by J C Paulson
“I don’t know — hey, Grace! How are you doing? Wait. I think that was a dumb question. Why don’t you come in? I’m Joan Karpinski,” she added, introducing herself to Suzanne and holding out her hand. “Let’s go in this room, over here on your right.”
Thank the gods, thought Grace. Failing Adam, she’d take Joan any day. Joan was smart as hell and super easy to talk to.
“Hey, Lorne, look who’s here,” Joan shouted over her shoulder.
Lorne Fisher came into the room, barely making it through the door. He was easily the most massive man Grace had ever seen, and certainly the largest cop on the force. Grace remembered Lorne from the bishop’s case in the spring; they greeted each other, introduced him to Suzanne, and Grace dove in.
“Suzanne’s worried about her neighbour,” she explained as they settled into chairs with bitter java. It was definitely the first time Grace was grateful for cop shop coffee, which was, at least, hot; the station had generators to provide power during outages.
“Worried enough to drive down here during the worst summer storm in twenty years,” Joan observed. “Maybe thirty. That’s pretty worried. Suzanne, give me a quick version of what’s going on. I assume we’re going to have to get over to your neighbour’s house.”
“If you don’t mind me butting in for a second — in the hopes of speeding this up — do you know about the dog who was shot yesterday?” asked Grace. “And the SUV crashing into the Smart Car? We came down to talk to James about it.”
“Yes — I read the report. You’re that Suzanne, the witness who saw the SUV in the alley, then. What happened to bring you down here now, in this weather?”
“The storm awakened me,” Suzanne said quickly. “There was a huge clap of thunder — so loud I wondered if one of my trees had come down, crashed onto something. I looked out the kitchen window with my flashlight. Then I turned it off, but a few minutes later, in the lightning, I saw someone moving in my neighbour’s — Sherry’s — back yard. I thought the person went into the house, and I don’t think it was Sherry. And what would she be doing outside in this weather, without a flashlight?
“I couldn’t call anyone. Neither of my phones worked because of the power outage. I went over and banged on Sherry’s door and I shouted, but there was no response. And no candles, no flashlight inside. The door was locked. Then I became very frightened, and ran back to my house.
“I drove to Grace’s and explained to her, and now, nous sommes là. Here we are,” she added, realizing she had switched to her mother tongue.
“I see why you’re concerned,” said Joan.
“Oh!” said Suzanne. “I thought I heard a sound, a cry. But I could be wrong. It’s so noisy with the wind and rain and thunder.”
“Okay, Suzanne. Let’s go and have a look, shall we? Do you want to stay here, or go back to Grace’s?”
“Fat chance, Karpinski,” Grace said, her reporter’s hat firmly in place.
Joan sighed. “I guess I can’t prevent you from going to Suzanne’s house, can I?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“We’ll take a police SUV,” said Joan. “You can follow us. We’ll meet you in the lobby in two minutes.”
Joan and Lorne Fisher gathered keys and put on their jackets; they already wore their duty belts, fully equipped with mobile communications, guns and myriad other gear.
Stopping at the front desk, and with time against them, Joan asked the young constable to contact James Weatherall and Charlotte Warkentin, the detective constables on call that night.
“Tell them no sirens, and no lights as they get close. What’s the address, Suzanne?” she asked.
Suzanne gave it, and they were away.
*****
Tucked into her car, with a blanket Joan had unearthed at the station, Suzanne slumped in her seat; Grace had taken the wheel. Perceiving her friend’s exhaustion, Grace wondered if she might doze off on the short trip up to Nutana, across the river from the police station.
Grace was having the opposite reaction. As they neared Sherry’s house, her tension rose. She was much more concerned about Sherry now that the police were obviously taking Suzanne so seriously. While Suzanne nodded off, Grace vibrated, and wished she had brought a reporter’s notebook.
Hopefully, thought Grace, Sherry had been asleep, and the person Suzanne thought she saw was either a phantom or a friend.
