After a restless night of fitful sleep, Chris decided to walk to work. It was early, and maybe inspiration would strike on the way. When he stepped off the elevator, the concierge slid out from behind his desk and hastened to open the imposing front door.
"Looks like there's something going on over there, Mr. Crane," he said, pointing to the cruiser parked at the curb beside the grassy riverbank. "It just arrived a few minutes ago."
"I'll check it out." The police vehicle, another Ford, was unoccupied and its lights were dark. Whatever it was, responding to it hadn't been classified as an emergency. Not yet anyway.
The empty wheelchair stood on the pedestrian path on the north side of the Elbow River. A constable, hatless (another sign things were cool), was talking to a young man dressed in running clothes. A cellphone was fastened to the elastic waist of his shorts. The police officer turned as if to intercept Chris, then raised his hand in an informal salute when he saw the badge. "We don't know what we're dealing with yet, Detective. This gentleman came across the wheelchair and called 911. He thinks it might be a case of suicide."
Chris peered over the riverbank. "I can see why he would think that." At this point, it dropped sharply away, and it would be easy enough for a disabled person to crawl over to the edge and fall in.
Taking latex gloves from his breast pocket, Chris squatted on his heels to examine the chair. While far from new, it looked to be in good repair.
"I called it in, Detective Crane. The fire department rescue squad is on the way."
"Good. Have you or this gentleman touched the chair, or handled it in any way?"
The policeman, looking slightly nonplused, shook his head and looked at the jogger, who did the same.
"Excellent. I'll have it bagged and taken to the lab. And," he told the officer, "I want this treated as a crime scene. I'll send for backup."
Flashing lights and the low growl of a powerful motor signalled the arrival of the rescue squad. Chris went to meet the three men clambering down from the truck and asked them to stay clear of the area around the chair.
"You figure it for a suicide?" the firefighter in charge asked. "Somebody gets tired of life in a wheel-chair and decides to end it?"
"That's one scenario. There could be another explanation."
The firefighter told the other two members of his squad that they would start by walking along the riverbank. At this point the fast-flowing river was narrow enough that they should be able to spot a body from there.
There was the tearing sound of Velcro as Chris lifted the seat cushion. "That won't be necessary," he said, staring down at the envelope taped to the leather seat. "This is no suicide." In newsprint letters, the plain white envelope was addressed, "deTecTive crane."
"Are you going to open it? It's addressed to you."
Chris shot a look, half exasperated, half amused, at the young constable. "Not yet. We'll let the lab have a look at it first."
The serial might be taking more risks, but not with his latest communication. No fingerprints, no DNA. The letters making up the message were all from the Sun. The "crane," no doubt, would be from the killer's stockpile of the window washer story.
Like its predecessors, the message was terse:
Once again, the question mark had been done by hand, in blue ink.
"He's not finished." Chris handed the photocopy to Gwen, sitting across the desk from him.
"So he thinks it's fun? The bastard! What he does to these—" Gwen's reply was cut off by the sudden shrill of the phone. Reaching for it, Chris checked the time on his Rolex. Eleven on the dot.
"This is Corporal Kanciar. There's been a fatal accident at the Bent Tree ranch. I thought you should know."
"What happened? Who's been killed?"
"Mrs. Taylor. Mrs. Taylor, Junior," he added before Chris could ask.
"How?"
"It's bad, Chris. You know that guard dog of theirs?"
"Blitzkrieg. He killed her?"
"Ripped her throat out. Lonechild is out there now. And I'm on my way."
"So am I."
Corporal Kanciar came forward to greet Chris, who was following a hired hand along the footpath to the stricken little group gathered around the body lying face up on the ground. "Ripped" was the word. Melanie's throat had disappeared into a raw gaping wound. Streams of bright red blood flowed down both sides of her neck, soaking the grass underneath. She had been knocked off the path by the force of the attack. There was no doubt that the terrible wound had killed her, but she would have bled out in any event.
"A dreadful business." The medical examiner, a family physician from Turner Valley, straightened up from his inspection of the corpse. "There's no doubt as to how she met her end. It's okay to move her."
"Just a moment," Chris interceded as two para-medics moved forward with a gurney. "I'd like a moment to check things out."
"There was no need to set up a crime scene," the RCMP corporal said, as if in response to some implied criticism on Chris's part. "This isn't a crime. It's just an unfortunate accident."
"Maybe. No doubt that it was the dog?"
"None." Kanciar nodded at Lonechild. "Tell him, Constable."
"The animal's muzzle was covered in blood, and his teeth were stained with it. His chest fur was matted with blood."
"You keep saying ‘was,' Constable. Where is the dog? I'd like to see him."
"He's dead."
"I shot him." Cameron Taylor weathered face was pale and grim.
"Understandable," Chris replied, looking at each member of the family in turn. He wouldn't have let them crowd around like this, but it was too late now. "You have my deepest sympathy."
The three of them nodded acknowledgement. Cam Taylor's eyes were moist, filled with tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. Phyllis, patrician as always, had a look of fastidious horror. Her husband was muttering the same barely audible words over and over. "That son of a bitch! May he rot in hell!"
