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“Denver Court. Do you know it?”
“Yup.” The driver glanced in the rear. “I heard about the murder on the radio this morning. An acquaintance of yours?”
“Yeah,” Jackie answered, her swollen eyes testament to her grief.
The driver was stunned at her reply and remained quiet. He managed a U-turn in the lane and veered right at the stop sign heading toward town.
Jackie glanced over to David, but he was slumped back into his seat with his eyes closed. She looked out the window. They pushed past Grantham Avenue with a mall on three of its corners and took a left on Niagara Road with its row of plane trees, a memorial to the First World War veterans. They sailed by a neighbourhood of deep-rooted money, estates that had passed down to an insolent generation. Tall stone screens and black iron fences hid lush lawns and massive mansions. A line of trees overhung the road making a tunnel of coolness. The leaves swooshed with a wisp of air. Almost home. They rounded the last intersection to the familiar dwelling. The Uber guy dropped them off unceremoniously and reeled out of the cul-de-sac to his next client. They slogged up the driveway. Jackie’s mom stared through the screen, a somber expression on her face. Death lurked around the corner.
“Your father’s downstairs.” Mrs. Abigail Cunningham locked the hotness outside to torment someone else. She fled to the kitchen where she had started the day.
“Hey.” Jackie bolted down the steps. Her dad’s thick hair was jet black with a smidgen of gray encroaching at the temples, the only notable change in the last decade. The laugh lines, the affectionate grin and soft face provided evidence of his jovial personality.
“How could this happen? Who would have done such a thing? To Elsie? What did she ever do to anybody? Boy-oh-boy,” he said.
“Yeah.” She leaned in close. Their foreheads touched. “I’ll go help mom.”
David eased into an orange recliner. Mr. Jonnie Cunningham slumped on the couch, a beer belly overhanging his sweatpants. A sports channel trumpeted in the background.
“Do you fish?” David asked.
“I would like to. Never got around to it. You know, work, kids...” Regret hid behind the older man’s laughing eyes.
But David loved the sport so he chattered about his great times hauling in the big one. Anything to keep focused elsewhere and push the harsh reality aside. He listed off his favourite flies: Woolly bugger, Royal Wulff and Adam’s Parachute.
“Really. That’s a hell of a thing,” Jonnie commented. He coughed, inducing his breathing to become erratic.
“Are you okay?” The episode alarmed David.
“It’ll pass. I think I’ll go lie down for a while.”
Upstairs the ladies were at odds, bordering on an argument. The usual conversation with her mother.
“When are you going back to college?”
“Mom.”
“You can’t be a teacher’s helper for the rest of your life. You’re smart. You could be a real teacher.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The babble went on and on. Jackie stared out the wide window at the evergreen hedge surrounding the backyard. It was beautifully sculpted. Had her dad done that? Surely not.
“You were an honour student, for crying out loud.”
“I have to freshen up. I parked in an armchair all night,” Jackie said and left the kitchen unable to process anything after what had happened to her friend last night. Was there a killer on the loose? It was a disturbing thought.
David heard Jackie in the washroom and took the chance to sneak away for a few minutes. He slipped out the side door and walked quickly down the street and around the corner. With a glance backwards, he figured the coast was clear. He fumbled in his pocket, yanked out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. It was a bad habit from school that he hadn’t quite conquered, and resorted to when he felt stressed like he did now. Should he have told someone what he had seen? Who? Jackie? Todd? The police? Now in the bright daylight and looking back to last night, it made him question himself. He wasn’t even sure what he saw. David tossed his smoke on the asphalt pulverizing it out with the toe of his shoe and walked back.
Chapter 5
“The morgue is across town. Should we stop for lunch first?” Eckhart asked. “I think we should.” She wavered on whether it was better to eat before or after their little visit.
“Okay,” Gibson agreed.
She drove down Lakeshore to Niagara Street and onto the overpass of the Queen Elizabeth Highway. Gibson looked down at the vehicles heading from Toronto to the States. It was a constant stream of bumper to bumper traffic at 120 kph.
