They say psychopaths are born, not made.
I don't know about that, but when I was a kid playing Clue, I wanted to do the crime, not just solve it.
Think about it. Colonel Mustard, creeping up behind the victim, trying not to let his tweed suit rustle just before he whacks the guy with a candlestick in the conservatory.
I went and looked up 'conservatory' in the dictionary so I could picture it better. In case you're interested, it's a glass room, like a greenhouse.
Nice, huh? The blood would look so cool spraying against the glass.
***
I popped into the tiny St. Joe's library and cloistered myself at a study desk behind the journal stacks, away from the windows, with my back to the rest of the room. When I opened the envelope, photocopies of newspaper clippings topped the pile.
YOUNG DOCTOR SLAIN IN HIT-AND-RUN
Montreal police are urging the driver who struck and killed Dr. Laura Lee on Île Ste-Hélène early yesterday morning to surrender.
Lee, 27, was struck by a speeding vehicle believed to be a late-model, black Toyota, at approximately 5 a.m. as she walked the Concord Bridge to the Formula One track for her usual, early-morning in-line skate.
The motorist abandoned the scene, leaving Lee on the ground.
Lee was rushed to the Montreal General Hospital, where she was pronounced dead from multiple injuries sustained at the scene.
The motorist was last seen on Pierre-Dupuy Avenue, heading toward Montreal.
Lee was a recently graduated emergency doctor at St. Joseph's hospital. "She will be missed," said Dr. David Dupuis, emergency room chief. "She's been part of the St. Joe's family for the past two years."
"I want to find who is responsible," said Regina Lee, the victim's mother, in a press statement. "If anyone has any information, if you might have seen anything at all, please tell the police."
Anyone with information about the accident is asked to call police at 514-555-1922, Crime Stoppers at 514-555-TIPS (8477), or online at www.555tips.com
***
I shifted my weight in the library chair. From the very beginning, Mrs. Lee had been determined to find the driver. I couldn't explain why, but it made me a touch uncomfortable. Even though I pride myself on speaking my mind and being goal-oriented, like Mrs. Lee, I did not know what to do with an actively grieving mother who was as fixated today as she was in 2003.
The obituary didn't help.
***
LAURA LEE, 1977-2003
Doctor, pianist, and most of all, beloved daughter, died tragically in a hit-and-run "accident" August 8th, 2003. Funeral August 12th at 10:00 a.m. In lieu of flowers, please contact police with any information regarding her death.
***
ONE MOTHER'S VIGIL FOR HIT-AND-RUN VICTIM
Montreal police are no closer to finding the driver who struck and killed Dr. Laura Lee, 27, on August 8th on the Concord Bridge from Île Notre-Dame to Île Ste-Hélène. If her mother has anything to say about the six-month investigation, that will change.
"This is unacceptable," says Mrs. Lee, a tiny woman whose strength belies her size. "They have no suspects, even though they found the car that hit her. Only a handful of witnesses have come forward, and their stories contradict each other."
Regina Lee is determined to do something about it. She has placed ads in the Montreal Gazette, Le Devoir, La Presse, and even in alternative media such as the Montreal Mirror and Hour Magazine, all asking witnesses to come forward for a "substantial reward."
She will not answer specifics about the reward, except to say, "It is substantial in two ways. It is a considerable amount of money and the evidence must be substantiated." Crimestoppers has run a feature on Laura, but without obtaining any helpful leads. Mrs. Lee is determined to do it on her own: "Next week, I will hold a vigil on the bridge. I will be wearing a sign: 'WHO KILLED LAURA LEE?' I will hold a cross for her."
It is believed that Lee was heading toward the Formula One track for her customary morning exercise, in-line skating.
If anyone has information about Laura Lee's death, they are encouraged to contact the police.
***
When I typed in a link she'd provided, I discovered a YouTube video interview with Mrs. Lee. A man held a microphone in her face and asked, "Do you really think the driver will turn himself in?"
Mrs. Lee was dressed completely in black, from shirt to shoes to purse. The camera zoomed in on her neatly made-up face. Even though the picture quality was crappy, I could tell her eyes were red. "Maybe. I can only ask. Maybe a friend will report them. Maybe the killer will at least feel shame and will know I have not forgotten."