The SUV dodged tree branches and puddles the size of ponds; Grace followed Joan’s lead. They arrived within ten minutes down the street from Sherry’s house. Dimly, Grace could see a second police vehicle across the street; the rain, while still pouring down, had let up enough to allow her to see a few metres. There was a scarf of light on the eastern horizon. The dawn was coming.
“Stay here,” said Joan, stopping at Suzanne’s vehicle. “Or, go into Suzanne’s house, but I’d rather check it out first, in case it’s one of those power-outage break-and-enter sprees.”
“We’ll stay here for now,” said Grace.
“Sherry Hilliard? Is that right?” Joan asked Suzanne.
“Yes,” said Suzanne, drowsily.
Joan and Lorne walked a few paces and met James and Charlotte on the sidewalk. All four advanced on the house, as Joan quietly explained what she knew. All the officers already knew about the dog being shot and the SUV crash. Was this related?
James and Charlotte went around the side, to check the yard, garage and back door. Drawing their guns, they crept silently along the narrow sidewalk beside the house. Joan and Lorne walked up to the front window, and tried to peer in; it was black inside.
Nothing for it but to try the front door, and it was, as Suzanne had said, locked.
“James,” said Joan quietly into the mobile phone, “it’s locked. We’re going to knock. Be ready.”
“Copy that,” said James.
Lorne, the big man with a big fist and a voice to match, hammered on the door and rang the doorbell at the same time.
“Police,” he called. “Please open the door, Ms. Hilliard.”
No response. They waited a moment longer.
“Police!” yelled Lorne, banging again. “Open up please!”
He turned to Joan and shrugged.
“How do you want to get in?” he asked. “Want to check windows, or break down the door?”
“Just a sec,” said Joan. “James, is the back door locked, too?”
“Yeah. No windows open along this side . . . just a minute . . .” he sloshed through muddy puddles to the other side. “No windows open here, either.” He pulled on one of them. “Locked, too.”
“Looks like we’re breaking in. Lorne’s going to try this door with his shoulder. Otherwise we’ll get the ram. Standing back now.”
Lorne, who in the spring had almost single-handedly carried a wounded James out of a tiny basement with a little help from a bleeding Adam, unloaded his power onto the door. It caved easily, crashing to the floor.
The police officers walked over the door and into the house, first going straight through to the back to let in the detectives.
Still no power. Still no light. All four officers turned on high-powered flashlights, and beamed them around the kitchen and living room.
“Sherry Hilliard! Can you hear me? It’s the police,” said Joan, heading for the woman’s bedroom. The door was closed; Joan opened it, but Sherry was not there. Only a mess of sheets and a comforter thrown aside, possibly because of the heat. A dog bed. A dresser. Clothing carpeted the floor.
Lorne was in the other tiny bedroom, and James had taken the bathroom. No one there.
It took them thirty seconds to check the main floor, but as they searched, there were no signs of basement stairs. This odd, old house didn’t have the usual steps off the kitchen. Finally, in the floor of the second bedroom’s closet, they found a trap door covered with a mat.
“This is creepy,” said Joan, shining her light on the floor. “Can we even get through the hole?”
“Maybe,” said
James. “No way Fisher’s getting in there.”
“Nope,” agreed the man with the wide shoulders and massive chest. “But I can open the door for you guys.”
It came up easily enough, revealing nothing but a black hole; but an odd noise emanated from the gloom. James prepared to head down as Joan flattened herself on the floor, shone her light in and peered around. There wasn’t enough of an angle to see much, but there was a ladder.
James handed his flashlight to Joan and started down the flimsy rungs, as Joan lit the way with so her colleague could see where he was placing his feet.
“Anybody down there? Sherry?” she called.
The sound of a splash heralded James’s arrival at the bottom, explaining the strange noise. Joan dropped a flashlight down to him.
“There’s a lot of water coming in here from the rain and . . . oh, my God,” the three officers above heard him say. Then they heard him gag.
It was a tiny room. Covered in blood. What James Weatherall saw was Sherry Hilliard’s body propped grotesquely against the wall, head flopped to one side, naked from the waist down. She was nearly exsanguinated from being stabbed, countless times.
