CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1)

by Bernadette Calonego

  “Do you really believe the killer’s one of the athletes?”

  “Hard to imagine. Probably none of them was here when Bakie was killed. Can we get a search warrant for Perrell’s house?”

  “Already applied. Let’s see how fast the judge acts on it. Might take one more day.”

  He’s tired; he’s hardly had any sleep.

  “It looks to me like someone was settling a personal score. The perp was standing right beside Perrell when he shot him. So we’re looking at that old question: Did Perrell have any enemies?”

  He’s silent.

  “When do we expect the lab results?” Gates asks.

  He had the evidence bags delivered to Happy Valley-Goose Bay along with the body. He should speak to Georgina about Carl Perrell and find out more about him, but right now she’s sleeping after her night shift—thanks to a pill. Perrell’s death has truly shaken her. The entire hospital staff is in shock. Talking with his wife will be difficult. Not only because of Perrell.

  “And who’s looking into the pocketknife?” Gates keeps drilling.

  “Delgado.”

  “Good. I’ll go see Shannon and Ann.”

  He absolutely must have a strong, hot coffee. The steering wheel’s so cold that he can only hold it with gloves on. The heater takes forever to warm up the car. He should have left the motor running.

  “Sergeant, take a look at this picture.”

  Gates holds a cell phone up to his face.

  “What’s this? A jigsaw puzzle?”

  “Yes, a Google Earth image of Port Brendan, and a jigsaw puzzle was made from it. Take a close look at this detail shot. What do you see?”

  He frowns. What’s all this? He should concentrate on the road.

  She insists. “That yellow dot. Isn’t that your car?”

  He brakes carefully and comes to a stop. He can clearly see the yellow dot in the picture. The color stands out against the deep green around it. As a matter of fact, it’s Georgina’s car. She desperately wanted a Jeep Renegade. He usually takes the police car. The Jeep in the picture isn’t standing in front of his house but much farther away. On a road in the woods. He moves forward for a better look. Suddenly, he feels hot.

  “When was this picture taken?”

  “No idea. It’s a present from my brother.”

  That means probably last year. And he hasn’t suspected a thing. Now he’s even more afraid to talk with his wife.

  Did Gates pick up on something? Impossible for her to know anything. She simply thinks it’s funny that the Jeep is visible in her puzzle.

  He gets the car moving again. On the way to the station, he suppresses any thought that is not related to the murder cases. He learned early on how to create airtight compartments in his head.

  His phone rings loudly. Sullivan. He stops in the middle of the road and turns on his flashers.

  “Perrell owned a revolver,” Sullivan informs him. “He reported it missing three days ago.”

  Three days ago, dammit.

  “How come I didn’t know about this?”

  “Perrell wasn’t sure whether he’d simply misplaced it. His house is being renovated, so that’s why he stored some things in places where they didn’t normally belong. That’s why I waited. We were also so busy with Bakie.”

  “And you just thought of it now?”

  “I had to check my records first. It’s a Norinco NP22. Perrell told me he had a permit for it.”

  The Norinco NP22 is a cheap Chinese revolver. No gun nut would buy a handgun like that, except somebody who wanted it in case of emergency. In Canada most handguns require a special permit. It is no surprise to Bernard that Perrell got the permit from the authorities. A country doctor in the wilds of Labrador—that sounds dangerous. And Perrell had a good reputation.

  “Inform forensics. You never know. Maybe Perrell was shot with his own gun.”

  “I’ll call right away.” Sullivan pauses. “We definitely need to find the Norinco. Maybe we should put Gates on it.”

  Sullivan’s sulking like a drama queen because it bugs him that Gates and Fred had the crime scene to themselves. Gates reported their results to the team. Murder without a doubt. The angle of the bullet’s path. Perrell was right-handed. The wound is on the left. The gun is missing.

  He notices two cars are waiting behind him and shouts into the phone, “I’ll be in the office in a minute,” and cuts the call off.

  He gives Gates the latest update. She writes something on a pad.