"What son of a bitch, Cameron?" asked Chris, unfastening his field kit as he spoke.
"The son of a bitch who killed that bull of ours. If it hadn't been for that, none of this would have happened."
Chris knew what he meant. It was because of that incident that the guard dog had been turned loose to patrol the ranch. But why had he attacked? He was a trained guard dog. Maybe it was because she was running. That could do it. Or the smell of her sweat. Maybe she was menstruating. No, that was sharks. Could Melanie menstruate? Not without a uterus.
While these thoughts ran through his head, Chris took a sample of Melanie's blood and popped it into a glass tube.
"Is that really necessary, Chris?" asked Phyllis with a moue of distaste.
"Force of habit," replied Chris, contriving to look somewhat sheepish. "Now I'd like to look at the dog."
"Constable Lonechild will show you where he is," said Kanciar. "I'll take statements from these people. It won't take long," he was assuring them as Chris followed the Mountie back along the path. Their route took them some distance away from the main stable yard where a small crowd of neighbours and media representatives had assembled. They were being held in check by a Mountie in the scarlet full dress uniform of the force. He must have been pulled off some ceremonial function.
The dog had been shot once in the back of the head. "The bullet passed through his head and buried itself in the ground." Lonechild pointed to a neat hole in the hard-packed earth.
"Good. I'll retrieve it in a moment." There were no powder burns on Blitzkrieg's head. Taylor, who had been devoted to the animal, would have stood some distance away when he shot him. Probably ordered the dog to sit and stay. Most likely he would have used a rifle. There wasn't a casing lying around, but that didn't mean anything. Cameron would have picked it up.
As Lonechild had described, the German shepherd's muzzle was covered with blood, and its chest was streaked with it. Chris took a DNA sample of the blood from its open mouth.
"Not much doubt about where it came from, is there?" asked Lonechild as Chris, using needle-nose pliers from his kit, extracted the spent bullet from the ground.
"True. But I believe in collecting every bit of evidence there is."
The Mountie nodded thoughtfully, absorbing what he said.
"Once more unto the breach, dear friends," Chris murmured, squaring his shoulders as they headed toward the waiting media scrum.
"Shakespeare. King Henry V. The king rallies the troops before the battle of Harfleur." Lonechild smiled. "I majored in English Lit at university."
Before Chris could frame an appropriate response, their eyes were assailed with a barrage of electronic flashes. He gave her a collegial grin as they were engulfed by the media. The reporters' excitement abated somewhat when he assured them that his being there did not mean there was a connection with the serial killings.
"What we are dealing with is a tragic accident, not a crime," he told them. "The Mounties are investigating it, and the corporal in charge will be along shortly to answer your questions."
"Okay, Crane, then tell us about the body in the Devonian Gardens. What about the wheelchair? And the word is the killer left a note."
Chris gestured with his hands to quell the clamour. "Okay. I'll give you a statement. Yes, a wheelchair has been recovered. We believe it to be directly connected with the body that was found in the Gardens. And there was a note, but you will understand that I cannot reveal its contents." Turning, he pointed up the path. "I see Corporal Kanciar is coming to join us, and I now turn you over to him. He's all yours."
The media scrum reluctantly turned their attention to the Mountie, and Chris went over to join Phyllis, now standing a little bit apart from the other two members of her family.
"Has Sarah been told?" he asked.
She turned to stare at him. Starting to speak, she choked and swallowed several times. "Sorry. My mouth is dry. No, she hasn't been. There hasn't been time. But she has to know. Will you call her, Chris? Please. I've got her Harrisburg phone numbers." Extracting a business card from her wallet, she showed Chris the numbers written on the back. "This one is her hotel, and that one is the stable. Go in the house and call from there."
Inside the Taylor home, paintings of aggressively Western scenes—cattle grazing in fields, mountain peaks under a Chinook arch, cowboys cooking around a campfire—adorned the walls. Framed black-and-white photographs of Cameron's grandparents stared sternly down from the fireplace mantel.
A housemaid, casual in jeans and T-shirt, showed him into Cameron's study-cum-office.
"A terrible thing," she said in hushed tones.
"Awful," agreed Chris.
"She was a very nice lady," the maid declared as she left him.
Mildly surprised at this remark, Chris sat down and began to dial. He tried the stable first, and the woman who answered told him that Sarah was at one of the outdoor rings watching her daughter ride.
"Would you get her for me? And make sure it's someplace where we can speak privately?"
"That's awful," Sarah whispered. "To be killed like that. And just as she was beginning to enjoy her life."
"Phyllis said much the same thing. How Melanie seemed to have a more positive attitude."
"She did. She seemed to have arrived at a decision and was determined to turn her life around and make a go of things there. She was happier, and beginning to reach out to other people. That fitness kick of hers was part of that new approach." Sarah sighed. "How's that for irony?"
"It's ironic, all right. Being attacked by a dog that's part of your family."