When they reached downtown, Eckhart had to do a loop to get to St. Paul Street because it was a one-way street. Stupid planning. The main thoroughfare had the expected array of original and contemporary architectures. A revitalization program had recently attracted the hordes fleeing from mundane shopping malls. She hauled into a spot in front of the Mansion Pub. Built in 1806, it was the oldest licensed establishment in Canada. The interior had antique timber beams, wainscoting and parquet floors. Everything wooden with an old-world charm. They sat at the bar on swivel stools, touching elbows—he felt the energy.
Gibson had a New York cheddar and bacon burger, and Eckhart munched on a Reuben sandwich with a side of fries. They passed the time with restrained chatter preferring not to speculate too far ahead of any facts. He read through the notes Cooper had given them—an updated summary of the incident and everybody’s name and contact numbers. When they wound up their lunch and strode outside, the sun was more intense.
They headed to the hospital on Fourth Avenue. The morgue was fittingly tucked into the bowels of the building. Eckhart peeped through the small window in the entry door. The glaring overhead lights washed out the green of the walls, which was probably a good thing. Dr. Barrie Staples wore a long white coat over polyester pants, his dark hair was covered with a net. He bustled around his domain, rearranging utensils and flushing the blood-speckled sink. She shuddered and entered, hoping for a quick in and out, so as to reduce her intake of moribund air. Gibson followed.
“Hi. This is Gibson, the detective from BC,” Eckhart said.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Same here. Heard you came out to help set up the Task Force.”
“Yeah, here I am.” Gibson threw his quirky smile and passed his palm through sweat-saturated hair.
“I guess this isn’t quite what you planned.” The ME tried to maintain a straight face, but it didn’t work. He was an upbeat fellow used to the horror of his trade. He chortled and was greeted with silence.
“Okay. I just finished up here. So, let me explain what I encountered.” He opened a massive gate on the far wall and hoisted out a stainless-steel tray with Elsie laid out upon it. A toe tag and a white sheet were all she had left. He tugged on the covering to expose her right arm. The purple and yellow marks were dramatic. He pointed to the edges of the bruise that wrapped around her upper arm.
“Here and here. Someone grabbed her first.” He pointed to a circle shape with a thumb mark on one side and finger pads on the other.
The detectives nodded.
The ME drew the blanket to her neck and slanted her head to the side, pushing away a lock of hair.
“The head wound is extensive. It’s hard to determine the force that was used, but the cut is deep. She got a considerable crack to the temple. Several, actually. The bones of the skull are fractured in two places.”
Eckhart gawked at the gash ingrained with sand.
“The initial impact would have killed her. The second one was...”
“Geesh,” Eckhart said.
“Sorry.” Barrie pushed Elsie back into the refrigerated container.
After thanking the ME, they slipped out of t
he room and toddled down the passageway, not much to say. Someone had ticketed Eckhart’s truck. She snorted a mirthless laugh and tossed it in the back with a few others that had been abandoned in similar circumstances. Gibson wanted to laugh out loud, but he felt a sadness after seeing Elsie. He didn’t think he would ever get used to seeing a person laid out like a slab of meat. It wasn’t a physical repulsion. It was something more. A loathing of the killer. Like, how dare you extinguish this life?
Eckhart drove back to the station by a different route, one that Gibson didn’t know. She remained quiet for the remainder of the ride. Maybe she was thinking the same thing he was.
She fumbled with her card at the door. The lock clacked loudly as it released. They entered an empty building, an eerie stillness. The first room they passed was in disarray with filing cabinets against one wall, their empty drawers hauled out. Folders were showered on the floor with each stack stamped a specific colour, for a particular type of crime. Murder. Kidnapping. Rape.
“That’s Cooper’s office.” A slight smile unfurled across her face, enhancing the cleft below her nose. No teeth showing, just plump pink lips.
The next office was smaller and orderly. Most folders had found their way into the filing cabinet. A bookshelf lined with self-help paperbacks was tucked behind a small writing table.
“Jones is a better housekeeper.” She didn’t laugh.
Gibson grunted.
“Everyone must be in the lab,” Eckhart said.
They walked down the long corridor to the lab technician’s department in a rightfully subdued mood.
* * *
Eckhart opened the solid entry with her electronic key, and they entered a windowless space. A hum of machinery purred in the background. Unpacked boxes covered a substantial chunk of the counters. Flasks, beakers, microscopes and homogenizers were assembled ready for action. The two DCs, Cooper and Jones, stood in a semi-circle with the lab technician.
