Tom Forsyth's almost handsome face was taut with outrage, disbelief, and something else. Something Chris couldn't quite place. Not yet. Aware that the first few minutes following an arrest, when a suspect was at his most vulnerable and liable to betray himself, were crucial, Chris stood back to watch his now former friend's reaction.
Forsyth's lips moved in a soundless curse as Mason intoned the formal words charging him with the murder of Adrienne Vinney. Ignoring Mason, who was handcuffing him, roughly jerking his hands behind his back, and advising him of his rights, Forsyth glared at Chris.
"You'll pay for this! All of you," he snarled. "What the hell's going on, Chris? Are you out of your fucking mind? You know I've got an alibi!"
"It won't wash, Tom. Mai Lin isn't an alibi. Her evidence will be part of the case against you."
"Well"—Forsyth tried to shrug, but the handcuffs made him wince—"if you're going to keep on with this nonsense, I better have a lawyer."
"You can call one from the station."
Two uniforms cleared a path for the little procession through a cluster of lawyers, clerical staff, and awestruck clients lining the carpeted hallway. "I'll get Scott Millard," one of the partners called out.
"Don't." Forsyth barked over his shoulder. "He's the one they should be arresting."
"Nice try, Tom. But it won't work," Chris murmured in his ear.
"I want Dave Myrden," Forsyth said as they crowded into an elevator.
"Good choice." Myrden was Calgary's leading criminal lawyer, with an impressive string of acquittals to his credit.
Myrden's office promised to get word through to him at the courthouse, but it would be after five in the afternoon before the busy counsel would be able to join them. Forsyth refused to say another word, beyond accepting a cup of coffee, until his counsel showed up. Until then he was left alone in an interview room, monitored by a junior detective through a window of one-way glass.
The three detectives went down to the cafeteria, almost deserted at this hour, while they waited for Myrden. The Homicide section would be bursting with excitement over the arrest, and Chris wanted to keep his little team focused.
"The cross," said Gwen, screwing up her face at the stale coffee. "It was on the left hand in every case except for Vinney."
"That shit about the crosses on different hands don't mean a damn thing," Mason grumbled. "All that matters is that they're there."
"If they hadn't been on different hands, we might never have spotted the Vinney murder as the work of a copycat. There would have been no reason to look for a motive to kill her, and we would have been left with no motive other than the fantasies of a psychopath," Gwen retorted.
"What you're saying then, Steve, is that so long as the cross is there, it's got to be the work of our serial. You're saying the hands don't matter." Chris pushed his mug of coffee, untasted, to one side.
"Who knows?" The Homicide detective shrugged. "We got a righteous collar. It'll take the heat off the Chief."
If Mason was right, that would mean Forsyth was TLC—the psychopath who had killed five women. That wouldn't fly. No way. It could be in character for him to kill in order to protect his windfall fortune, but Tom was no psychopath.
"I saw Gordon Ralston yesterday," Gwen was saying to Mason, breaking the silence that had fallen over the trio. "He was the commissionaire in the concourse at Bankers Hall. Guarding the art in the sculpture court, I guess."
"Waste of a good cop," Mason growled. Before he could say anything more, a policewoman came into the cafeteria to tell them Mr. Myrden had arrived and was conferring with his client.
"I have instructed Mr. Forsyth to say nothing," Dave Myrden announced as Chris and Gwen entered the room. To Chris's surprise, Mason elected not to join them, saying that Chris was better equipped to deal with a "brother shyster," adding with a sneer that he would take over when they came up dry.
"Do you confirm that my client is under arrest?" The defence attorney, in his mid-forties, cultivated a certain offbeat flamboyance. His thick head of brown hair, darkened with gel, had been brushed so that it stood straight up from his scalp in a bristly pompadour. His shirts were always white, as was the folded handkerchief poking out of the pocket of his Western-cut jacket. The grey striped pants were the same as the ones he wore in court. A pair of gleaming calf-length boots completed the outfit.
"He is. On a count of murder in the first degree."
"On what grounds?"
"Since your client has elected to remain silent I see no reason to disclose our case."
"I am entitled to know the grounds which led you to arrest Mr. Forsyth."
"A powerful motive, a botched attempt to establish an alibi, and opportunity."
"Physical evidence? Anything that would connect my client to the crime?"
"We have a witness who will testify that your client purchased two rolls of duct tape just hours before Adrienne Vinney was murdered."
"Is that a fact?" Myrden rolled his eyes heaven-ward. "And just how is that supposed to tie my client to the crime?"
"It's difficult to think of an innocent use for all that duct tape."
"Really? I can think of any number of purely innocent uses without even trying."
"More will be forthcoming. His office and residence are being searched as we speak."
"That's it? That's what you have?" The gleam in Myrden's eyes matched the shine of his boots. "I will be applying for bail ASAP. Do you intend to oppose it?"
"I certainly do. Your client is accused of murder in the first degree and is a definite flight risk. It is known that he intended to leave this country and move to a tax haven in the Caribbean. His wife is even now in Barbados looking to purchase a place for them to live."
"Maybe I'll drop the bail application and simply apply to have the charges dismissed for want of evidence." Myrden pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Typically, he had made no notes.
"I have a request." The words grated as they came out of the prisoner's mouth.
"Yes?"
"I must talk with my wife in Barbados, and my son in Toronto. They can't find out about this fiasco without hearing it from me first. They took my wallet from me, but you can get it and charge the calls to my Visa."
"I'll make the arrangements." Chris felt his gut tighten. Jesus. He knew Madge and had met their teenaged son a couple of times. What if he was wrong, and Tom was completely innocent!
So often police work ended in human tragedy. Not for the criminal, who, in most cases at least, had brought about his own downfall, but for his family and friends. Never more so than now. As he sometimes did in moments like this, Chris thought of Dorothy Underwood. That was one instance where he had made a difference. A positive difference.
FCSU had been called in to assist the fraud squad with some forensic accounting in an investigation of a scam involving a non-existent resort development in the Ontario lake district. Mrs. Underwood, an elderly widow, had been one of the victims and had brought suit to recover her substantial loss. The lawsuit had merit and would have succeeded, but her lawyer had persuaded her to accept a token settlement, nowhere near what her claim was worth. In the course of the investigation it was learned that he had been blackmailed into doing this by a threat to reveal a previous professional transgression on his part. Disbarred, he had committed automotive suicide, leaving a bankrupt estate and depriving the widow of any way of recouping her loss.
Chris would never forget the look of slowly dawning hope on that kind face, softened with age, as he told her about the Law Society, the legal profession's governing body, and its assurance fund. The fund was designed to compensate people who had been defrauded by one of its members. He had given her the name of Darlene Pitts, a lawyer who occasionally represented claimants like her pro bono.
The fund had compensated her, enabling her, as she told Chris with tears of gratitude, "to live in comfort and independence. The way Howard would have wanted me to."
The two had become friends and stayed in touch. From time to time Dorothy, as Chris had been told to call her, would phone, or he would visit her modest home on Memorial Drive. A home she had almost been forced to sell. He always brought along a bottle of sherry and they would enjoy a companionable glass or two. She worried in her gentle way when he transferred to Homicide. Just like his mother would have.
It had been a couple months since they last talked. Dorothy had probably been reluctant to bother him while he was pursuing the serial killer. But he would like to talk to her. He would give her a call. But not tonight.