Ranches in southern Alberta were in for another rash of cattle mutilations. Chris paused in the act of knotting his tie when the newscaster mentioned the well-known rancher, Cameron Taylor, a past president of the Stampede, whose prize bull, Bent Tree's Apollo IV, had been shot and mutilated. The attack, similar to those suffered by other ranches in the area in previous years, had been discovered early that morning when a ranch hand went out to check on the valuable animal in the field where he was pastured.
As soon as he arrived in his office Chris placed a call to the RCMP detachment in Turner Valley. He didn't know anyone there, but when he identified himself, he was put through to the corporal in charge.
"One of our officers is out there now," Corporal Kanciar told Chris. "But if it's like all the others, she won't come up with anything useful. It was a headshot. We'll recover the bullet, but it won't be traceable. None of the people out here register their weapons."
"The Taylors are good friends of mine. I'd like to help. I know it's not in my jurisdiction, but would you mind if I and a member of my team took a look at the scene?"
"No problem. I'll let Constable Lonechild know you're coming, and have her secure the scene until you arrive."
"Constable Lonechild." Gwen pronounced the name slowly, savouring it, as they drew up to the little group standing around a RCMP cruiser. "Female and First Nations. Two quotas in one. Good for them! Totally awesome!" she breathed as the Mountie came forward to greet them. Tall, her slim waist and wide shoulders set off by the khaki tunic and Sam Browne belt, she had the coal black eyes and light saffron skin of her race.
The other members of the little group hung back while the police officers introduced themselves. The Mountie knew that the two city detectives were working what she called the "outdoor privy case." She also had been informed that Chris was a good friend of the Taylor family, which explained why they were taking an interest in the case of the mutilated bull.
"Thank you for coming, Chris," said Phyllis Taylor as they shook hands. "With your help we may catch these perverts who prey on helpless animals."
"A bad business," agreed Chris.
Her husband waved a hand to acknowledge the new arrivals but remained by the gate, the German shepherd rigid at his side. Blitzkrieg wore a studded collar but no leash. His ears pricked forward, his golden brown eyes stared unblinkingly at the two detectives, but not a muscle moved in his statue-like pose. During his past social visits Chris had not had any contact with the guard dog, apart from seeing him at a distance patrolling the borders of the ranch. The dog was kennelled outside and was never in the house. A young man in faded jeans and plaid shirt was the third member of the little trio. He would be the ranch hand who had discovered the dead bull. With a slight shake of his head Cameron indicated that Chris should keep his distance.
The two detectives quickly slipped into their prophylactic clothing and lifted the crime scene equipment out of the van. The dog gave a warning growl deep in his throat and looked up at his master as the detectives, wearing masks, white coveralls, and latex gloves, walked toward the gate. Cameron said something and they moved off to one side.
The bull pasture was more of a corral than a pasture; the walls were high and constructed of thick planks some thirty centimetres apart. The heavy gate was fastened with a latch, but not locked.
"We'll dust for prints," said Chris as Gwen photographed the latch. "Although I doubt we'll find anything useful. Too much traffic."
The grass inside the fence was thick and cropped short. Scrunching down, Gwen sprayed the ground and photographed wherever there was the slightest indentation that might yield a footprint, leaving an identification marker at each spot.
"Thank God for cowboy boots and their high heels," she muttered.
"Which all the men out here wear. Women too," Chris corrected himself. Phyllis Taylor was wearing cowboy boots. Gleaming black with a floral design etched in white. Unzipping the canvas bag he was carrying over his shoulder, he took out swabs and test tubes.
The Hereford bull was lying on its right side; the broad white blaze down the front of its head was matted in blood still oozing from the bullet hole in the forehead. More blood stained the left side of the massive head where its ear had been severed. Waving off the buzzing flies, Chris confirmed that only the ears had been removed. A strangely restrained mutilation that was identical to the previous cases. The general public had not been informed about the precise nature of the mutilations, but the information had been included in the bulletins circulated to other police forces in the area.
"The guy has a thing for ears," he muttered, slapping at a fly that persisted in landing on his cheek.
"Which is kind of weird, when you think about it," Gwen replied as she placed markers on the ground to identify the photos she was about to take. "You would expect something more exotic, like the testicles."
"They took the ears with them." Despite the bright sunlight Gwen was using the Nikon's flash as she snapped off a series of rapid fire shots.
