Another body. This time in Bragg Creek Provincial Park. Damn. TLC was still one step ahead. He must have suspected that by now the city parks would be under surveillance, so he had moved the action to Bragg Creek, an upscale hamlet of some five hundred souls forty kilometres west of Calgary. It was Mountie turf, but the crime was so obviously connected to the rash of Calgary killings that the Calgary police had been called in. Mason and Gwen had just arrived at the crime scene.
Red and blue light pulsing on the van's dash, Chris sped along Highway 22, oblivious to the magnificent backdrop of the Rocky Mountains off to his right. The highway cut through the western end of the Tsuu T'ina Reserve, and he reduced speed as he went past the entrance to Redwood Meadows, a golf course owned and operated by the Tsuu T'ina Nation. The provincial park was just past the turnoff to the Bragg Creek shopping centre with its art galleries, craft shops, and restaurants. Open countryside gave way to towering pines as Chris followed the winding road through the forest to the park entrance. The entrance was sealed off with crime tape and guarded by two uniformed Mounties. One of them directed Chris to pull in next to a cruiser with the RCMP's inspired logo—a cantering horse and rider from the Musical Ride—painted on its rear fenders.
In the open area just past the gate two RCMP constables circulated among the small crowd of visitors, taking down names and addresses and getting negative responses and shakes of the head when they asked if anyone had seen anything out of the ordinary that morning. Those who were waiting to be questioned were staring at one of the small wooden huts that housed the toilets provided by the Park Service. The police were grouped around its far side. Spotting Chris, Gwen broke away from the other officers and hurried across the gravelled parking lot to meet him.
"Prepare yourself," she warned. "It's gross."
The doors of the two stalls on the near side of the hut were marked "Men," which meant the crime scene must be the women's toilets. Mason didn't so much as nod when Chris joined the group. The RCMP corporal in charge of the detail introduced himself and stepped aside so Chris could see into the hut. The naked, bloodied body of a young woman sat on the toilet. Chris's mouth tightened as he saw the familiar stigmata—the vicious stab wounds on her breast, the bloody pulp where her right nipple had been sliced off, rivulets of dried blood running down the torso and collecting in the ridges of muscles on her taut abdomen. The lady's abs were impressive, which might explain why she remained upright. Because of her position it was impossible to tell if a foreign object had been inserted into her vagina, but her thighs were bloody.
"Do we know who she is?" Chris's voice was tight as he took in the scene. The toilet was just that—a chemical toilet in the small, smelly compartment. Gwen was to tell him later that the floor area measured only seventy-six by seventy-six centimetres, no wash basin, no towels. Only a sign requesting users to please put the top down to reduce odours.
"Not yet," replied Gwen. The dank interior of the toilet was illuminated with electronic flashes as she fired off two exposures in quick succession. Lowering the camera, she said, "That will do it."
"Who found her?"
"A tourist," the RCMP corporal replied. "She went to use the facility just after nine-thirty. She had the bad luck to be the first one to open the door."
"I'd like to talk to her."
"Not possible. She's either in the Foothills hospital or on her way there. She fainted and the paramedics couldn't bring her around. They think she may have suffered a stroke. Not her first one, I gather. I got her name and particulars from her daughter, who has gone off with her in the ambulance."
While he listened to the Mountie, Chris continued to study the corpse. Her well-muscled arms hung down at her sides, the palms of her hands facing inward. Without prompting, Gwen followed as he took a few steps to one side.
"There is a cross, I assume?" he asked, looking into the distance.
"There is." Gwen paused. "On her left hand. It's our boy."
"And not Tom Forsyth," murmured Chris.
Gravel crunched under his shoes as he headed back to the hut. The medical examiner, a woman this time, had arrived and was squatting with her hands on her nees before the victim, her substantial bulk fully occupying the confined space.
"Not much doubt how she died," she remarked over her shoulder, directing her comment at Chris. He didn't know her, but she obviously knew who he was.
"Not much," he agreed. "Time of death?"