"Some people say you're going too far."
She did not blink. "Some people's children are alive and breathing."
"Yes, but it's been said your own husband does not support your campaign."
She paused before answering, "I don't answer to anyone else except Laura, myself, and God."
The interviewer raised his eyebrows. "Does that mean you would consider vigilante action?"
She shook her head. "I want justice."
The interviewer paused and pointed at her black outfit. He asked, "It's been almost a year. Are you in mourning?"
She replied, "Always."
***
That got to me. Always. How do you survive that depth of sadness?
I tried to remember what Mrs. Lee had been wearing when we met. Something dark for sure. So she was still in mourning, if you hadn't already guessed.
I knew most people in the emerg probably thought she should mourn Laura and let her go. But how could you do that? How would you?
Which was why I had to help her. Even if I turned out to be just the five-hundredth opinion saying, "They did everything they could. I'm sorry."
I sifted through the police reports. It seemed like they'd interviewed a myriad of people, but only one woman said she'd been driving on Île Ste-Hélène on that Friday morning. She saw "a big black truck," wasn't sure of the make, model, or year, only that it was driving too fast, coming from Île Notre-Dame. She thought maybe there was a driver and a passenger in it. It was dented and the right headlight was broken, but it was raining and she hadn't gotten a good look at anything, including the license plate. Then, when she saw Laura's body, she'd pulled over on the island and called the police.
After the ambulance took Laura away, the police came and gathered what evidence they could, focusing on the blood spatter, a concrete rail imprinted with black paint imprints, headlight fragments and skid marks.
They measured everything. They interviewed that witness, Lucinda McLaughlin, repeatedly. They put the word out through the media and through Crimestoppers.
I had copies of multiple reports, but mostly it was people saying, "Yeah, I saw a car driving weirdly that day." No one got a good view of the driver or the passenger. The main witness said it had been a black truck, but three others said navy, and someone else said beige.
Later that morning, at the corner of Embro and Saguenay, they found a 2003 Toyota 4Runner. Black. A man had called it in because of the blood and hair on the front left fender. Long, black hair. I swallowed hard and ran my hand over my own locks. I'd never been so relieved I'd cut them.
Of course, the vehicle had been reported stolen by a Mr. Dwayne Richardson the night before.
The identifying officers scoured the SUV and collected every hair, fingerprint, and cigarette butt from the ashtray. The cigarettes turned out to be Dwayne's, but the officers were thorough.
They ran it through the backlogged DNA sample system in 2006. One blond hair, not belonging to the Richardson family, was found on the passenger seat. They documented the DNA results, but couldn't determine who it belonged to. Whoever it was wasn't in the criminal system's database.
It could have been anyone he'd given a ride to, but of course they were hoping it was the hit-and-run driver. They just didn't have any suspects to test.
The police also found red polyester fibers on the passenger seat and black ones on the driver's seat. These fibers, especially red ones, might have been from a wig, but it was hard to say. Certainly there was no longer any trace of a wig or anything more incriminating, like beer bottles that could have provided more DNA evidence.
The original owners were not under suspicion. Cars got stolen pretty often in Montreal.
The case was archived, which meant it was still open, but they had no leads at all. Only Mrs. Lee.
I put my head down on the library desk. It probably wasn't sanitary, but the wood felt cool under my cheek.
Some 'detective doctor.' I had no idea how to help her.
My pager went off. I leapt to my feet. Anything, anyone, even Reena Schuster, was preferable to my helplessness.
The pager number was unfamiliar.
When I called, the voice wasn't. Ryan wanted to take me out for lunch.
***
"Mmm, pakoras," said Ryan, reaching for something that looked like deep-fried onions. "Want one?"
I stared at him. When he'd paged me and asked me out, I named an Indian restaurant around the corner from St. Joe's as a kind of test. Ryan and I ate mostly Chinese or Western food when we were together. I'd tried Indian once or twice on my own since moving to Montreal, so I figured I'd be testing Ryan's boundaries. But here he was, more familiar with the menu than I was.
I gestured for Ryan to take a bite first. "How is it?"
He smiled and nodded. "Good. There's one in Ottawa that's better. I'll take you sometime, if you like."