"Trophies. That could be helpful. Trophies have been the downfall of many criminals. There's no better evidence than a collection of souvenirs taken from the victims."
"As in Dahmer."
"The most celebrated example of all. It was the body parts in his fridge that finally did him in." Chris waved at the Mountie, who had stayed behind while they examined the ground, signalling her to join them, then bent down to collect blood samples. The blood would almost certainly prove to be from the bull, but it still had to be checked.
They had an audience when they walked back out: a small crowd of neighbouring ranchers, plus several members of the press, conspicuous with their tape recorders and cameras. The spectators were held back by crime scene tape. Corporal Kanciar had sent reinforcements, two constables who had stationed themselves at either end of the tape.
Blitzkrieg was being led away, pacing obediently at the side of the hired hand.
"What brings you here, Detective Crane?" one of the reporters called out. "A bit of a comedown for you, isn't it? Has TLC taken to killing livestock?"
"We don't think so." Chris smiled good-naturedly and walked over to talk to the journalists. "We're here to help the RCMP in their investigation. The killing and mutilation of ranch animals is a serious problem that has been going on far too long. The Mounties are determined to bring the criminals to justice. That's why we're here." He went to on to talk about the outbreaks of this type of random vandalism that had occurred in recent years, and that it had to be stopped. Gratified that he had given them something to file, they accepted with good grace his "You know I can't comment on that" answer to the inevitable question about the serial killer investigation.
While chatting with the reporters Chris cast a seemingly casual eye over the onlookers. He recognized the majority of them as participants in last Sunday's outing, both riders and non-riders. Some smiled and gave discreet little waves, clearly intrigued by seeing him in his role as a police detective.
There were no objections when Chris asked for consent samples from those who had been in the pasture legitimately to look at the carcass. They were to stand on specially treated pads to leave an impression of their footwear, then have photos taken of the soles of their boots, provide DNA samples, and be fingerprinted. The grass in the bull's paddock was dense and cropped short, so it hadn't yielded much in the way of footprints. Still, there was a procedure to be followed.
"It's just to see if the vandal or vandals may have left any trace of themselves," he assured them. "In order to do this, we need to eliminate any traces you might have left." In answer to a question from Cam, he promised that the data would be destroyed and no records of it kept when it had served its purpose.
"Phyllis was there, too." Cameron Taylor beckoned to his wife, and she ducked under the crime tape to join them. Seeing that there was nothing for them to sit on, one of the neighbours offered his cane with the folding seat he used while watching outdoor equestrian events. One by one they perched on it, holding up their legs so Gwen could photograph the soles of their boots. Then she swabbed their mouths for DNA and Chris fingerprinted them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Melanie stop and stare at the spectacle. She was fitted out for jogging—white shorts, athletic bra showing through her thin white shirt, and running shoes. Wiping the perspiration from her face with the towel draped around her neck, she shook her head in wonder and skirted around the rear of the crowd, arms held chest high in a passable version of a power walk. Probably can't understand all this fuss over a dead bull, thought Chris.
Saying, "We're done here," he told the Mounties they could take down the tape. He would remain on the scene for a while, mingling with the onlookers on the off chance he might learn something useful. They were more than mere onlookers. They were here to show support for the Taylors and solidarity against the unknown vandals. He nodded sympathetically when a rancher, one who had ridden alongside him for a spell on Sunday, growled, "I hate to see a good animal wasted like that." This was met with murmurs of agreement.
"You guys come up with any clues?" another rancher demanded, pushing a stained white Stetson up from an overheated face.
"Nothing that leaps out at you," responded Chris. "We'll know better when the lab has a look at what we've collected."
"I simply cannot understand why the police just can't seem to find out who is doing this. It happens every year and nobody is ever arrested." The speaker was a middle-aged woman, lean as a fence post, with a lined, leathery face under her wide-brimmed hat.
"Give the detectives a chance, Jean," remonstrated the man, almost certainly her husband, standing next to her. "They've just been brought into the picture. Maybe they'll come up with something with all that fancy forensic stuff." Turning to Chris, he held out his hand. "If you're as good a detective as you are a horseman, Crane, this bastard will be behind bars in no time."
"We'll sure do our best." Tugging a bale of straw down from a stack, Chris stepped up on it and looked out at the crowd. Counting the Taylors and the ranch hand, there were thirty-eight of them.