Chapter Five
James would later tell Adam that the crime scene was the worst he had ever attended, and that included car crashes.
The little basement, not much more than a crawl space, was awash in bloody rainwater. That, combined with the victim’s pale face above her slashed body, her legs sticking out like a doll’s, made the scene utterly surreal.
James sloshed over to the body from the foot of the ladder and said grimly, “No need to take her pulse.”
“What happened?” asked Joan. “Do you want me to come down there?”
“She’s been stabbed, and slashed. Maybe a dozen, fourteen times. I’m wading in blood and water.”
“Jesus. I’m on my way down. Lorne, call it in and get the crime scene people here right now.” He immediately stomped out of the room, pressing a speed dial button.
“Charlotte, can you light the way for me?”
Joan crept down the rickety ladder. Splashing down at the bottom, she saw Sherry Hilliard in James’s light as he crouched before her body.
“God. What kind of a freak did this? I’m guessing she’s been raped, too,” he said. “Look at the bruises.”
“Christ,” said Joan, staring at Sherry’s ravaged body. “We have to get crime scene here pronto, and then get her out of here before we all go under water. Char,” she called up. “Tell Lorne crime scene has to get here right now. Sirens and lights. Right now. This basement’s going under water. We have to move.”
“Copy that, Joan,” said Charlotte, then shouted, “Lorne! Tell them to get here pronto. Basement’s flooding. It’s going to put her under water.”
“Gotcha,” said Lorne from the living room, and Charlotte could hear his big voice rising, demanding speed from the crime scene investigator.
“Shit! Grace and Suzanne are still outside,” Joan called again. “We have to say something to them before they hear those sirens. Char, can you ask Lorne to check on them?”
“You got it,” said Lorne to Charlotte’s request, then stopped. “Hell, what am I going to say? Their friend has been brutally murdered and raped, and is bleeding out in a flooding basement? Fuck.”
“You’ll have to tell them she’s dead. Keep the details out of it; say we don’t know what happened yet. Go back to Suzanne’s house with them. Who knows what’s going on here? Make sure they’re safe.”
“Okay.”
Even from the basement, Joan and James could hear Lorne’s heavy sigh, his heavier footsteps heading across the floor and over the broken door.
The sky was brightening as Lorne walked over to Suzanne’s car. While it was still raining, it wasn’t pouring; the storm was moving off.
Suzanne was asleep when his tap came at the window. Grace’s head snapped around; she must have been dozing, too. She poked Suzanne.
“Lorne,” said Grace, rolling down the window. “What’s going on? You’ve been in there quite a while.”
“I’m sorry, Grace, Suzanne. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”
“How bad?” asked Grace.
“I’m very sorry to tell you this, but Ms. Hilliard is dead.”
In that moment, Grace knew she would never doubt her friend on anything, ever — even if she mentioned aliens had landed.
Suzanne gave a little cry, and Grace could see tears welling up in her eyes.
“Oh, no,” said Grace, putting her hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. “What happened?” she asked Lorne.
His eyes widened and he shook his head. Don’t ask that question, his body language told Grace. “I’m sorry. We just found her. We don’t know yet.”
“Okay,” said Grace, turning to her friend. “Honey. Should we go inside, see if we can warm up, get some tea? Maybe the power’s back on.”
Suzanne nodded speechlessly. Tears slipped down her face as she pushed the door open, stepped out of the car and started to weave toward her house.
“Oh, no, oh, no,” Grace heard her crying, as she opened her own door. Then Suzanne doubled over, in the middle of the street, and leaned to one side.
“Suzé!” shouted Grace, leaping out of the car toward her friend.
But Lorne Fisher was there first. He dove toward Suzanne as she collapsed, and scooped her up in his colossal arms before she could hit the pavement. She was out cold.
Grace lurched back toward the car, snatched the keys out of the ignition and led Lorne to Suzanne’s front door, fumbling to unlock it. She flicked the light switch; the power was back on.
