"Well, well, what have we been up to this weekend?" demanded Gwen, watching Chris walking to his desk.
"Just a little stiff, that's all. It'll soon pass."
"I hope she was worth it." Gwen chuckled wickedly.
"I'll never tell." Chris settled into his chair and unfolded the copy of the Herald he had brought with him. The letter was headed "When" and signed by Michael Lambert, who was not further identified except as being from Calgary. But Chris knew who he was. Lambert was a professor at the Faculty of Law who taught criminal law. The Herald had devoted two full columns to his letter, which began by listing the six murders, thereby implying that the Vinney case was also the work of the serial killer. "Wrong. Dead wrong." Chris had muttered to himself as he read the paper with the morning's first cup of coffee, but it fuelled his own lingering uncertainty about Forsyth's guilt.
After a dramatic opening—"A killer walks among us"—the letter went on to express surprise, not to say astonishment, that the police, despite all the scientific resources at their disposal, had been unable to track down the sadistic monster who could seemingly kill at will, taunting the police all the while. Lambert did acknowledge that there had been an arrest in the case, but made the point that even if the charges stood up in court, which it was clear he doubted, it still left the other killings unsolved and TLC at large. He concluded by asking when the taxpaying citizens could expect their police force to put an end to the deadly rampage.
What did he know about Lambert? Not much. Their only contact had been some months ago as fellow members of a panel on criminal law at a Law Society seminar. Lambert was about his own age, intelligent and articulate. Self-confident, verging on cockiness. Already balding, he had an irritating habit of flicking his finger at his neatly trimmed moustache. How had he come to know about the communications? Maybe it was just an educated guess on his part. But it wouldn't have been all that difficult for him in any case. As a professor of criminal law it would be logical for him to cultivate the detectives who investigated crimes. It would enrich his lectures and raise his profile with his students and colleagues.
His letter to the editor was another piece of self-promotion. But it also put him on the radar screen. If it were possible, Chris would have liked to bring the professor downtown for a full-scale interrogation. But there was no way that could be justified. Not yet. Meanwhile, he would have to make do with what was available.
Beginning with the first letter, the one addressed to Mason's neighbour, Chris compared the communications received from the killer (or, as he was careful to remind himself, presumably from the killer) with Lambert's letter to the editor. He didn't expect to find any stylistic or linguistic similarity, but maybe there would be something, some nuance, that would indicate they were sent by the same person. There wasn't. At least nothing he could spot. It was obvious that both the sender of the messages and Lambert entertained a high opinion of themselves, but that he already knew. Maybe the profiler could come up with something that he had missed. He would have Mavis take a look at them.
He would also have one of the Homicide detectives make some discreet inquiries. See if they could find out where Lambert might have been at the time of the murders. Almost certainly it would turn out to be a red herring, but in this business one couldn't afford to overlook any possibility.
"Your buddy, Forsyth, nearly got bail." Peter Blair sounded incredulous, and more than a little alarmed.
"What?" Chris held the receiver away from his ear and stared at it. "He's charged with first-degree murder, for Christ's sake! Premeditated murder."
"I know." The Crown prosecutor sighed. "It's almost unheard of for bail to be granted in a murder case, but it does happen. It damn near happened here. To begin with, we drew Justice Gourley."
"Jesus." Gourley was notorious for making things difficult for the Crown. So much so that on a couple of occasions he had been asked to recuse himself but had refused, and his refusal had been upheld by the Court of Appeal.
"Exactly. And, let's face it, the case against Forsyth is circumstantial. No eyewitness, no smoking gun. He's a highly respected member of the legal profession. The only thing that made Gourley think twice was the fact that Forsyth and his wife had been looking to buy a place in the Caribbean. I argued that made him a flight risk. It was a near thing, I can tell you."
"I didn't realize Myrden was going to make a bail application. He told me he was going to apply to have the charge dismissed."
"He is. He's just taking a different tack. He informed the court that he intended to ask for a preliminary inquiry."