Still squatting, she checked the watch almost hidden in the folds of flesh on her wrist, "It's now seven minutes past eleven." Leaning forward, she took the victim's head in her hands and slowly rotated it from side to side. "The current temperature is 22 degrees Celsius. Rigor mortis well established. She was killed around one this morning."
"She was young and obviously very fit," Chris observed. "She couldn't have been all that easy to subdue. Yet there are no indications of struggle on her part."
"She was knocked unconscious with a single blow to the back of the head. After that the guy could do as he wanted with her."
After examining the victim for a few more minutes, the M.E. announced, "I'm done here. I'm releasing the body. I'll need to know her name when you find out who she is. For my records." Hands on ample hips, she gave the police officers a sweeping glance that held a trace of sympathy. "You're not having much luck nailing this TLC, are you?" she asked, then waddled on thick legs across the park to her vehicle.
As soon as she left, Chris stepped back inside the toilet and turned the woman's left hand over. Just as Gwen had said, a fine tracery of blood outlined the simple cross excised into the flesh of her palm.
Chris detached the dashboard light and put it back in the glove compartment. He kept well within the posted speed limit on the drive back to the city, while his mind climbed back on the all too familiar treadmill. The cross being on Vinney's wrong hand was what had led him to look for a logical motive, not just a psychopath, behind that crime. According to Scott Millard, who had no reason to lie, Forsyth didn't know which hand the cross was on. Chris instinctively tightened his grasp on the steering wheel as a cattle liner blew past, horn blaring.
One thing was certain, Tom Forsyth hadn't killed the latest victim. Locked up in jail, this time he had an unshakeable alibi. Myrden would seize on that when he argued his motion to dismiss. There wasn't anything that could be done about that, but now there was a fresh murder to investigate. An essential first step was to establish the identity of the victim. Switching on the mobile with a practised sideways movement of his chin, he called Missing Persons and asked for the names of anyone who had been reported missing late last night or sometime this morning. When he was told there was a list of eight, he contacted the Homicide section and had one of the detectives begin making inquiries.
Detective Balfour put his hand over the mouthpiece to report, "Nothing yet," when Chris walked in. Nodding, Chris sat down at his desk and switched on the computer. The icon on the toolbar told him he had mail. He clicked on the envelope icon and a brief e-mail appeared on his screen:
The e-mail was from a Hotmail account. About as anonymous as you could get. Cyber Crimes could trace it back to the internet café where it originated but not to the individual work station. Chris printed a copy of the e-mail and stared unseeingly down at the page. There was no need to re-read it. But what could it tell him?
In life, the young woman on the toilet seat would have been a looker. More so than the other victims, except for the smashing Adrienne Vinney, who had been drop-dead gorgeous. Grimacing at the "drop-dead" bit, Chris pondered the implications. It reinforced his conviction that Vinney wasn't among TLC's victims. If she had been, the message wouldn't ring true.
The messages from TLC—once again, it was necessary to proceed from the assumption they were from the killer—were meant for him personally. Not surprisingly. Anyone who followed the news would know that he was the lead investigator. Although less likely, it might also be someone who had a score to settle with him. Someone who had been convicted because of the evidence he had provided when he was still with Crime Scenes. God knew there were enough of those. Swinton! Harry Swinton. The name jumped out at him. Never would he forget the murderous hatred seething out from the prisoner's box as he testified about the palm print on the bottom of the window frame.
Except for that, the robbery had been perfectly staged. No fingerprints, no footprints, no DNA. Surgically clean. But the thief had overlooked the print left behind when he strained to open a balky window to exit the premises. Swinton realized Chris's evidence would convict him, and he muttered, "I'll get you for this, Crane!" as Chris left the witness stand and walked past the prisoner's box on his way out of the courtroom. Swinton had been sentenced to five years in prison, so he would be out by now. Five years —probably reduced to four for good behaviour—in the slammer could cool a guy out. Or they could fuel his rage. Chris decided to run a check on Swinton and see if anyone knew what he had been up to since his release. The reference to the physical appearance of the victims reinforced the probability that the e-mail had in fact come from the killer. Still, their photos had been in the papers. And, as Mavis had remarked about the earlier messages, there was nothing in their content that was not in the public domain. Except for the signature.
