STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “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 the 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.

  Francis (Frenchy) Cross was a petite woman, with a heart-shaped face and a short bob haircut. Between the wisps of her fine hair, Gibson could see a tiny Chinese symbol tattooed behind one ear. She wore a long green lab coat, buttoned tight to her neck and no jewelry except for one ring on her right pinky finger.

  “Hi, I’m Frenchy. I’ll get right to it. That’s why you’re here. Right?” She gave the slimmest of grins.

  Gibson nodded. He liked her already. All business. She looked smart too.

  “We have two pieces of evidence from the beach. Let’s start with the murder weapon. There is a partial print. So that’s good news.” Frenchy crossed to a counter halfway across the room. They followed. Top dog and puppy dogs right behind. She stood in front of a glass container with a rock inside. It was a light shade of crimson flecked with dark speckles. “This is an igneous rock. Mostly composed of granite. It’s an extremely tough, almost weatherproof stone. That’s ideal for us because obtaining a print from a nonporous rock is simpler. That doesn’t mean it won’t be difficult though. It will be.” She paused. “I won’t be able to lift a print until the blood is completely stabilized. It will be a few days. If I do it too soon, I’ll lose the clarity of the print at best. Might not get anything useful for you at the worst.”

  “Better to wait, then,” Gibson agreed.

  She shot him a glance as if to say, doesn’t matter what you think.

  “I’m not sure if you know this or not, but I’ll go over it for you anyway. We have a software development kit that provides multi-biometric fingerprint identification. The ID program matches prints whether they were taken flat or rolled. It’s quite a unique kit and very accurate. The finest available.” She drew in a breath. “If we could get the software to work, I’d be happy.”

  “Sorry about that.” A lanky young fellow leaped up from behind a partition. “I’m working on it.” He peered at them over wire-rimmed glasses and then retreated.

  “I know you’re doing your best.” She frowned.

  “Couldn’t we send everything to the RCMP Automated Fingerprint Identification System (AFIS) in Toronto?” Eckhart asked.

  “Oh, sure we could. And I will if we don’t get this thing fixed.”

  “I’ll get it soon.” A voice sounded from the corner.

  Frenchy whirled and marched to the far end of the room. They followed her like sheep. When she tugged on a handle, the drawer slid free. She fingered a leather pouch and placed it on the surface. With a tip of the bag, a signet ring spilled onto a velvet pad. Then she took out some photographs from the rear of the storage and gave one to each of the officers.

  “The ring was found under the body.”

  “Interesting,” Gibson said.

  “The inscription around the stone says, ‘Alpha Zee’.”

  “Is that a local fraternity?” Gibson looked at his partner.

  “From Grimsby, I believe.”

  “Do you know who the members are?”

  “Not really, but we’ll find out,” Eckhart promised.

  “I couldn’t get any prints off it. Even though the ring has been recently buffed, there are too many nicks and scratches. There aren’t any initials either. The lettering you can see here says 10K, as in gold.”

  “Rats. What else do we have?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Shit. That’s not much help.” Eckhart twisted her mouth.

  “An RCMP officer…” Cooper stepped forward, drew his journal from his pocket and flipped the pages. He glanced up and proceeded, “A Constable Dufferin gave me a buzz this morning. He was the first officer on the scene. He said a David Hunter was the fellow who called it in.”

  Gibson’s eyebrows shot up. That rang a bell. “Have you got a number?”

  “Yeah. They’re from BC and staying at the wife’s parents’ place.” Cooper rapped off the information and then stared at his notebook. “Oh, this is a landline. Must be the parents’ contact.”

  “Is his spouse called Jackie?” Gibson asked.

  “How did you know?” Cooper produced a sharp snort.

  “David’s boss was murdered last fall at his workplace.”

  “Whoa!”

  “I’m sure it’s just a fluke.” Although the detective in him didn’t like coincidences. He spun to Eckhart. “Nothing more for us here. Time to hit the pavement.”

  “Back to work, Jonsey,” Cooper said.

