"Now that you've finished that cattle bullshit and arrested a suspect, maybe you'll pay some attention to our file. A little matter of a serial killer running wild in our city. If you remember." Mason's temper was not improved by having had to wait for Chris for the better part of an hour. He was stretching things when he called it "our file," but Chris let it pass.
"Unfortunately, I don't think that ‘cattle bullshit,' as you so aptly call it, is over. Not quite, and not yet. What's that? Another billet-doux from our friendly killer?" Chris eyed the single sheet of paper in the detective's meaty hand.
"Yeah." Mason gave the photocopy to him. "Our boy has taken a real fancy to you."
In what now seemed to be the killer's preferred format, the message was in newspaper print and the question mark was handwritten:
Intent on the killer's words, Chris at first only half-heard Mason's description of how the message had been delivered. "It was tucked behind the windshield wiper of one of our patrol cars, for Christ's sake! In an envelope with my name on it."
"Where was the cruiser when this happened?" demanded Chris.
"Parked on a street in Forest Lawn, responding to a domestic disturbance complaint. And," Mason went on, "the complaint checked out. It was genuine. The serial must have seen the cruiser and jumped at the chance."
"More likely, he would have followed it and waited till the officers were inside. How many responded to the call?"
"Just one. He didn't see anything. He was too busy dealing with the situation. The husband was a mean drunk." Mason gave the photocopied message a contemptuous look. "He knows you're sucking up to that reporter."
"I'm not sucking up to him. I'm using him. He could be a source. Maybe a way to flush our killer out in the open."
Mason snorted. "More likely you're his source," he said and turned away.
Of course Dummett was using him as a source. That's the way these things worked. The police dealt with outside sources all the time, and there was always a quid pro quo. Something in it for both parties—a decision to drop charges, money paid to the snitch, revenge on the part of the source. In this case it was a chance at the inside track. Chris's musings were interrupted by the sight of Gwen letting herself in, the door automatically closing behind her. Chris waved her over, but she was heading for him anyway.
"There's another message from TLC," he told her. "But first, what's your news?"
"Are you ready for this?" asked Gwen with an air of suppressed excitement. "Mr. Joseph Leonard, Mark Leonard's father, is here to see you."
Chris tilted back in his chair for a moment, then said, "I'll go down and meet him." Handing her the copy of the TLC communication, he said, "Have a look at this while I'm gone."
The man standing in the first floor foyer was short, like his son, and, except for an incipient paunch, slender. His ears, although inclined to stick out, were normal. Was he now programmed to go through the rest of his life studying people's ears? Chris wondered.
"I'm Detective Crane. You wanted to see me?" It didn't seem appropriate to offer to shake hands.
"I understand you're in charge of the case against my son, Mark?"
"Correct. Give me a moment to find someplace where we can talk."
When they were seated in an interview room on the second floor, Chris said, "I'm sure you're aware, Mr. Leonard, that there is very little I can say to you." He sat at one end of the table, rather than directly across, so as not to be in an adversarial position vis-à-vis Leonard. "Your son has been charged and the evidence against him will come out in court in due time. I understand he's now out on bail, which you posted."
"That's right, but that's not why I'm here." Leaning forward in his chair, Leonard gripped the edge of the desk with both hands and stared earnestly at Chris. "I know my son is troubled and has done some unacceptable things in the past."
That understatement brought a lifted eyebrow from Chris, then he nodded sympathetically as Leonard mentioned how he and his wife had tried to help Mark—taken him to psychiatrists, therapy sessions, behavioural consultants. "You name it, we've done it. But that's not why I'm here," he went on. "My son had nothing to do with that cattle mutilation at the Taylor ranch. Nothing."
"It fits the pattern," Chris retorted. Why did he feel a stirring of disquiet?
"I don't know about that. What I do know is that Mark couldn't have done it. He was with his mother and me. In Toronto," he added, when he saw Chris's skeptical look. "You don't have to take our word for it. Let me show you." Reaching into his breast pocket, he spread ticket stubs and a hotel receipt out on the desk.
"There are only two airline stubs," Chris pointed out. "That doesn't prove anything."
"I know. Mark had the other one. He's probably thrown it away. But that's not important. What is important, is this." He turned the hotel receipt around so Chris could read it. "Look. Two rooms. Four nights. We checked out early in the morning to catch a flight back to Calgary. The same day they found the dead bull on the Taylor ranch. Mark was right there with us when we checked out of The Four Seasons hotel. And look at this." His finger traced several items in the account. "We took a lot of our meals in the hotel. Always in the Studio Café on the mezzanine floor. The servers were friendly and we got to know some of them. Especially one. A woman. Marge. She remembered us because of the trouble they took to find some non-alcoholic wine for my wife, who doesn't touch alcohol. This Marge was the one who served the three of us on our last night. Late. We had been to see a play, What The Doctor Knew. She will confirm that Mark was with us if you show her his photo."
"Interesting. And I assure you it will be followed up. But I must tell you that the evidence against your son in the earlier incidents is compelling. Conclusive, actually. So I'm not sure I know why you're telling me this."
"It's because of the Taylors. I want them to know it wasn't my son who killed that bull and caused the terrible thing that happened to them. I've met Cameron a couple of times, although I can't claim to really know him. But I have a tremendous respect for the man and his family and what they represent. Pioneers. I've been told you're a good friend of theirs. I want you to tell Cameron Taylor that Mark had nothing to do with the tragedy that has befallen them."
"Why don't you tell Mr. Taylor yourself?"
"I tried. But I can't get through to him. All I get is voice mail, and he doesn't return my calls. You will tell him, won't you?"
"As I said, we will be looking into your story. If it checks out, I will convey the information to Mr. Taylor."
"That's all I ask. Thank you, sir."
It would be a simple matter to check Leonard's alibi. All he had to do was fax the photo taken at the time of the little bastard's arrest to the Toronto police and have them contact the hotel. Picking up the phone to set this in motion, Chris knew that the alibi would stand up. It was too transparent not to. So, where to go from here?
Blitzkreig. He was a trained guard dog, but did that explain the bloodchilling ferocity of the attack that had killed Melanie? Maybe she had startled him, stumbled upon him unexpectedly. But Melanie was part of the household. However, as Sarah had said on the phone, Blitzkreig was not what you would call a family pet. And there was no doubt that he had killed Melanie. He would talk to the experts—the members of the K-9 squad.
Gwen waited until he had finished his phone call before handing the copy of TLC's note back to him.
"That fame business is interesting. Do you suppose he's ready to give himself up? Let the world know what he's done?"
Chris shook his head. "That's not the way I read it. It's more like he intends to pull off something even more sensational—" Suddenly he broke off. Jesus! Sarah had called him last night, concerned that maybe she should return home to see if she could help the Taylors in some way. She had talked to Phyllis earlier, who had told her there was no need. There wasn't going to be a funeral for Melanie. They would hold a memorial service, but that would be weeks away.
"Phyllis is right," he had assured her, vastly relieved. "There's absolutely no reason for you to come back here. Linda needs you more than anyone here. Except maybe me," he'd added, earning one of her delightful laughs. He had been prepared to insist that she stay away; thankfully, that hadn't been necessary. As far as the outside world knew—with the likely exception of Phyllis Taylor—he and Sarah were just casual friends. But if TLC ever found out!
Repressing a shudder, Chris smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I had a bit of a flashback there."
"We all have those from time to time. Speaking of flashbacks, they want me over at Crime Scenes. Want my input on something. I won't be long."
"Take your time, and give them my regards."