I hesitated for a second, thinking of Tucker. But he was in the bad books, and it wasn't like Ryan was proposing. "Sure."
He cut the pakora with his fork and moved it to my plate. "Come on, Hope. We used to share everything."
That was true. I loved food and I used to insist we order different dishes so I could maximize my menu tasting. "Thanks." The tamarind sauce was tangy without being too strong. "Nice!"
"Thought you'd like it. Try the mint, too. One of my buddies at work is Indian. His mom is an awesome cook."
So that's how he'd gotten into it, not through Lisa. It was strange, seeing Ryan, so familiar, but different. Older, confident, more experimental. And still so freaking handsome. I'd met him at the table and hesitated because my first instinct had been to kiss him hello.
Now I tried the mint sauce to distract myself. Cool, creamy, but not as good as the tamarind. "So what's new and exciting with you?"
He laughed and leaned back in his chair. "Aw, same old. Work, playing squash, running. You know the drill."
Yes, but are you still drilling Lisa? "Yeah. How's Lisa?" I sipped my mango lassi. It's like a milkshake but with yoghurt and fresh fruit, and sinfully good.
"She seems to be doing all right." He grinned at me. "You gonna try the cilantro or not?"
I made a face. It's supposed to be the Chinese parsley, but I've never been crazy about it. Still, I could never resist a dare. I speared a tiny piece of pakora and swirled it around the cilantro sauce before popping it in my mouth. "Hey, not bad."
He smiled. Ryan had the best smile out of anyone I knew, boyish and charming but with a smoldering undertone when he wanted it. He could have been in a toothpaste ad. Or an underwear ad. I crossed my ankles and pressed my knees together. What was wrong with me? Remember Alex. Remember Tucker. Y chromosomes are bad.
Ryan gestured with his fork. "See, you've got to try new things."
Mr. Conservative, now preaching novelty. "You're one to talk." Lisa flashed into my mind again. Miniature but spirited. Probably very athletic in bed.
He shrugged and sipped his water. "Yeah, I know. It's not like I'm a 'detective doctor' or anything."
I dropped my fork on the table and wiped my mouth. "I am getting so sick of that."
"I bet." He gave me a funny smile, quizzical and wondering at the same time. "Enough that you'll never do it again?"
My heart thumped in my chest. Oh, no. Don't let Ryan get down on me too. "Depends on the circumstances, I guess."
"I mean, I could kind of understand when you're working and you come across one of your own doctors, dead."
I flinched. That was what had happened in July.
Ryan squeezed my hand and dropped it before I could savour his warm skin on mine. "That would be harsh. But still, turning it into a whodunnit? You should have heard my grandmother."
"I'm glad I didn't." I wiped my mouth with my napkin.
He held up his hands. "Hey, it's your life."
Thank goodness he understood better than Tucker. I smiled at him with real affection.
"Anyway, I've got no complaints. I'm on summer vacation, eating good food with a beautiful woman."
I wasn't sure what to make of the compliment. The Ryan I remembered wasn't so smooth. He liked the way I looked, but he was usually too shy to say so unless I was all dressed up or we were naked in bed. I parried, "You're lucky you get a vacation. Must be nice."
He raised his eyebrow but didn't immediately leap to the bait the way he used to. I warned you. Look at me, I'm an engineer. I only did four years of university and companies still headhunt me while you scrabble for quarters for the laundry. Maybe him changing wasn't all bad.
Maybe I was moving into dangerous territory. Y chromosomes off limits. "How's work, anyway?"
He talked, I zoned out. Ryan's a mech eng who ended up working for Norco, same as most of his classmates. I had seriously considered becoming an engineer, but physics caused me physical pain.
"I'm still working at Norco, but I may go back to grad school. I haven't decided." He shrugged. "That's it. Time flies, huh?"
"Yeah." I cleared my throat.
"So what about you? Life's not too beige?"
I burst out laughing. I once wrote Ryan a letter in a red felt-tip pen and he said, "Why don't you write in blue or black, like everybody else?" Over lunch, I'd tried to explain that I wasn't like everybody else. "Most people just want to join the herd of cattle. They wear the same clothes and say the same things and watch the same TV programs. If they were a colour, they'd be beige. I am not beige."