The profiler would have to see the e-mail right away. Maybe it would give her a better idea of who was sending the taunting messages. He was pretty sure she would conclude they were from TLC, but he needed to hear it from her.
"We got a hit." Detective Balfour pushed back his chair and walked the few steps over to Chris's desk. "The victim's name is Ann Marin. Her roommate reported her missing around midnight. I just talked to the roommate, and the description is a perfect match."
"We need to talk to this roommate. What's her name, and where is she?"
Balfour looked down at a small notepad. "Sylvia Dubrinski. That's her name. She works in the production accounting department at Shell. I had to call three times before I got through to her. She was phoning around, trying to track down the roommate. I told her we would want to interview her."
"Right. We'll need a photo of the victim to show her. For a positive identification. Let me see how Staroski is making out."
It wasn't just the photo that Chris wanted. The witness was a woman, and he wanted Gwen and her insights with him when he interviewed her. He called her on her cell, and she told him she was on the way back and was already at the intersection of Highway 8 and Sarcee Trail. She would be there in ten minutes or so.
Production accounting was on the twenty-sixth floor of the Shell building, and the manager of the department, a suitably grave expression on his face, was waiting for them as Chris and Gwen stepped off the elevator. He conducted them to a small workroom, introduced them to Sylvia Dubrinski, pointed out the coffee and ice water on a table against the wall, and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
In her mid-thirties, Dubrinski was of average height, comfortably overweight, and composed. She nodded when Gwen showed her the digital photo. It was a head shot, there being no need to distress her by showing her the gruesome indignities that had been done to her friend's body. In a firm, quiet voice she told them that Ann had been a trainer at the Fitness Now Health Club on Bowness Road, a few blocks away from the apartment they shared. She had gone for a run, as she always did, at ten o'clock last night. "When she hadn't returned by eleven-thirty, I called Missing Persons."
"Isn't that a bit unusual?" Chris interrupted her. "People usually wait until some time has elapsed before reporting someone missing."
"You didn't know Ann Marin," Dubrinski retorted. "She always did things a certain way. Her own way. She went for a run every night. Without fail. She started out at ten, was back at ten-thirty for a shower, and in bed by eleven. She had to be at work in the gym by six. That's when a lot of jocks want to have their workout. When she hadn't returned by eleven-thirty, I knew something was wrong. That's when I reported her missing."
"She was very attractive." Chris picked up the photo. "She must have been very popular."
"Men were always putting the make on her, if that's what you mean." Dubrinski made a small moue of distaste. "But she wasn't interested."
"Oh?"
"And I don't mean she was a lesbian, either." This with a quick glance at Gwen. "She wasn't. She was in love with herself. Period."
"A narcissist," Chris said.
"That's what she was. To the max."
"If you will forgive me for saying this, you don't appear to be very upset by her death."
"She was the roommate from hell. If you want the truth. She answered an ad I placed in the personals three months ago. I needed help with the rent. I help support my widowed mother," she elaborated in answer to Chris's puzzled look. He nodded, and she continued. "Right from the get-go she criticized everything I did, the food I ate, my friends, my lack of exercise. My clothes. Everything. You should have seen the tasteless crap she wanted me to eat. It made me want to puke just looking at it. I told her she had to leave by the end of the next week."
"I see. What about friends, relatives?"
"None that I knew of. She never mentioned any, and I never saw her with anyone. The only calls she ever got were from the gym where she worked."
"We would like to do a search of your apartment, if it's all right with you?"
"I don't mind, but I want to be there when you do."
"Of course. Could we do it now, do you suppose?"
"Sure. I'll just tell the supervisor."
"Detective Staroski and I walked over from the police station, so we'll have to go back and get some transportation. Can we pick you up out front?"
"That won't be necessary. I'll meet you at the apartment."
"Quite an earful," murmured Chris as the two of them walked south on 3rd Street.
"She likes you. That's why she opened up like that."
"I think it was more like venting her frustration at the ‘roommate from hell.'"
