Until the Night

7

WHEN THEY GOT TO OTTAWA, it was grey and just above freezing, with a cold rain falling. Technical difficulties had delayed their takeoff, and by the time they arrived at the Forensic Centre on Vanier, the autopsy on Marjorie Flint was over and they had to have the pathologist paged.

Dr. Motram was a young man who chewed gum constantly while he listened to them and even between his own sentences. Cardinal had an irrational prejudice against gum chewers and had to remind himself that it didn’t mean a person lacked intelligence. In the pathologist’s case, it might represent a token defence against his sometimes fragrant clientele.

“She’s still on the table,” he said. “Would you like to see her?”

The autopsy suite was like all such places except a lot bigger. There were eight tables, though only one was occupied.

Dr. Motram pulled the sheet back. A moment you never quite get used to. Pitiless Y incision coarsely sewn. As Motram spoke, he pointed to various parts of the woman’s body, points of interest on a map.

“As you can see, we have frostbite to both hands, even the nose and ears. Those violet-coloured patches over the hip joint and over the knees are called frost erythema—probably caused by capillary damage from the cold and plasma leakage. Ottawa’s one cold city, surrounded by rugged country, and we’ve got the same homeless problems as anybody else, but I’ve never in my life seen frostbite this bad. She was out there a long time before she died.”

“She went missing nearly two weeks ago,” Cardinal said.

Motram nodded. “There’s post-mortem damage as well, notably a skull fracture from freezing of the brain. Internally, we’ve got Wischnewsky spots on the stomach mucosa. Those, in combination with the frost erythema, make hypothermia the cause of death. The electrolytes get totally out of whack and you end up with a ventricular fibrillation. That’s finally what killed her.”

“What day do you think she died?”

“The freezing makes it impossible to be precise, but I’d say she’s been dead five or six days.”

“So she lived through the cold for several days,” Delorme said. “He left her food and coffee. He wanted to make it last.”

“Or maybe he didn’t really want her to die,” Motram said. “Maybe he thought someone else would come along.”

“You didn’t see where she was found.”

Motram folded his arms and chewed his gum for a moment. He pointed to the wrists and ankles. “Restraint marks obviously—padded restraints is my guess. They would have contributed to the advanced frostbite in the hands.”

“You see any signs of struggle?” Cardinal asked. The body—reddened here, blackened there—showed no slash marks, no scratches.

“She struggled against the restraints, certainly. But you mean a fight?”

“Yes, a fight.”

“On that score, I’d have to say no. No defensive wounds, no scratches. No sign of sexual trauma, or recent sexual activity of any kind for that matter. Nothing under the fingernails, what’s left of them. Clearly she was tearing at the restraints, whatever they were.”

“Cuffs,” Delorme said. “Padded steel cuffs.”

Motram regarded her, stopped chewing. “C’est triste, non?”

Delorme nodded, looking at the thing on the table that had recently loved, wept, had hopes. Marjorie Flint heads home to make dinner for her senator husband, with no idea of what the night will bring.

Motram turned and snapped on the light box and pointed to one of the images that showed a clear fracture. “She was a skier. Couple of old injuries to the ulna and clavicle, but this one—that’s the left tibia. She fractured her shinbone trying to break out of those cuffs.”

He gestured to the row of large glass jars, their organic contents suspended in fluid. “She was a healthy woman for fifty-five. Major organs disease free. Arteries, heart and lungs clear. You can see the hemorrhagic spots there. Stomach contents indicate her last meal was about twenty-four hours pre-mortem.”

“How accurate is that?” Cardinal asked. “She was pretty locked down.”

“I’m taking that into account. Twenty-four hours, give or take two hours. Digestion was long over. But I’m saving the best for last.”

He snapped off the light box and the three of them turned once more to the body. He pointed to the graceful region behind the clavicle where shoulder joins neck. “See those?”

Cardinal and Delorme leaned forward together.

“Needle sticks,” Motram said. “As you can see, whoever administered it was no expert. Took more than a couple of stabs at it. In fact, you asked about struggle, and I guess that could be a sign she was struggling when she was injected. Hard to tell. Anyway, subcutaneous residue shows traces of ketamine.”