  They arrive at the station to find Sullivan sitting self-importantly on the desk.

  “There’s more news, Sarge. I found a match between the footprints behind the hot-dog stand and the ones at the Viking house.”

  He slides off the desk and fans out some photos.

  “These winter boots are rather worn down at the heel. That’s why the imprint is shallower and not as sharp-edged as new boots. So it could be the same perp. I’m guessing a man.”

  Gates looks at the pictures and nods.

  “I’m off. Want to talk to Karissa Pardy some more.”

  She’s barely gone when Sullivan says: “She’s not thinking, like, Karissa’s behind the murder?”

  Bernard doesn’t bother to answer. He really needs a hot coffee and reaches for the steaming cup the minute Wendy brings it in. He’s barely felt the caffeine in his veins when disillusionment sets in. Half of Port Brendan’s running around in worn-down boots. His hopes lie in the revolver. Hunting rifles can be found in almost every household, but hardly anybody in this town has a handgun. Maybe somebody swiped the doctor’s Norinco. Like the theft of Hynes’s ax.

  Hynes has been crossed out as a suspect in Perrell’s murder, unless he sneaked out of the hospital. Georgina or somebody else on the night shift would surely have noticed. Bernard should have another go at Hynes’s foreman. And if he isn’t the killer, the guy just might have seen somebody slinking around Perrell’s house.

  “Where’s Fred?” he asks Sullivan.

  “At the hospital.”

  “How so?”

  “You sent him there yourself. So he can talk to the staff.”

  Of course. Just now he remembers. Seventy-two hours are what he has. He’s got to get through them with or without sleep.

  Gates thinks that a personal settling of scores cost Perrell his life. A wicked hunch leads him to hope devoutly that it isn’t so.

  42

  While looking for my guests, I find Karissa Pardy alone in the basement room. She’s lying on the lower bunk. I sit down beside her. Her eyes are puffed up from crying.

  “Karissa, it will be easier for you if you just tell me the truth.”

  She turns her reddened face toward me. Her nose is runny. I go into the bathroom for a couple of tissues. She takes them and crumples them in her hand. She must still be in shock.

  I hold her hand.

  “What exactly did your uncle say to you?”

  She sniffs. Her voice sounds as if her nose was plugged up. “He said it was a gift for Dr. Perrell.”

  “Why did he want to give him polar bear claws for a present?”

  She grips the tissues in her hand without looking at me.

  My phone vibrates, but I don’t want to miss this opportunity with Karissa. She’s ready to tell all.

  “For drugs?” I push a little.

  Karissa shakes her head. “For pills.”

  Medications.

  “My uncle doesn’t have much money,” she adds.

  “Is your uncle ill?”

  Karissa nods.

  “Mom says it’s a rare disease. That’s why the pills are so expensive. He has to pay for them himself.”

  I’ve been there. My provincial insurance plan doesn’t pay for my expensive medication. But I’m lucky that the RCMP covers it with additional insurance.

  Not every patient is so lucky. Dr. Perrell looked for a solution. He was king in his realm of patients. A rebel in a white coat. He left the British National Health
Service because it was too restrictive for him. He found more freedom in rural Labrador. Here he also had the freedom to assist patients who had little money. What other regulations did he circumvent? I wonder.

  “It’s good that you told me this, Karissa. You can’t be blamed for anything. Neither can your uncle. It was wholly Dr. Perrell’s responsibility.”

  Karissa sniffs again. Her tear-stained eyes make her look very vulnerable.

  I hear her friends coming downstairs. They open the door tentatively. They look at me and Karissa.

  “Do we have to go home?” one of them asks. “We’ve trained for so long.”

  I nod.

  “The games are canceled. We have to look out for people’s safety. There have been two murders in just a few days. Your coach will organize your trip home and will let you know. You can stay with me until then.”

  My words come completely spontaneously. Adults need to give these athletes a feeling of security, not anxiety. My instincts tell me that the same murderer from the Viking house waited for Carl Perrell. Bakie was the wrong victim. The series of murders should now be over. Hopefully, hopefully, hopefully.