"Whether you realize it or not," he began, "you who live and ranch in the area represent the best hope of bringing the perpetrator or perpetrators of these cruel and senseless attacks to justice. You who are familiar with everything that goes on around here are the most likely to spot anything out of the ordinary. We ask you to remain vigilant, be on the lookout for anything that strikes you as being different. It doesn't have to be suspicious, just different. If you see anything like that, please contact the RCMP in Turner Valley immediately. You can speak to Constable Lonechild or the corporal in charge of the detachment. If they're not there, talk to any officer who is. They will pass whatever you tell them on to us in Calgary."
While Chris was speaking, Gwen videotaped his audience as unobtrusively as possible.
"It don't seem right," a rancher, the same one who had deplored the waste of a good animal, protested. "Spying on your neighbours like that, reporting them to the police. That's like what they do in communist countries."
"I hear what you're saying, sir." Chris, who had been about to step down, lifted his foot back up onto the straw bale. "We're not asking you to become police informers. Or anything remotely like that. What we're asking is very specific and temporary. It will be over and done with just as soon as the culprit is apprehended, and your livestock is once more safe from attack."
"He's right, Ben," someone said, and there was a general murmur of assent.
"What will happen to this damn pervert when you catch him?" called out a rancher in the rear row.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. We'll try to deserve it." Chris's smile turned grim. "He will go to jail. Section 444 of the Criminal Code provides that anyone who wilfully kills, maims, or injures cattle is guilty of an indictable offence and liable to imprisonment for a term of up to five years."
"Are you saying that the Criminal Code deals specifically with cattle?" asked the rancher.
"It does. Shows just how vulnerable cattle can be to vandalism. Turned out to graze in open fields, they make easy targets."
"Well, Chris." Phyllis was waiting for him as he jumped down from the hay bale. "Your reputation may not have preceded you, but it certainly has caught up to you. Walter Murray made a few telephone calls to some horsey friends back East, and now everybody knows about your illustrious career as a show jumper. People find it fascinating that a well-known detective is also a famous horseman."
"I'll do my best not to disappoint them. I must say, however, that Melanie didn't seem all that impressed. She looked at us as if we had gone mad when we were doing our thing with the boots. Speaking of Melanie, I had no idea she was a fitness buff."
"It's a very recent thing with her. She says it's a way to pass the time out here in the sticks, but I have a feeling it's more than that. Maybe it's just wishful thinking on our part, but she seems to have a more positive attitude lately. She misses Sarah. They've become very good friends." She paused, then added with a roguish little smile. "She's not the only one who misses Sarah, is she, Chris?"
"I'm sure we all will rejoice to have her back," he replied with mock gravity.
"There's a good chance that the person we're looking for is in this bunch." Chris lightly tapped the computer screen.
"As in the funeral syndrome?" Gwen asked. "It worked in the Vinney case."
"But that wasn't much of a test. As a friend of the victim it was natural for Tom Forsyth to attend."
"Some friend!"
Chris acknowledged her point with a rueful smile, then turned to the profiler. "What about it, Mavis? Can you spot a likely cattle mutilator in that merry little band?"
"That would be asking too much, " she said without taking her extraordinary eyes off the screen. "That's a remarkably homogeneous collection of people. They all have the same look. Outdoorsy. Weatherbeaten. Not only Caucasian, but Anglo-Saxon. Celtic. Very attractive in their own way. You can tell they're ranchers."
"See anyone else of particular interest?"
"They all look worried. Not surprising. I'm looking for a young person, or more likely persons—it's a young person's sort of crime. Almost mischievous, in an evil way. But these people aren't young. At least not that young. Zero in on that guy, off to one side. The one with the plaid shirt. Bring up his face. There—"
Before she could say anything more, a detective gave a cursory knock on the door of the interview room and stuck his head in to announce in a slightly awestruck tone that there was an RCMP constable with some files for Detective Crane.
"Bring her in," said Chris, grinning. No need to guess who it was.
"Here is the physical evidence." Constable Lonechild put a cardboard box down on Chris's desk. "It's not much. Most of the stuff—photos, interviews, and so on—is in the computer. The corporal has given you the access code, I believe."
"That's right. We'll be getting to it shortly." Chris introduced her to Mavis Ross, then pointed to the close-up of the man Mavis had picked out. "Do you recognize him?"
