Kennicott jumped out of his car as soon as he came to a stop in the golf-club parking lot. Three police cruisers were parked in front of him, and he strode past them toward the back lawn. Greene had taught him that unless the situation was urgent, a homicide detective never runs.
A crowd of officers was down the hill surrounding Detective Ho, who was setting up a tent over the roped-off crime scene. A golf cart was parked at an awkward angle off to the side of the path. Kennicott spotted Officer Sheppard standing near a security guard who was seated by the back wall of the main building wrapped in a heat blanket, his head down.
Sheppard saw Kennicott and rushed over. “Call came in at two forty-six,” she said, flipping open her notebook. “No identification on the dead woman.”
Kennicott pointed to the guard by the wall. “He find the body?”
“It’s Mr. Roshan. He came back to work last night and saw her when he was driving down the path.”
“Oh my. Poor man. Come with me.”
Roshan looked up as they approached. He’d been crying.
“Hello, Mr. Roshan,” Kennicott said.
“Detective Kennicott,” he said.
“Are you okay?” Kennicott said, kneeling to be at his eye level.
“I found another poor dead woman. Why is Allah doing this to me?”
“I don’t know,” Kennicott said. “Please, can you tell us what happened?”
“It was terrible. I was driving my cart and I saw her at the last moment. I pulled over to avoid hitting her. I didn’t know if she was still alive.”
“What did you do?”
“I rushed to her and turned her over. It took two attempts as she was heavy.”
Roshan was shaken. Kennicott knew he had to gently tease the story out of him. “And then?”
“When I turned her over, a golf ball fell out of her mouth.”
“A golf ball? Where is it?”
He pointed down into the darkness toward the river. “It rolled down there and disappeared. It was more important to try to help the woman.”
Kennicott nodded. He didn’t want to interrupt him.
“I tried to resuscitate her, but unfortunately she was deceased. I recognized her, Detective. Please, she is the woman who helped me in the valley when I’d tumbled down off my bicycle yesterday morning. The woman who gave my wife Babita her coat.”
Roshan began to shiver. He looked at Kennicott, his dark eyes filling with tears again.
“Are you sure it is her?”
“Sadly, yes.”
Kennicott put his hand on Roshan’s thigh and turned to Sheppard.
“Get Mr. Roshan into a warm cruiser and take him to Police Headquarters to give a videotaped statement.”
“Right away,” Sheppard said.
“And Officer Sheppard,” he said, “I want you to take the statement.”
Sheppard nodded. He could see she wanted to say “Thank you” but realized it was the wrong thing to do in front of a witness.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Kennicott walked over to the tent and knelt beside the body. “Preliminary impressions?” he asked Ho.
“It looks as if she was attacked from behind, like the other two homeless victims. Same smashed Smirnoff vodka bottle.”
Ho lifted one of her hands. Her long fingernails were perfectly painted a bright red colour.
“Nice manicure job,” Ho said. “I should get the name of the shop she used for my wife.”
“She was once a Bay Street lawyer,” Kennicott said.
Ho turned her fingers over. “Look. There’s material under the nails. Blood on her fingers too.”
“Defensive wounds?”
“See what comes up under the microscope at the autopsy.”
Kennicott took one last look at Copeland. The next time he saw her, the dead woman’s body would be unceremoniously cut open, laid bare on a stainless-steel surgical table.
He’d read about Copeland after he’d had coffee with her lawyer, Nancy Parish. Sad. She’d been a brilliant lawyer, but her demons had gotten the best of her. Kennicott thought about the cryptic text she’d sent Parish. “Nance I warnd you, but no one wd listn. The kilingz contnue. No one is imune. There is no justice.”
He stood and walked away a few steps so he could call Greene. This was tough news to deliver.
“What have we got?” Greene asked without even saying hello.
“Bad. It’s Melissa Copeland.”
“Oh no.” Greene sighed. It was unusual to hear him express emotion this way. “You certain?”
“One hundred per cent.”
Silence again. He could imagine Greene, his head spinning. Losing a contact such as Copeland whom he had known, worked with, and supported for years was a heavy blow. And now they had a third murder on their hands.
“Same MO?” Greene asked at last.
“Looks like it. Vodka bottle. Bash to the head.”
“Golf ball?”
“Fell out of her mouth and rolled down the hill.”
“I have to make some calls,” Greene said. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Ari,” Kennicott said. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. And Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“We have to stop this.”