“Is that long-acting?” Cardinal remembered the hospital room, the smells of plastic and disinfectant, his mother half devoured by disease.

“Not really. He’s not hitting veins, so he’d have to reinject. I have the report from toxicology in my office, and I’ll give it to you when we go up. The findings indicate it would have worn off long before she died.”

Cardinal and Delorme went to the evidence room, where Marjorie Flint’s clothes were spread out on a table.

“There was more than three hundred dollars in her wallet,” Cardinal said. “And there’s no sign of sexual assault. No robbery, no rape. What are your thoughts so far?”

“On motive? I don’t think the person who did this had any motive. The only motive is he wants her to die—slowly, painfully—and it makes me sick. A woman will kill you. A woman will have a rage and kill her husband, her child even, but something like this? Only a man would do this—it’s always men brutalizing women, and I just get so sick of it. You see a crime like this, does it ever occur to you that maybe there are just too many men in this world? Not too many people—too many men.”

“Yes, it does, Lise. What can you tell me about the clothes?”

“The jacket we know—it’s a North Wind, goose down, of a very popular blue colour. Not the black cashmere she was last seen wearing. The blouse, sweater, underwear—all good labels. A senator’s wife, what do you expect?”

“You can give me more than that. I mean, the boots alone …”

“Exactly, John. The boots alone. What are the chances that a woman who wears Hermès, Holt Renfrew, a Patek Philippe watch is going to go walking around the nation’s capital in a pair of Kodiak boots?”

“I know,” Cardinal said. “If it wasn’t for the fact she was chained up, you’d think the guy was concerned for her safety.”

“Amazing what a difference a few chains can make. And no gloves?”

“Yeah,” Cardinal said, and picked up one of the rags—parts of a torn shirt that had been wrapped around the victim’s hands. “And where did she get these?”

“The Ottawa guys say the husband didn’t recognize the jacket or the boots. Someone went out and bought them for her, John. Went out and got outdoor clothes in her size. I don’t think it was out of kindness.”

“Lise …”

“What?”

“Take it easy. We’re in this for the long haul.”

“Forty below, John. Forty below.”

“I know. I get it. There’s a man out there who should not be at large. And a woman is dead who should not be. But there are things we can do—things for her, Lise—and if we do them right, we’ll come up with an answer here and an answer there and sooner or later those answers will put us on the right road. At the end of that road, we find our man and we get him off the streets for good.”

“And everything is wonderful and the world is a good place.”

“No. We lock him up and go after the next one. Anything else is just a one-way ticket to misery.”

Cardinal dropped Delorme off at the Ottawa police headquarters, where they’d been allocated a desk and not much else. The rain looked like it was about to freeze. He drove through town to Rockcliffe Park, listening to the French-language CBC. He had been trying to learn French off and on for a couple of years now, something he had not mentioned to Delorme because he suspected she would laugh. The announcer was talking about climate change and sea ice, he could make out that much—but only because he’d read the same story in the Globe and Mail at the airport.

Cardinal had never been to Rockcliffe Park before. Right in the middle of town, and yet it had patches of what looked like a private forest. There were no sidewalks and lots of walls and many of the houses were not even visible from the road. He passed one that appeared to be constructed of glass and gold.

The Flint house was more modest, a three-storey mock Tudor with grounds the size of a small game reserve. Cardinal pulled into a semicircular drive and parked near a garage that was bigger than the house he used to live in. He switched off the car and picked up his briefcase and thought a minute about what he would say. Cardinal had talked to a few MPs in his time, but never to a senator. In the dark forests of Canadian politics, senators are mythical creatures rarely seen, their powers (if any) uncertain. Cardinal did not know what to expect.

He got out and went up the front steps in the cold drizzle and rang the bell. The door was answered by the senator’s daughter, who was on her way out.

“He’s expecting me,” Cardinal said. “I phoned ahead.”

“He’s in mourning, for God’s sake. He’s already talked to the Ottawa police. Can’t you come back?”

“Someone has done a terrible thing to you and your family, and I want to put that person where he belongs. I’m pretty sure your father will want to help.”