"It's Mr. McRae. Angus McRae. He owns the Lazy Z."
There was a silence for a moment as they stared at the unlovely visage filling the screen. Unkempt black eyebrows scowled over squinty eyes framed in a web of wrinkles, the bridge of the nose had been flattened in some past encounter, and the cheeks and chin were covered with dark stubble.
"Has McRae lost any livestock to the vandals?" Chris asked the Mountie.
"A bull. Three years ago, I think. Yes, it was three years ago."
"A valuable animal?"
"I don't know. It was old, I remember that."
"Is McRae popular with his fellow ranchers? Well respected?" This from the profiler.
"I can't answer that. I do know that the Lazy Z is pretty rundown. Cattle keep escaping and running around the countryside. That doesn't sit too well with the other ranchers. Once, two years ago, one of his bulls broke out and got into another rancher's field and bred some of his prize cows. There was a big stink about that."
"I can imagine," Chris murmured, briefly entertained by the scene her account had conjured up. "All right, Mavis, tell us what you find so fascinating about the worthy Mr. McRae."
The profiler shot a questioning glace at the uniformed Mountie, then, when Chris nodded, said, "He's the only one who doesn't look worried. He looks angry, mad at something. I know," she went on, overriding Gwen's interjection. "Anger is an appropriate emotion for a rancher under these circumstances. It's what one would expect. But there's something more in his expression. He's puzzled. And upset. I'm not saying he's the one," she added after a pause. "I'm just saying he's the most likely candidate in the group. The perpetrator could be someone completely different. Someone who wasn't there."
"Nonetheless, it's worth following up." Chris swivelled in his seat to look at Lonechild. "Was McRae ever questioned about his whereabouts when the attacks occurred?"
"No. There was no reason to. He wasn't a suspect. We didn't have a suspect."
"Do I take it then that none of the local people were asked to account for themselves?"
"That's right. We figured it had to be townies. No rancher would treat animals like that."
"I see. Okay, I'm going to suggest to Corporal Kanciar that McRae be questioned as to where he was and what he was doing last night. He can't very well claim not to remember. Some of the others should be questioned as well, so he doesn't think he's being singled out."
An hour later, Chris pushed his chair back. "Well, Gwen, we've been through every piece of evidence in the RCMP files. What have we learned?"
"I would say we have learned that most, if not all, of the earlier incidents—if that's what we're going to call them—were carried out by the same perpetrator. And it looks like it's just one person."
"Based on?"
"Footprints, mainly. If the Mounties didn't do a full-scale crime scene investigation, they at least took photographs. The scene was pretty contaminated, but there were some fairly distinct impressions around the head. That would be where our guy squatted down to do the cutting. Very neat and surgical according to the reports."
"Apollo's wounds didn't look all that surgical. Let's have a close-up of them." When the photos appeared on the screen, Chris muttered, "I sure wouldn't call that surgical. More of a hack job, I would say."
"Especially where the right ear was. You can see where there were several abortive cuts before it was finally severed."
"Maybe that's why McRae looked upset. Amateurs horning in on his act."
Just before they were about to call it a day, Corporal Kanciar called in to report that McRae had an alibi. "I paid a call to the Lazy Z just after supper," he told them. "Both he and his wife stated that after doing the chores, they watched TV until ten, then went to bed and slept until the alarm went off at six."
"Do you believe her? He looks like the sort of guy a wife would be scared of."
"She's pretty scary herself. They're both drinkers, and rumour has it that they knock each other around from time to time. But she's never filed a complaint, and they're isolated as hell out there on the ranch." Kanciar paused. "Yeah, I believe her. I think her evidence would stand up in court."
Apart from the cattle mutilations, there had been no complaints recorded at the Turner Valley detachment that could be connected in any way with animal abuse. The Calgary police files were more rewarding. Over the past five years, there had been twelve complaints of cruelty to animals. Nearly all the complaints had been made by neighbours and involved teenagers. All had been investigated. Two had been found to be groundless. Some others had been resolved with stern warnings from the police. Three had led to charges being laid, and one, the most heinous, had resulted in jail time for the offender. He was convicted of cruelty of animals, specifically the torture and killing of cats, and sentenced to six months imprisonment to be served in the Calgary Young Offenders Centre. Since he was seventeen at the time his identity was protected under the Youth Criminal Justice Act. That had been four years ago, which would make him twenty-one. No longer a teenager.