  The trio of guests look at me balefully.

  “Maybe you’ll catch the murderer today, and then the games can go on.”

  They don’t give up hope so easily, these girls. They must be built that way for a sport like the biathlon.

  “We’re doing our best. But the games are officially postponed.”

  Three crestfallen faces by way of response. I understand their disappointment. Everything has conspired against their ambitions.

  “I have to leave now,” I say. “You have my number. Call me if you need something. You’ll find pizza in the fridge.” I pause to think for a second. “Lock the door behind me, and don’t let anybody in.”

  “Not even our coach?” one of them pipes up.

  “Yes, he’s okay. But call me first in all other cases.”

  I know that instructions such as these aren’t very likely to reassure them; two murders are no tea party. Better to be overly cautious than careless.

  In the car, I pass on the information I extricated from Karissa to Closs. The motor’s running and my seat’s getting cozy and warm.

  “In your eyes, Pardy is not a potential suspect?” he says.

  His words leave me speechless. Does the sarge seriously believe she might have been involved? Karissa’s horror cannot have been put on.

  “She’s a crack shot,” he says, breaking my silence.

  “With a rifle, not a pistol. I still think the perp was a man.”

  “We’ve got to think outside the box, Gates. Have you seen Shannon Wilkey yet?”

  “On my way, Sarge.”

  Think outside the box: okay, that’s what he’s going to get. I won’t tell him I’m planning a quick detour before interrogating Shannon. Might be that nothing comes from my plan. The roads are recently plowed; everything’s glistening white, although the sun has not yet broken through the layer of clouds. The Ford Edge effortlessly makes it up the shoveled driveway to a house with a blue facade. How I’ll get back down afterward is another matter.

  I knock at the door and go in. I only have to call “Hello!” once and an elderly lady appears at the end of the short hallway, dish towel in hand. Her curious expression changes after I introduce myself.

  “Leave my son in peace; he’s already had a rough time of it,” she complains with a look of reproach.

  “I live in Grace Butt’s house,” I explain. “She told me your son did all the carpentry work there. I’m asking about a built-in cupboard.”

  Scott Dyson’s mother listens to me with distrust, then she waves her dish towel.

  “He’s in the shed next door,” she informs me.

  I can’t believe my good luck. I’ll have him there alone, without his mother. I offer my profuse thanks.

  Loud drilling comes from the shed. I open the door. A cave for tinkerers. Tools are hanging all over the walls. Clean and orderly. Scott Dyson stands with his back to me and doesn’t turn around until I call his name. He looks less jaded than in his photo in the files. And younger than the forty-five years it says there. Maybe it’s because of the orange wool cap that hides his bald head. It’s not warm in the shed. It also does not smell of hashish. I still can’t imagine that he’s gotten out of dealing completely. No shop in Port Brendan sells marijuana legally, unlike in some other Canadian cities and towns. People have to get their dope from somewhere. But that’s not why I’m here.

  Dyson’s expression is first one of surprise, then it collapses when he recognizes I’m a Mountie.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Calista Gates,” I tell him. “Can I have a few words?”

  Dyson doesn’t answer but doesn’t look aggressive, either.

  I decide to home in on my target instantly. I don’t have to dish up any fairy tales like I did for his mother.

  “I live in Grace Butt’s house and found in the guest room a board with the stamp from the Viking house on it. Can you tell me where it comes from?”

  Wrinkles appear on Dyson’s forehead. He’s clever and has quickly made the connection with the crate that contained Lorna Taylor’s skeleton on Savage Beach.

  “Not a clue,” he answers. But his response is too quick.

  “Grace says you did some carpentry work at her place.”

  I see he’s thinking about it.

  “You asked Grace?”

  “She said she was very pleased with your work. Where did that board come from?”

  “Can’t re . . . Couldn’t Grace tell you that?”

  “Did Grace provide the material?”

  “I just took what was there.” Dyson’s face darkens. “You can’t pin that Lorna business on me; I was in the slammer.”