"Blitzkreig was not exactly part of the family," she replied after a thoughtful pause. "There was something wrong with him back in the spring. I wonder if that could have had anything to do with what happened."
"What do you mean?"
"He was sick for quite a spell. Really sick. Needed to stay in a veterinary clinic to be treated. I remember Cameron being a little upset because it was right at the height of the calving season."
"I thought that's what donkeys are for. What was wrong with him? Do you know?"
"According to Cameron it was some kind of canine virus." Again Sarah paused. "You don't suppose it could have affected his brain? Made him crazed enough to attack Melanie?"
"It's possible I suppose. I must say, I've never heard of anything like that. I bet Cameron is thinking along those lines right now. Wondering if he should have had the dog put down instead of having him treated by a vet."
"It all seems to go back to that bull being killed. Are you anywhere close to finding out who's responsible for the cattle killings?"
"Not really. I've identified one possible suspect. He fits the profile, but there's no evidence against him. McRae was on the list for a spell, but he's pretty well alibied out." Chris sighed ruefully. "I'm batting zero for one hundred at the moment. This business, and a serial who keeps on killing and laughing at me."
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, there's someone who thinks you're wonderful."
"Oh? Who might that be?"
"Linda. She was impressed with you before, but now that she's been on this course, it's become a case of hero worship. Her instructors talk about you. How good you were. They can't understand why you gave up show jumping to become a policeman."
"The way things have been going recently, maybe I should have stuck with the horses." Brightening, Chris asked, "How's she making out on her course? Acing it, I bet."
"She's loving it. Everything about it. She's discovered dressage. Says it makes a horse respond better between jumps."
"It does. It will also open up some new challenges for her in the horse show world. Are you going to tell her about this?"
"Not yet. Not until she finishes the course and we're on our way home. God, Chris, this is so awful! I still can't believe it happened. Tell Phyllis how sorry I am, and that I'll call her."
As soon as Chris drove into the police parking lot he was accosted by a fuming Steve Mason. "What the hell are you playing at, Crane? Sucking up to your fancy high-society friends when we've got a serial killer on our hands."
There was enough truth in Mason's charge to make Chris flinch. He was uncharacteristically defensive as he replied, "You know as well as I do, Steve, that you can't spend all your time on one case. You have to wait on new developments, new leads."
"Your ass is out a mile on this one, Crane. You're the killer's pet. He's playing games with you. And he's winning. Johnstone is really feeling the heat, and he don't like it. Not one little bit."
"The entire section's ass is on the line too, Steve. We should all be working together on this."
A somewhat contrite Mason conceded, "I guess you're right. But, goddammit, Chris, you know better.
You shouldn't be spending all your time chasing some punk who's killing cows. Not when we've got a mass murderer on the loose."
"What this punk did led to a woman being killed. Maybe not directly, but certainly indirectly."
"Yeah, I heard about that. She a friend of yours?"
"I knew her."
"It's not in our jurisdiction."
"I know that. Think of it as a case of co-operation between two law enforcement agencies. The Chief is big on that."
"You know how the game is played, don't you, Crane? Anyway, it's late. I'm going to have a beer with Gord at the Cuff. He's over there. Waiting for me."
Mason pointed to where a middle-aged man wearing a black short-sleeved T-shirt stood beside a tan sedan three rows over. Physically, Ralston was an imposing figure. Taller than his friend Mason, he looked to be in much better condition: his shoulders and chest were broad, and his waist, while thick, was in proportion to the rest of him. At this distance Chris couldn't make out the details of his facial features, but he recalled Ralston as having a badly flattened nose. According to police lore it was a souvenir of a long-ago scuffle with a car thief. Other versions had it the result of an off-duty barroom brawl. His car was one of the Japanese makes, but Chris couldn't tell which one. So they still let Ralston use the parking lot. Conveniently located at the corner of 6th Avenue and 3rd Street East, two blocks east of headquarters, it was run by the Police Association for the exclusive use of members. Technically, Ralston was not entitled to park there, but obviously no one was inclined to make an issue of it.
"Gordon Ralston? He's going to the Cuff?" The Cuff ‘Em Bar catered to off-duty police and was their favourite watering hole. Mason's imposing beer belly bore eloquent testimony to his faithful attendance.
"Sure. Why the hell not? He gets along with the guys. They know he got a raw deal. He didn't deserve to be kicked off the force like that."
As he walked the short distance to the Andrew Davison building, Chris admitted to himself that there was something in what Mason had said about his getting so involved in the cattle case. But, damn it, he wasn't neglecting the serial killer investigation. They had followed up every lead, investigated the background of the victims, and it was never out of his mind. Besides, it looked like the cattle mutilation case had led to Melanie Taylor being killed. Indirectly, granted, but it was the first link in the fatal chain of events that resulted in her gruesome death. It was because of Apollo being shot and mutilated that Blitzkreig had been turned loose on his own to patrol the ranch. Anyway, if there was a conflict, the best way to resolve it was to track down the vandal or vandals who was playing hell with the ranchers' livestock and get that out of the way. And he knew where to start.