Which could pose a problem, Chris cautioned himself. Male teenagers changed as they matured and the rush of hormones levelled off; teenage gangs broke up and the members went their separate ways. Still, the torture of the unfortunate cats had been so extreme, so fiendish, that cruelty must be deeply embedded in the perpetrator's genes. The animals had been disembowelled and the toms castrated. The investigating officer had been one Constable Hibbell. Chris didn't know him, but that was easily fixed.
"Sure, I remember the case." Henry Hibbell, two years retired from the police service, motioned Chris to take one of the lawn chairs. He had been cultivating the tiny patch of garden in his backyard when Chris arrived. "The little bastard was kinda unforgettable, know what I mean? Bright as hell and with a fuck-you attitude. But at the same time, kind of likeable, know what I mean?"
"Tell me about him. Starting with his name."
"Mark Leonard. His father is the CEO of some oil company. Lives in Mount Royal." Hibbell gave a reminiscent shake of his head. "Leonard would never look you right in the eye. Always turned his face sideways. I took hold of his head once and made him look straight at me. I'll never forget the hate in his eyes when I did that. It took me a while to figure out why."
"And what was the reason?"
"His ears. They were different. One was big and really stuck out and the other one was small and kind of twisted in on itself. Know what I mean? They didn't look too bad if you didn't see them both at the same time."
"Jesus!"
"Struck a nerve, have I?"
"You have for sure. It may be coincidence, but listen to this."
"It fits! By God, it fits!" Hibbell breathed after Chris had filled him in on the cattle killings. "It's just the kind of thing the little prick would do. You're going to keep me in the loop on this, Crane?"
"You got it. Does Leonard live with his family?"
"He did back then. His family tried to do the right thing. Visited him at the centre, sent him to a shrink when he got out. But he was too much for them. He moved out, or was kicked out. I don't know which." He paused as his wife, gently waved grey hair framing her pleasant face, brought them coffee and date squares.
"Do you know if he still lives in Calgary?"
"Yeah, I know. He does. I see you look surprised, Crane. But I've kind of kept my eye on Mark Leonard. Can't seem to get him out of my mind. He's a stone killer. I'm almost positive he'll graduate to killing people. If he hasn't already. He's got a mean streak a mile wide."
"What does he do for a living?"
"Deals drugs. He's a distributor, not one of the top guys."
"I suppose you just might know where he lives?"
"In the Beltline. In an apartment in the 600 block. I'll write out the address for you when you leave."
"Does he live alone?"
"Yeah. Except for the snake."
"He keeps snakes?"
"One snake. A real monster. Never seen it myself, but that's what the beat constable tells me. Mark Leonard is one creepy guy."
"Those squares are absolutely delicious." Chris told Mrs. Hibbell when she came out with a fresh pot of coffee.
"If the snake is that big it must be a boa constrictor," Chris remarked when the kitchen screen door closed behind Hibbell's wife.
"Bigger. Much bigger. The other people in the building say it's some kind of python. They don't like it one bit. They've complained to the landlord, but he refuses to do anything. Maybe Leonard is his supplier."
"A snake like that could require live food."
"Yeah. Leonard's neighbours don't like that either. Every week or so he brings chickens home to feed the brute. Quite open about it, apparently. He's not so open about the cats and small dogs he traps and smuggles into his apartment."
"Creepy. Like you said. I need to talk to the officer who patrols the area."
"Bob Lavoy. He works out of District 1, and he's pretty tight with some of the people who live in the area. He keeps me up to speed on Leonard." The retired police officer paused to stir his coffee. "I've got his DNA," he added with an attempt at offhandedness that didn't quite come off.
"You do?"
"I know what you're thinking. Young offenders charged with minor crimes can't be compelled to give a DNA sample. But Leonard was a smoker. Still is, probably. I fixed him up with a package of Players Light. There's a couple of butts in my safe. They could never be used as evidence against him, but ..."
"But they could tell us whether or not he was connected to a crime."
Chris, with the cigarette butts in an envelope on the seat beside him, drove out of the Killarney district and headed downtown on 17th Avenue. The only problem was that there had been no DNA collected at the past crime scenes and the perpetrator hadn't left any behind in the Taylor case. But the ears!