a chair. Her eyes were wide open. Her head rested on her chin. The room had been cleaned with bleach. Some of the furniture had been turned over. He left the front door unlocked and said my mother must have done that. He made it appear as if an intruder had killed her. Then he went to work as if nothing had happened. Seeing the tableau in there brought it all back. Opening the door. Walking inside. Seeing the body of my mother. The stink of bleach.” Nigel looked out of the window.

“You want off this case?”

“Are you fucking kidding? I want to hunt these assholes down!”

“How do you know it’s more than one?” Lane asked.

“I assumed it would take two to subdue and record.”

“Let’s get to work, then. We need to review the files of the initial crime. Fibre will call us as soon as he has his preliminary findings.” Lane shifted into drive, checking for traffic.

“How come you call him Fibre instead of Weaver or Colin?” Nigel asked.

“I don’t know where the nickname came from. It’s taken a few years, but I’ve come to understand he’s more complicated than that.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“This is my case!” Fred Netsky stood across from Lane and looked sideways at Nigel. Fred was six four, weighed over two fifty, and was a year or two over forty. His hair was dyed black, styled and gelled to make him look younger.

Nigel opened his mouth, shutting it when Lane lifted his eyebrows.

“Hey, Freddy! Got your annuals seeded yet?” Lori wore her broad smile, new blue shoes, a blue pinstriped pantsuit, and glossy clear-coated nails.

Fred looked down at her. “I was planning on getting started in about a month.”

“I don’t know what you do to the soil, but those flowers of yours are amazing. Can’t wait to see what you bring in this year.” Lori looked up at Fred with frank admiration.

“The soil is my little secret.” Fred smiled.

Lori blinked a couple of times to show off her blue eye shadow. “The detectives got their orders from the Chief. This case is theirs. You want me to get your old files?”

Fred shook his head. “I’ll get them. I know where they are.” He walked past Lori and down the hall.

Lori looked over her shoulder before stepping inside Lane’s office. “Watch and learn, boys. If you want to survive around here, watch and learn.”