She scanned his face and opened the door wider. Cardinal stepped into a vast foyer composed entirely of oak panelling and works of art. She took his coat and Cardinal heeled off his galoshes.

“May I give you a little tip, Detective?”

“Please.”

“Despite my father’s manner, he’s not the tough guy he may appear. It’s easy to misread him.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

He followed her down a short corridor to a small room where her father was watching a flat-panel TV. A black-and-white movie.

The senator got up and shook hands. He was about Cardinal’s age, but he steadied himself on the arms of his chair as he sat down again. Hollowed out with grief, as if he might be blown away by the slightest breeze. Skin tone the shade of grey that speaks of extreme stress. White-collar criminals turn that shade after their first week in jail. And people who have lost what they most love.

The senator clicked off the TV sound but left the picture. Edward G. Robinson in a priest’s outfit, looking dyspeptic but caring.

“First, let me say I’m very sorry for what you’re going through, Senator.”

“Thanks.” The senator looked at him, the whites of his eyes webbed with red. “Siddown. And call me David.”

Some kind of western flatness in his voice. Cardinal remembered that Senator David J. Flint had grown up in the Yukon.

“I’ll tell ya, a time like this, whatever else it is, is utterly fuckin exhausting. I hope you don’t mind a little cussing.”

“You swear all you want, Senator.”

“Nobody’s got the least crumb of an idea what this is like. Not one fuckin micron. Couple of my friends, sure, their wives have died—but this is just a whole different … I just—this is not somethin a man can prepare for.”

“I know,” Cardinal said.

The senator closed his eyes, and Cardinal knew what he was thinking. Before he opened them again, Cardinal said, “My wife was murdered too.”

The senator opened his eyes. “Really.”

“A couple of years ago now.”

“And you’re still walkin around.”

“I don’t know what else you can do.”

“You tell that to a lot of people you deal with? Bereaved people? Gain their trust?”

“You’re the first. It’s not the kind of thing they recommend. You’ll either trust me or you won’t. I don’t expect to earn it with a few words.”

“Well, you talk good. You want some coffee?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Fuckin cold rain out there. Warm you up. Let’s hit the kitchen.”

The kitchen was large, mostly white tile, with a round pine table in one corner. A pair of French doors looked out on snowdrifts pocked with rain. The senator opened a cupboard, got a coffee filter out and put it in the basket. He opened the fridge door and spoke to the interior. “People seem intent on provisionin me. Bringin me so much food, I can’t find anything. Nice of ’em, though. Real nice.”

He brought out a can of President’s Choice coffee and filled the basket and switched on the machine.

“Better put some water in that.”

“Water.” The senator snapped his fingers. “Right.” He dealt with the water and sat down. “You got questions, you better get at ’em. I don’t promise to be coherent.”

Cardinal took him through the usual questions, ground the Ottawa police had already covered. Senator Flint made no complaint about repeating the answers. It took half an hour.

“Just a couple more points, Senator, and then I’ll leave you alone. Your wife’s car was left at her therapist’s office, the last place she was seen. Appointment finished at four p.m., and this was a regular thing she had, right? Weekly, I think you said?”

“Marjorie was forever tryin to fix herself. She didn’t need fixin, but she imagined she did. She was a busy woman, charity work every which way, and three unpaid positions. I think she just needed the reprieve—a little sliver of time that was hers and hers alone. An hour of reflection never hurt anyone. She liked her therapist.”

“It’s very unlikely we’re looking at a chance encounter here. Your wife’s abductor seems to have known her schedule, meaning this was either someone already familiar with her routines or someone who had tracked her movements for a time.”

“I’m not aware of anyone who would wish Marjorie harm. You could not hope to find a less contentious person. Generous. Kind. Jesus …” The senator pinched the bridge of his nose. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Sorry. Uh, try to collect myself here.”

“Take your time.”

The senator dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. “I’m not generally an emotional person.”

“Human, though.”

“Hah. All too.”

“I know I’m repeating myself, but are you absolutely sure there were no unusual visitors to the house leading up to your wife’s disappearance? Maybe some unexpected workmen? Some survey takers? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Strangers of any kind?”