"I see we're taking the long way home," Gwen chuckled as they crossed 7th Avenue and continued south.
"The mall is more interesting, and it's only a couple of blocks out of the way."
"And we just might run into your girlfriend."
Chris merely smiled.
"There she is. You're in luck." Gwen nudged Chris as they made their way along the crowded Stephen Avenue Mall. "She really does have a beautiful smile." She jumped back as a speeding bicycle courier cut in front of her. "You'd think we could do something about that," she complained, watching the courier darting in and out of the pedestrian traffic, leaving indignant stares and muttered imprecations in his wake.
"There's a $75 fine for riding bicycles on the mall, but the courier companies just write it off as a business expense. You okay?" asked Chris when he saw Gwen rubbing her left shoulder.
"Yeah. It's just a nervous reflex. I could feel the wind as he went past. Anyway, and as I was saying, she does have a lovely smile."
"Would you like to meet her?"
"No. It's you she wants to see. You go ahead. I'll wait for you."
"I think I'm jealous," Joan laughed as she raised her right forearm for Chris to hold, and the cockatiel lifted its foot, inviting Chris to pick him up.
It was too good to miss. Gwen turned off the flash on the compact digital camera she always had with her and surreptitiously snapped off a shot. Passersby slowed to stare at the little tableau. To them it was a curiosity, but Gwen was genuinely touched. His friendship with this cruelly deformed person was just another facet of the complex man whom she would always think of as her mentor.
"I worry about you, Chris. It must be terrible for you. All these killings."
"And no arrests," Chris added grimly. "That's what's so frustrating, Joan." The coffee can taped to the front of her platform was almost three-quarters full. She had to be the street's most successful panhandler. People reacted to her, sometimes with genuine sympathy, sometimes with a "but for the grace of God" shudder or atavistic, superstitious fear. "There was another one last night," he told her.
"I know. A fitness instructor."
"Have you heard anything more?"
"No. Only that she was sitting on the john. The creep's getting weirder by the minute."
"Yeah. I've got to go." Chris lowered his hand to let the bird climb back onto his perch. "You take care, Joan."
"I'm not his type," she laughed, unknowingly repeating what Phil Dummett had said.
Halfway down the block, squatting a few feet out from a storefront, was a pile of dirty blankets. An upturned ball cap in front of the unlovely heap was the only indication that a human being lurked somewhere within. The afternoon was warm. Even hot. Maybe the blankets kept out heat as well as cold. More likely, they kept out the world.
The untidy heap stirred when Chris dropped a loonie in the cap, clinking against the two coins already there. A pair of red-rimmed eyes stared up at them from beneath a tangle of dirty brown hair. "Thanks. You want to know something about the crippled girl, cop?"
"What's there to know?"
"She never keeps the loot people give her. Gives it all to the Sally Ann. Go figure."
"Fascinating. Did you know?" asked Gwen as they moved on.
"No, I didn't. I sometimes suspected that she didn't need the money. Thought she might have been researching a book. Or maybe it was a diversion for her."
"A neat little mystery for you to solve."
"I'm not sure I want to solve it."
As expected, Ann Marin's apartment produced nothing in the way of clues. It did, however, highlight the gulf between the lifestyles of the two women who lived there. It was almost as though a line had been drawn down the middle. The victim's bedroom was spartan, monastic in its stripped-down simplicity. One narrow bed, no pictures or photographs, a chest of drawers with a brush and comb precisely aligned on the otherwise bare top. The clothes closet, however, was a different story. Gwen gave a low whistle of appreciation at the sight of its contents, neatly arranged on hangers. Sports and athletic attire—shorts and sleeveless shirts—took up one end, with running shoes in racks on the floor below. Just like the way things had been arranged in Adrienne Vinney's clothes closet. The remaining three-quarters of the space was given over to everyday wear. Except that there was little that was everyday or ordinary about the dresses. Reaching in, Gwen turned a black number so it faced out. The décolletage was deep, almost down to the navel.
"I guess it was a case of look but don't touch with our Ann." Gwen let the dress swing back into place.
