Chris's eyes narrowed as he read. Dummett had mentioned him by name. In the third paragraph of the article he referred to Homicide Detective Crane, formerly head of the FCSU, describing him as a "crack detective with the scalps of many wrongdoers hanging from his belt." Christ! By now, thanks to the Chief, Chris was accustomed to seeing his name in print, but that didn't mean he had to like it. For one thing it wouldn't help him do his job as a detective; burrowing away in anonymity was the way to solve cases. But he understood why the freelancer had done it—it would add an element of human interest and drama to the story.
Not that the article needed any spicing up. After listing the murders attributed to TLC—at least he didn't say "credited to"—Dummett had gone on to state that in the end the police with all their resources—databanks, forensic tests and techniques, and "plain, old-fashioned police work"—would inevitably bring him or them to justice. Elaborating on the possibility of there being more than one killer, he mentioned the notorious duos of Bernardo and Homolka, and Douglas Clark and Carol Bundy. After clarifying that Carol was no relation to the "other Bundy," he devoted a paragraph to their sordid crimes, which included executing their victims with a bullet to the head in the middle of an unspeakable sex act.
Raising the possibility that TLC wasn't acting alone was a brilliant stroke, sure to enrage the serial. Chris found himself briefly thinking of that intriguing duo Ken Patterson and Irene Gelinas, a qualified martial arts expert. Shrugging off the idea, he went on reading. The confident prediction that the police ultimately and inevitably would win was also calculated to get under the killer's skin, as Dummett would say. The article was bound to be picked up and widely distributed by some news service. That had happened with Dummett's previous effort, which had been taken on by Reynolds International News. While Dummett might be well on his way to journalistic fame and fortune, Chris couldn't say the same about himself as a detective. So far the public would know him only as the detective who couldn't arrest the deadliest killer to ever prowl the streets and parks of the city. What was the name of that old movie? The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight. Something like that.
Speaking of arrests, he was due to match wits with Tom Forsyth later that morning.
"All right, counsellor," said Dave Myrden when all the requisite formalities had been complied with, Forsyth agreeing that he was appearing voluntarily and that he knew the interview was being taped. Myrden calling Chris "counsellor" was a ploy on the defence lawyer's part, an implied criticism that an accredited member of the Law Society was wasting his talents by playing detective when he could be practising law, as well as a recognition of Chris as a colleague. "It's your show, but I have advised my client to say nothing. He has nothing to gain." His voice rose at the end of the sentence, turning it into a question.
"What I've got to gain is to convince these assholes that I had nothing to do with Adrienne's murder," Forsyth, furious at having to wear the demeaning faded blue prison garb, interjected, overriding his counsel, as Chris had hoped he would.
"Let the record show that I have advised my client to remain silent." The defence lawyer scowled and shrugged almost imperceptibly. It was obvious he and his client had had words about the advisability of agreeing to this interrogation.
"If we're wrong, the charges will be dropped. You can count on that. We're not in the business of convicting innocent men. But the evidence against you is pretty persuasive, as I'm sure your counsel has told you."
"I have told him no such thing."
"If you say so." Chris looked across the Formica-topped table at the prisoner. "As I'm sure you know, Tom, I've managed to scrape together a fair amount of money myself one way or the other. So I know how you must have felt when you realized that much of the wealth you had earned from the sale of the ranch was going to be wiped out. Not just reduced, but wiped out. Gone. And you don't have another ranch to sell. No second chance for you. And all because of one person. Adrienne Vinney, who had no stake in the matter herself, but was determined to blow the whistle before all the evidence was in. Eliminate her, and your fortune was safe."
"I still would have had a fortune."
"Ah, yes. But not what you would really call a fortune. Nothing like you would have had if you were able to sell all those Madison flow-through shares. And you did sell them, Tom. You were able to sell all of them before the shit hit the fan and they were de-listed. You must have felt pretty good about that. I know I would have."
A smirk flitted briefly across Forsyth's face as he said, "So, the serial killer, the guy you pricks don't seem able to catch, did me a favour. If I knew who he was, I'd thank him."
"It wasn't the serial killer, Tom. His signature was missing. You know, the cross."
"What do you mean, the cross? It was there! I—"
"You put it there, Tom? Of course you did. But you put it on the wrong hand."
"That's enough! This farce is over! Not another word, Tom." Face tight with anger, the defence lawyer jumped to his feet.
"What do you bet Myrden tells Forsyth to find himself another lawyer?" Patterson, who had watched the proceedings through the one-way window, was almost gloating.
"It doesn't matter now. It's too late. I knew he could-n't stand the idea that his clever planning wasn't perfect."
"It doesn't amount to a full confession, though," Patterson cautioned. "Damaging as hell, but he didn't come right out and say he did it."
"I'll take it," said a vastly relieved Chris, grinning. No matter what happened in court, he now knew beyond all doubt that he had arrested the right person. What Mason would call a righteous arrest. It was Forsyth, not TLC, who had murdered Adrienne Vinney.