He'd given me a big smack on the lips, not caring if anyone else saw. "True. Your parents shouldn't have named you Hope. They should have named you Truth. Or Not-Beige."
We'd giggled in the sun and it was good.
But later—and this was the curse of a good memory—he'd said, "Do you really think you don't want to be like everyone else? You don't even like being Chinese."
I couldn't deny it. Nowadays, people might say "Yellow Power," with pride, but when I was growing up, I was the only non-white kid at my homogenized school. Kids called me squaw. An adult might yell, "Konichiwa!" as I walked down the street. A job interviewer once asked me when I'd moved from Vancouver and told me he liked to make stir-fries at home. All of them were ignorant, some of them were assholes, most of them were painfully well-meaning when they assumed they knew everything about me because of my skin colour. Oh, look, another annoyingly skinny girl who'll throw off the bell curve by day and cook bok choy for her Chinese grandmother by night.
Sure, there were advantages to my culture. As a "banana," born yellow on the outside and bred white on the inside, I was just starting to figure out how my academic achievement and family bond(age) had been shaped by my roots. But when I was growing up, all I wanted was to fit in. To be beige.
Anyway. So much had happened to me, but Ryan hadn't heard anything past my second year of medical school. I'd had patients die on me. I'd helped save other people's lives. I'd moved to another province. I'd solved a murder and almost gotten killed myself. "Uh...finished med school. Clerkship was really the best of times and the worst of times. Now I'm here."
He didn't look at me. "Are you seeing anyone?"
I shook my head. It was technically true.
"Did you?" He glanced at me, then away.
"Yeah. A guy in my class. It didn't work out."
Right away, he guessed, "My grandmother mentioned some guy. John. John Tucker?"
I half-laughed. "No. We're just friends." So far, anyway. "It was another guy, Alex. But that's over."
He raised his eyebrows. "You're over him?"
I shrugged. "Enough. What about you and Lisa?"
He looked straight ahead. "Nothing doing."
"Not even—" I wasn't sure exactly how to ask. Booty call? Or, more likely, yearning looks over hymnals?
But he said, flatly, "No."
"Okay." I swung my feet. Even though I hadn't had that much sun, my legs and feet were quite tanned. "I know it’s none of my business, but I guess you didn’t break up over religion."
"No, that part was good." He was silent so long, I thought he wasn’t done, but finally, he added, "She didn’t trust me."
It felt like a reprimand, however indirect. I stayed silent.
"Around other girls." He glanced at me sidelong and suddenly I wanted to smile. Hope, 2, Lisa, 1.
The waitress brought us our main dishes, beef curry for him, sag paneer for me, naan and basmati rice for both of us. Steam rose from the dishes. My stomach growled.
Ryan just laughed. "Did you get any breakfast?"
"Sort of." A pack of soda crackers from my lab coat pocket.
He made sure to serve me first. That's a Chinese thing, you show respect by serving the other person first, preferably starting with the eldest. I smiled.
I reached for the naan. Butter shone in the bread's dimpled pockets, a cholesterol sin, but I didn't care. Medicine makes you eat like you're at war. Not that psych was supposed to feel that way, but I was actually more stressed than when I'd been on emerg.
I tore off a piece of naan and watched Ryan's eyebrows come together as he spooned food on his own plate, careful not to let the different foods touch. I used to tease him about that kind of engineering precision. No wonder his hobbies included model airplanes and tinkering with solar car design. The guy was all about rulers and agendas. Except for me.
I started eating. The spinach in the sag paneer was mushy, but I liked the cheese. Ryan's beef curry was better. I mixed it with the rice. He had a talent for ordering something better than me, no matter how I pondered and reasoned over the menu.
Ryan. Talent.
A light bulb lit up over my head.
Mrs. Lee's envelope was not as helpful as I'd imagined. Most of it was filled with police reports, dense with jargon, some information blacked out. Like I said, I knew that the team on the scene had measured tire tracks, gathered up pieces of a broken headlight, taken paint samples and measurements off the guard rail where Laura had been crushed.
Maybe, just maybe, Ryan could do something with that data.
But first, I had to talk to Mrs. Lee and get her permission.