In contrast, and in keeping with her personality, Sylvia Dubrinski's room had a rumpled, lived-in appearance. Family photos adorned the dresser, together with scattered pieces of costume jewellery—earrings and a matched set of pearl necklace and bracelet. Nowhere was the difference between the two women more starkly evident than in the bathroom. It was equipped with two basins. The counter on Ann Marin's side was bare and gleaming, everything tucked away in drawers or neatly arranged on the glass shelves of the cabinet. On Sylvia's side, the counter was lightly dusted with spilled face powder and littered with lipsticks and jars of skin cream. A toothbrush was upended in a smudged water glass.
"Thank you for your courtesy in letting us examine your apartment," Chris said as the three of them stood in the living room.
"You're welcome." Sylvia shrugged. "You didn't find anything, though, did you?"
"Her dresses were interesting," Gwen said. "Not what we expected, if you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean. She liked to tease."
"I find it hard to believe she didn't have any men friends," Chris frowned. "Yet you say she never went out on dates."
"Never. Not once in the time she was here."
"And you have no idea of any family she might have?"
"None. It was like she appeared out of nowhere."
"You didn't ask for references?" Gwen was mildly incredulous.
"She paid the first month's rent in advance. That was good enough for me."
"We'll be releasing her belongings soon," Chris told her. "Have you thought of what you're going to do with them?"
"The Goodwill people, I guess. Her dresses would-n't be of much use to you or me, would they?" she replied with a sly smirk at Gwen.
"What puzzles me," mused Chris, ignoring her dig at his colleague, "is that she went for runs late at night even though there is a serial killer on the loose. That doesn't make any sense."
"Ann figured she could take care of herself. She was an expert in martial arts. I think she half hoped to meet up with him."
"You never told us you rode, Chris." Over the phone, Cameron Taylor's voice held a note of mild reproof. "You never mentioned it. Not once."
"I'm afraid riding is very much in my past. There was a time when it was a big part of my life. But I didn't keep it up when I moved out here."
"A mistake on your part, my friend. But one that's easily corrected. Sarah suggested you might like to join our little group on our regular Sunday morning meets. A bunch of us ride out for a couple of hours then have a tailgate lunch. This coming Sunday it's here at Bent Tree. I've got a mare that would be perfect for you. She has beautiful manners and never puts a foot wrong. We start out at nine in the morning. Very civilized hour."
"It sounds great, Cameron. But you know what I'm dealing with these days. I really can't justify taking the time off."
"It's the most productive thing you could do, my boy. Different perspective, change of pace. A person can get too close to a problem. Lose the big picture. Besides, it's only a Sunday morning. You can go back to those evil crimes in the afternoon."
It was tempting. Very. Out here people knew him as a police detective, not as a well-known horse show rider. Famous in certain circles. He had always enjoyed riding and being around horses. Cameron Taylor was right. It had been a mistake to let it drop. He felt an undeniable frisson of excitement at the thought that it was Sarah who was behind the invitation. That night at the Churches' party he had told her that he used to ride. The lady would cut a dashing figure on horseback. And it would only be for a few hours.
"Cameron, I'll be there if I possibly can. Unless something comes up."
"Understood. We'll look forward to seeing you at eight o'clock. Give you some time to meet the mare and get fitted out with tack. All you need to bring is yourself."
Chris was still trying to come to grips with what he had just agreed to do when his phone rang again.
"What? Who's there?" The caller's voice was suspicious. Tense.
"It's just my parrot. Who is this?"
The person on the other end took a moment to digest this before saying, "It's Phil Dummett. Are you alone?" Another brief pause, then a chuckle, "Apart from the bird I mean."
"I am. Do I take it you have heard from our mutual friend?"
"Not yet. But I expect to very soon."
"Oh?"
"I've written a piece about him. It'll be on the op-ed page of Saturday's Herald. I've titled it ‘The Anatomy of a Serial Killer,' so he'll be sure to find out about it. He's bound to react."
"What approach did you take? Sympathetic? That he shouldn't be blamed for the crimes he's committed? That it's not really his fault?"