Bruno awaited them in the tiny entrance, barking and jumping in a frenzy, nearly tripping Lorne as he carried Suzanne to the sofa and laid her gently down. Grace saw the concerned look on Lorne’s face as he crouched beside Suzanne and took her pulse, as she tried to calm Bruno.
Uh oh, she thought, something’s happening here. Lorne Fisher was not, by thousands, the first man to think her friend was beautiful; but the kindness in his expression, mixed with admiration, was a moving thing to behold.
Suzanne’s eyes fluttered open and her gaze landed on Lorne. It took many seconds before she spoke, as she recovered, confused, from her faint.
“Allô?” she said, questioningly. “Monsieur? Que s'est-il passé?”
Lorne looked at Grace.
“She’s asking what happened,” Grace explained, coming over to the sofa and kneeling by her friend. “Her first language was French. Her English will kick in again soon. Suzanne, I’m here. This is Lorne Fisher, the police officer, remember? He caught you when you fell in the street. You fainted, Honey. How’s her pulse?” she asked Lorne, quietly.
“Okay,” he said. “How are you, Suzanne? How do you feel?”
“Dizzy. Tired. Oh! Mon Dieu,” she said, suddenly remembering why she had fainted. “Sherry’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Lorne. “I’m very sorry.”
“What happened to her? Can I see her?”
“I can’t tell you, yet, what happened. We’re still investigating. And I’m sorry, no, you can’t see her.” He flicked a warning look at Grace, which was not lost on either woman.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” asked Suzanne, in a very quiet voice.
Lorne pressed his lips together, and gave one, very slight nod. Family and friends cared very much about how someone died, once they had absorbed the initial bad news. They wanted to know their loved one had not suffered. Sherry was Suzanne’s neighbour, not her sister; but it was much the same thing. There was no reassurance in this case.
Sirens. The crime scene investigators were almost there. At the sound, Suzanne gave a violent shiver. Her hands flew up to her face and covered her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked her body. Lorne took her back into his arms and she threw her own arms around his neck, crying and shaking.
His face registered amazement, then settled into a study in m
isery. Grace felt so sorry for him. She remembered carrying the same expression on her own face, as she waited for and wanted Adam in the long weeks after the bishop’s murder. She was pretty sure Lorne had fallen for Suzé, and hard.
Lorne held Suzanne, and Grace stroked her back, trying to soothe her. Eventually, with a shudder, Suzanne let go of Lorne and actually smiled at him — although shakily.
“Merci,” she said. “Merci, Lorne. For catching me, and for your sympathy. You are very kind.”
Lorne, colouring, was apparently struck dumb as he looked into Suzanne’s lovely, if puffy, face. Grace wanted to save him.
“Lorne, thank you,” she said quickly, to fill the silence. “I would never have been able to catch Suzé, much less get her into the house. Should I make some tea? Coffee?”
Lorne cleared his throat, and rose from the couch.
“Thanks, but I have to get back next door. First I’m going to check the basement, and take a look in the bathroom and bedrooms,” he said to Grace; but he was staring at Suzanne.
“Of course,” said Grace, feeling a little unsettled by his concern, “but I’m sure Bruno would have caused a fuss, if anyone was here.”
Lorne nodded, but headed downstairs just the same.
“No one down there, but there is a little bit of rainwater,” said Lorne, returning. He quickly checked the other rooms on the main floor. No sign of interlopers.
“Will you two be okay? I have to get back. And we’re right next door.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Grace. “And we have Bruno.”
As Lorne turned to head out the door, Suzanne reached out and touched his hand.
“Thank you, again,” she said.
“You’re welcome, Suzanne. My pleasure. Just doing my job.”
“Even so.”
Grace followed Lorne to the door, and asked quietly, “How bad is it, Lorne?”
“I didn’t see her. She’s in the basement with James and Joan.”
Grace folded her arms and raised an eyebrow at the big cop. “Give me a break.”
Lorne gave a heavy sigh.
“It’s really bad, Grace. About as bad as it gets. Look, I promised Joan, no details. Short form, she was stabbed.”