“I don’t stand at the window lookin for strangers. And I don’t stare into my rear-view neither. No doubt that’d make me a terrible detective. Anyways, neither me nor Marjorie is home that much. Someone could have got in here, I don’t know. Didn’t see any sign of it. Christ, you think someone planned this? In God’s name, why? Why Marjorie?”

“If I could answer that question I could probably tell you who killed her. Keep in mind it could’ve been you they were after, Senator.”

“That would at least make sense. I piss people off now and again. Sometimes I don’t even intend it. But I got to tell you—I’m a senator, not an MP, and senators in this country are appointed, not elected. It’s undemocratic and frankly it’s outright dumb, but one thing it means is you’re freed of a whole lotta political nastiness. Senate’s a collegial bunch. Used to be, anyway.”

“What about from before? You were an electrical engineer?”

“Power systems. Micro-power systems. Fortune favoured me in my work life same as in my home life. I don’t know why. Couple of patents came my way and paid for all this extravagance. We don’t live high, but I won’t deny we’re fortunate. Wealthy. I retired at fifty, ran for office, failed at that right quick. Worked for a couple of candidates behind the scenes after that, did my rain dance for ’em, and voila—Mr. Flint goes to Ottawa. Ridiculous, but it may as well be me stedda some of the yahoos they appoint. Ain’t got the sense of a doorknob, most of ’em. I’m just prayin Dear Leader sends up a bill to abolish me and the whole bunch of us. I’ll rubber-stamp that puppy in a flash. Opponents, yes. But outright enemies? No.”

Cardinal reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet, opened it and took out a ticket. “This was in your wife’s wallet.”

The senator took it and contemplated it. Turned it over and looked at the number. “It’s from a fundraiser.”

“You need a ticket for that?”

“Naw, they always have a giveaway of some sort. You pay your thousand bucks to attend and you get a chance to win something—artwork, signed first edition, whatever. So you hang on to the ticket.”

“And the number on the other side? Number 25?”

“Table number. This one was at the Château Laurier. World Literacy, if I recall. I’d a never thought of it, but Marjorie would.” He handed back the ticket.

Cardinal opened his briefcase and dropped the ticket inside, along with his notebook, and snapped it shut again. “Senator, thank you. Once again, I apologize for intruding at a time like this.”

The senator waved him off. “I’m just sorry I can’t be of more use.”

They went out to the foyer and the senator stood looking out the sidelights of his front door while Cardinal put on his galoshes and coat.

“You ever find the guy that killed your wife, Detective?”

“Yes, I did. He’s doing life in Kingston.”

“I’m glad. And what about this bastard now?”

“No guarantees. I’ll do my best.”

“Listen, I don’t want to interfere or nothin, but could you use the RCMP on this?”

“We’re already using their forensic services, and they’ve offered further assistance if we need it. The Ottawa police are being very helpful too.”

“Well, let me know if I can help any other way.”

“If it’s all right, I’d like to take a look around your property.”

“Fine with me. You’ve been very understanding, Detective. I appreciate it.”

Cardinal didn’t know what to say to that. He asked a question instead. “Do you have any connection with a woman named Laura Lacroix? Or do you know if your wife had any?”

“Laura Lacroix? I don’t think so. Mind you, I meet a lot of people. Too many people.” Flicker of a smile, a memory passing by.

Cardinal pointed at a life-sized portrait of the senator’s wife. It was big and colourful, but it looked like a sketch. She was laughing, a boat and a lake in the background. “That’s beautiful.”

“Charles Comfort. You heard of him?”

“My wife would have.”

“He rented the cottage next to ours one summer. Lugged that over the day he left. Worth a buck or two, actually.”

“Generous guy.”

“Something I’ve noticed—when you have a lot, people are always giving you things.”

“So you don’t mind if I take a look at your garage, the rest of your property here? It might help me get a handle on this guy.”

“Help yourself, Detective. Ottawa police did all that, of course, but you’re welcome to check it out—anything that’ll help.”

Cardinal took out a business card and wrote on the back of it before handing it to the senator. “This is not because you have a lot. That’s my personal cell number. In case you think of anything else. I mean it—call any time.”

The senator held the card in two hands by the corners and looked at it. “I have a notion this is another of those things they don’t recommend.”