"C'mon. You know me better than that. I've taken the analytical point of view, that he probably had an unfortunate, possibly abusive childhood, trouble at school, a feeling of social insecurity, of never being able to fit in with his peers, and no luck with women. The sort of background that could turn a vulnerable person into a sociopath. Make him want to prove that he's smarter than the rest of society."
"That sure as hell won't endear you to him. I thought you were going to take the sympathetic approach. Pretend to be on his side."
"I am in a way. The overall tone of the piece is that because of his background he may not be able to control what he does. But what I'm really hoping for is that he will feel he has to deny that he came from an impoverished family and that he feels socially inferior. If he falls for it, and I think he just might, we're bound to learn more about him."
Dummett could be on to something. Like every serial, TLC had an outsize ego, and wouldn't appreciate being cast as an underprivileged loner. "Keep me informed," said Chris as he hung up.
The Bragg Creek homicide was featured on the late-night national television news along with the usual reports from the world's trouble spots. It was followed by the local news, which devoted a full three minutes to a description of the bizarre circumstances, along with clips of the crime scene and the removal of the body. So many people had been present in the park when the unfortunate visitor opened the door of the toilet that it was impossible to keep a lid on the lurid details. Except for the cross.
Turning off the television, Chris unexpectedly yawned. He pressed a wall switch and the living room drapes whirred closed, cutting off the lights of the city. Recognizing the signal to go to sleep, Nevermore ruffled his feathers and muttered a drowsy, "Good night, Chris." At first, Chris had followed the expert's advice and draped a blanket around the parrot's cage at night, but the bird quickly vented his displeasure by ripping great tears in it. Closing the drapes and turning off the lights worked just fine.
"Goodnight, Nevermore. See you in the morning."
"To die sitting on the john!" The club's program director seemed more intrigued by the manner of Ann Marin's death than upset by it. "How she would have hated being found like that!"
"She didn't die on the toilet, if that's any comfort," Chris, annoyed by the director's attitude, informed him. "She was killed somewhere else before being put there."
Sensing Chris's disapproval, the director asked, "How can I help?"
"Whatever you can tell us about her, and her background, would be useful."
"I'll tell you what I know, but it's not one hell of a lot. Ann kept pretty much to herself, apart from her classes. She was a good trainer. Strict but competent."
"How did she get along with your clients?"
"With the men, very well. Not so well with the women. She could be very demanding. Impatient. I assigned her to the most advanced classes, and that worked out okay."
"How long has she worked here?"
"Three months, give or take a few days. I'll get you the exact dates from our employee records, but three months is close enough."
"What about before that? Where she was from, where she worked. That sort of thing."
"She came from Vancouver. She worked at a health club there. The same franchise as this one. They recommended her, told us she was good at her job, bit of a loner, popular with some clients, not with others. Pretty much the same as things turned out here."
"We're anxious to get in touch with any family she may have. Do you have anything on file?"
"We don't. Vancouver may. I can find out for you right away."
"That will be very helpful. But before we do that, a couple more things. As you said, she seems to have been a bit of a loner. But was there anyone here, staff or clients, that she was close to?"
"There was one guy. An accountant. Goes in for long-distance running. Marathons. Always took her class. They got along. I had the feeling they thought they were superior to everyone else around here. They were much the same age."
"You'll let us have his name and address?"
"His name is Lindsay MacDonald and he works at DeLong Furness in Bow Valley Square. I'm not suggesting anything here, Detective. You asked if there was anyone she seemed close to, and that's him. At least closer than she was with anyone else."
"According to her roommate, she was an expert in the martial arts?"
The director smiled slightly and shook his head. "Not so. She was outstanding when it came to gym work and running, but the martial arts were not her forte. Not at all. I don't know why. But she never practised it. I can see where she might let people believe she was an expert, though. People would expect it of her." He paused, then said, "I know where you're going with this, Detective. That she should have been able to defend herself against the killer. There's no doubt she could have put up some very effective resistance, but not like a real martial arts adept." Another pause. "She was another victim of the serial killer, wasn't she?"
"That's the way it looks. But we have to keep an open mind."