  “Boring.” His buddy jabbed him in the ribs.

  They dragged their feet back to the chaotic rubble in Cooper’s office.

  “See you guys later,” Eckhart said as she pulled on the front door. She shielded her eyes from the glare wishing she had sunglasses and jumped into the driver’s seat. They sat in the Expedition with the air conditioning on full blast, going over their course of action.

  “We’ll talk to David and Jackie first. We know they were at the crime scene.” Gibson looked at his list again. “There are only five houses on Lawsons Lane. We can visit everyone on the street without too much trouble. There were a number of people at the party. Let’s see who we can narrow it down to. Until we identify that print, we have no suspects really.”

  “You mean like a needle in a haystack?”

  He shrugged.

  It was a clear route to bring them to Jonnie and Abigail Cunningham’s home off Niagara Street. Eckhart parked against the curb, taking care not to rub the sides of her tires on the concrete. She didn’t usually mind jumping the curb, but the lawn was too nice to mess with. The split-level house was set back off the street. They walked up the long driveway to the front door at the side of the house. An older Lincoln Continental, in a shade of blue hovering between midnight black and deep ocean sapphire that Gibson had never seen before, rested in the carport. They shuffled around it, cautious not to mark its pristine shine. He stood at the top of the stoop and rang the bell. The door was opened instantly by an older woman with curly blonde hair from a bottle, grey showing at the roots.

  “Hello. May I help you?” Abigail asked.

  The detectives flashed their badges.

  “My husband’s in the family room.” She smiled and invited them in. They followed her down six steps of plush kiwi lime carpeting. A brick fireplace at the far wall had a wide cement mantel crammed with photographs from the last twenty-odd years. There was nobody around.

  Abigail looked puzzled. “He was just here. Oh, maybe he went outside for a minute.” She scurried away, her lips pressed into a concerned frown.

  Gibson used the time to study the photos. One of a sailboat caught his attention, making him think about his kayak sitting in its rack at home. He drew in a heavy sigh. Eckhart plunked herself into a swivel chair next to the television, notebook fixed in her hand. The back-door latch rattled. A stout man clad in knee-length shorts and a golf shirt, ambled in, his wife bumping in behind. Her face looked more relaxed now.

  “Here he is.”

  “Hello. Can my wife get you something to drink?” His double chin jiggled with a stifled laughter. Jonnie took his position on the couch where an indentation in the cushion marked his regular spot. His wife parked on the opposite side.

  “No. We’re good. Thank you. I’m Inspector Gibson and this is Inspector Eckhart. We have a few questions? First, are David and Jackie staying with you?”

  “Yes, Jackie is our daughter. They live in BC,” Abigail said.

  “Are they around today?”

  “They’ll be back shortly.” She looked at he
r husband for confirmation.

  He nodded.

  “Are Elsie and Jackie old friends?”

  “Yes, but she was closer to Savannah, Elsie’s sister. Then Jackie moved to BC. She only comes home once in a while. This time it was a special trip to see her dad. He’s ill,” Abigail said as if her husband wasn’t in the room. She plucked at a hair on her chin and looked off.

  Jonnie remained silent, sipping a brew he had abandoned beforehand.

  “You both went to the fireworks.” Not a question.

  “Yes, we did.” Abigail answered for both anyway.

  “Did you know Elsie as well?”

  “For ages. The whole family,” Abigail said calmly, but her eyes betrayed her.

  “Sorry for your loss.” Gibson didn’t know what else to say. He would be saying sorry to a lot of people. So far it seemed as if Elsie had plenty of friends but obviously one enemy as well.

  Jonnie took another mouthful, draining the crystal tumbler. He held it up to his spouse. “Would you mind?”

  “Okay.” She grabbed his glass and turned to the detectives. “Sure you don’t want anything?”

  Gibson waved a hand in reply. She bustled to the kitchen, next floor up. The clinking of glass and a slammed cupboard door sailed down the stairs. She reappeared and arranged the drink on a coaster. Gibson let everyone settle back down before he continued.