  “And I don’t want to, either. We’ve already counted that out. But when you were adding the boards, you must surely have wondered where they came from. With that conspicuous stamp.”

  “I just used what was there,” he repeats.

  “Did Grace provide the material?” I ask a second time.

  He doesn’t say. That’s an answer, too.

  “When you found the crate on Savage Beach, you must have noticed the stamp. What did you make of that?”

  No answer.

  “Do you recall the board in the closet?” I keep drilling down.

  “Stuff was lying around everywhere. They also used it for the children’s playground.”

  I was waiting for that answer. I’m just puzzled that it didn’t occur to Scott at the outset. Would have been logical. But it came to mind just now. Why? Something stinks. Like the dog shit he probably threw into my house.

  “Did you help out with the playground?”

  I already know that isn’t possible. Scott was still behind bars. I just want to tease him out of his reserve.

  “Are you trying to tell me I could have stolen the boards from there? Hate to disappoint you, lady; I wasn’t even here when the playground was built.”

  “Then I’ll have to talk to your cousin,” I say, backing off.

  “Which cousin?”

  “Ernie Butt.”

  Scott shakes his head. “He’s not my cousin.”

  “Oh, no? Ernie told me he was.”

  I recall that the inspector in Happy Valley-Goose Bay already denied the two were related.

  “Did he say that?” Dyson’s eyes narrow.

  “Yes.”

  He puts down the drill.

  “Is that everything?”

  “How well did you know Lorna Taylor?”

  “Why do I constantly get asked that question? Do you ask other people, too? Like my so-called cousin?”

  “We’re asking a whole lot of people. You can surely understand that. I’m trying to find out what kind of person Lorna was. I have to talk to people like you since I never met her.”

  He bangs the handle of his pliers against the edge of the wooden bench, almost playfully.

  �
��And what have people told you?” he finally asks.

  “Was Lorna serious or happy? Was she withdrawn or sociable? Did she have many boyfriends?” is my riposte.

  “She liked to flirt, if that’s what you mean. She was pretty. She gave lots of the boys the run-around.”

  “Who, for instance?”

  “Not me. I was definitely not good enough for her. I knew it right from the start. She flirted anyway. She could have had me, easy as pie. But she didn’t want anybody she could have effortlessly.”

  Married men, then. My nerves quiver. Scott Dyson, a small-time crook, has ventured out a bit on thin ice. Revealed he’s just a little bit short of vulnerable. He wouldn’t do that without having a reason to. Must be some cunning behind it.

  “Anybody else’s hopes she got up, and then gave the brush-off?”

  “Dunno. Couldn’t be everywhere, you know.”

  He turns his back on me and pulls out a rusty nail from a board with his pliers. His body language is unmistakable: he’s given me all he wants to, won’t expose himself any more than that.

  I’ve got one more little query for him. “Do you have a key to my house?”

  “No.” He doesn’t even look up.

  I turn toward the door.

  “Whatever. I’ll change the locks.”

  With those words, I leave Dyson in his shed. Can’t get anything more out of the guy right now. What he’s not telling me is in any case more informative than his curt answers. I’m all but convinced he’s responsible for the dog crap. And I’m equally convinced I wasn’t the target of that dirty deed. It’s someone else he despises.

  I tramp back to the car. The front door of the house opens. His mother.

  “You can’t turn around here. You have to back out,” she shouts, with a touch of schadenfreude.

  I yell over to her, impulsively, “Do you know that Ernie Butt claims your son is his cousin?”

  I watch her face. Her lips go narrow, just as Dyson’s eyes did.

  “Ernie’s adopted. Did he tell you that, too?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t tell you. He acts as if he’s well-to-do.”

  I don’t think that’s unusual. Maybe Ernie struggled with his self-esteem as a child because other people saw him as “only” adopted. The way Dyson’s mother referred to it disparagingly. It would almost be natural for Ernie to overcompensate for a thing like that with some ambition or by showing-off.