Preliminary inquiries were no longer mandatory, but they could be requested by either the defence or the Crown. At the hearing, the Crown was obliged to disclose its case, but there was no risk to the defence. They weren't required to show their hand. Myrden would concentrate on attacking the Crown's case and the lack of hard evidence connecting his client to the crime.
"You'll be our lead witness at the inquiry, Chris. You and two rolls of duct tape. And an allegedly drugged escort, of course."
"I know. Circumstantial. But don't forget the motive, Pete. A very compelling motive."
"Motive. Your trademark. What is it you always say, Chris, find the motive and you find the perpetrator?"
"It works for me. Anyway, nothing has changed. Right from the get-go Myrden said he was going to have the charge dismissed."
"It'll be up to you to see that doesn't happen, Chris."
"Thanks. Thanks a bunch."
Chris was still frowning at the phone when the staff sergeant came out of his cubicle and informed him that the mayor had called a high-level conference and he was to attend. The meeting was to start at two o'clock in the mayor's office.
"The reason for this meeting," the mayor, Loretta Cyrcz, a large, dark-haired woman in her mid-forties, began, "is obvious. We have a vicious killer running loose in our community. The citizens"—She means voters, Chris thought to himself—"are asking why we can't seem to bring this monster to justice. I ask myself the same question. The killer's rampage has been going on for how long now?"
"Seven months, two weeks, and five days." Chris supplied the answer.
"Thank you," said the mayor, with a slight, ironic lift of a penciled eyebrow. "I see it's weighing on your mind as well."
"Of course," Chris muttered, earning an irritated look from Her Worship.
"Apart from your commendable command of the timeline," the mayor continued, "can we dare to hope that an arrest is imminent?"
"There has been one arrest," Chief Johnstone offered. Careful as always, Chris noted, not to call her by name. On occasion the mayor made political capital of her Ukrainian surname, laughingly introducing herself as "Loretta Eyechart." In English it was easily pronounced "search," but Johnstone never trusted himself with it.
"One arrest. For a murder that I understand does not form part of our serial killer's campaign. Isn't that correct?"
The Chief deflected the question to Chris with a motion of his hand.
"That's correct."
"The man you arrested, a well-known lawyer, has been charged with the murder of a fellow lawyer, Adrienne Vinney. I had the pleasure of meeting her once.At some oil company reception. A remarkably attractive, intelligent woman."
"We believe we have the right person in custody in that case."
"What you in the police call a righteous arrest?"
"Some do."
"But not you, Detective. Very well. Can we safely assume that her murder was not the work of the serial killer?"
"We believe it was a copycat murder."
"The killer, the real serial killer, has been operating in our midst for, as you pointed out, Detective Crane, more than seven months. Surely, in all that time, he must have left some clues behind. What about DNA? The victim puts up a struggle, scratches her attacker, and ends up with his DNA under her fingernails. That sort of thing." The mayor sighed. "Maybe I've been watching too much television. I guess things aren't that simple in real life."
"Unfortunately, Ms. Cyrcz, they're not. The only DNA at the crime scenes has been that of the victims. And so far as we can tell the victims' bodies show no sign of a struggle. It's hard to be sure about that because they were mutilated so severely, but that's how it looks. The medical examiner is of the same opinion."
"So where are we?"
"At this stage our best hope is that a member of the public will see something and phone it in, or the killer will make a mistake."
The chairman of the police commission stirred in his chair and spoke for the first time. "So what you're saying, Detective Crane, is that the police are reduced to relying on blind luck to solve this case?"
"Not quite, sir. Our investigation is ongoing. And there's always a chance the killer will give himself away."
"According to a press release, the reason for which I must say escapes me, the killer has been taunting the police. Sending them notes and e-mails."
"That's correct sir. We think it's him. Or her. Although it could also be someone playing games with us. On the plus side, when a serial killer starts sending messages to the police it often leads to their downfall. Deliberately or not, the messages sometimes contain clues that give the killer away."