by Karen Long
Eleanor saw Marty Samuelson’s jaw twitch with irritation as the proceedings descended into the usual point-scoring exercise. “Mr McAvoy, if you have uncovered evidence relevant to this investigation would it not have been more socially responsible to have presented this through the proper channels rather than using it to manipulate public response?” she said tersely.
Cynthia Roberts of The Star jumped to her feet, “Is that an admittance from the homicide department that your evidence collecting has been shoddy at best, irresponsibly lax at worst?”
Marty Samuelson spoke with authority and barely-concealed rage. “The sadistic murder of two women is an outrage and all of our resources and manpower have been put into capturing this man.”
“Perhaps your department has been motivated by the murder of two of its officers by the same killer,” said a figure at the back.
Both Eleanor and her boss had wanted to keep the link between the dead officers under wraps for the time being. She wasn’t sure whether the reporter was merely fishing for a connection or had sourced it. She decided to play safe. “Officers Paget and Ellis were discovered shot dead in the early hours of this morning. A link to the murder of Cassandra Willis has not been established as yet but all avenues of investigation are being pursued. Good day.” With that she stood up, snatched up her prompt papers and slid through the rear door, which was being barricaded by three patrol officers. Samuelson was hot on her heels and both stared at each other as the surge and braying of the press was tamped by the door being shut quickly by one of the officers.
“Are we leaking?” snapped Samuelson as he snatched off his cap and loosened his tie.
“No more than is usual,” she replied turning and walking towards the murder room. “Press just do what we do.”
Samuelson caught up with her. “Where’d you think McAvoy found that card?”
“I’m not sure but we are going to find out.” She walked over to where Mo and Wadesky were still poring over files. “You guys fancy a bit of gentle interrogation? Claddis McAvoy of the Toronto Sun discovered a card this morning that may have been left by the killer. He’s here now and I’m sure is eager to get a story out of it.”
“You betcha,” said Mo with relish. “How’d the press go?”
“Maybe we should have been asking them what info they had, rather than the other way around!” Samuelson snapped as he stormed into his office.
Detective Smith hunkered down and peered back at the two rheumy eyes visible through the letterbox. “Mrs Earnshaw? Mrs Zinnia Earnshaw?” he asked solemnly.
The eyes continued to stare, blinking occasionally. Smith tried again, his back was beginning to ache. “Are you Mrs Zinnia Earnshaw, mother of Tracy Earnshaw of 1117, Aldermaston Crescent?” The eyes blinked twice and then a throaty wheezing sound emanated from the box as the woman exchanged her eyes for her mouth. Smith stood up and took a pace backwards.
“Who are you?” the voice said.
“I’m Detective John Smith,” he said steadily, flipping his badge and holding it close to the letterbox.
“Who?”
Smith breathed in through his nose and exhaled through his mouth just as the therapist had taught him. “Ma’am would you mind opening the door as I have a serious matter that needs discussing in private.” He saw that holding his badge next to the waist high letter box was pointless as the woman’s mouth was the only thing visible. “Ma’am would you look through the gap please as I am holding out my badge to prove who I am.”
A groan accompanied a rustle as the woman repositioned her back. “I’ve done nothing you need to warn me about,” she said firmly.
“Ma’am I have some very serious information regarding your daughter Tracy and I’d be grateful if you would allow me into your home to discuss it,” said Smith trying to dismiss the edge that had crept into his voice.
“Tracy? She’s my daughter. What’s happened to her?”
“I will discuss that when you have opened the door,” said Smith and then added a polite “Ma’am” as he realised this was not the best approach to informing a parent of the death of their child.
There was a rumble of chain and sliding bolt; the door opened a fraction. The woman, who couldn’t have been more than five foot two inches, held the door firmly between arthritic hands and stared hopelessly at him.
“Have you a daughter called Tracy Earnshaw, Ma’am?” asked Smith quietly. She nodded silently, the edge of her lower lip disappearing under her upper dentures as she began to nod again. “May I step inside?” he asked. Mrs Earnshaw continued to nod silently but took no action. Slowly and with care, Smith extended his hand and grasped hers, steering her backwards and into the nearest room. The kitchen was small and homely. Two chairs were neatly arranged around a tiny Formica-topped table, its drab and faded brown hue ameliorated by a pot of geraniums in the center. Smith led the woman to a chair and helped her into it; pulling a second chair towards hers he sat down and, still holding her hand, he began the procedure of informing Tracy’s mother that her daughter was dead.
Smith boiled the kettle and selected two mugs while he waited for the inevitable questions. He’d learned over the years that providing an entire package of information concerning the means, times and persons involved in a loved one’s death was counterproductive to the investigative process. Grief prevented the uptake of large quantities of unpalatable facts and people usually preferred to receive these over a period of time. Generally, the time taken from the revelation of a death to the finish of the house visit lasted from between forty minutes to two hours. Smith had noted that those people who opted for a shorter visit or failed to ask the appropriate questions were usually deeply involved in the homicide/accident of the victim. Smith watched Zinnia Earnshaw carefully as he handed her a cup of strong sweet tea.
“I don’t understand Mr Smith, was she poorly?”
Smith nodded to the cup that he’d placed in her hands. On cue she took an appreciative sip.
“Is there any reason you know of that would cause Tracy to take her own life?”
Mrs Earnshaw’s mouth opened and then she began to shake her head rhythmically from side to side. “Was she poorly then?”
Smith nodded at the tea again but Mrs Earnshaw was moving beyond the comfort that tea could offer.
“Mrs Earnshaw Tracy wasn’t ill. She was shot.” Smith deftly caught the cup as it tipped forward and placed it carefully on the table. He’d started and had to take matters to their conclusion. “It looks as if she shot herself but we can’t be sure at this stage.”
Mrs Earnshaw stared at him with incomprehension. “It might not have been a gun then?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t make myself clear,” said Smith irritated with himself for being vague. “Your daughter died as a result of a gunshot wound to the face.”
“Shot?”
“Yes Ma’am. Tracy was shot in the face.”
“By who? Who shot her?”
“Is it possible that she shot herself?”
“She hasn’t got a gun!” shrieked Mrs Earnshaw. “How could she have shot herself? Did she buy one? How’d you know it was her? How could she have shot herself by accident? I really don’t understand Mr Smith. How?”
“The gun was in her hand. It looks like suicide.”
Mrs Earnshaw’s eyes were round as saucers and a thin trickle of saliva ran from the corner of her mouth. “Well that’s a mystery,” she said wrapping her hands around her chest and beginning to rock herself like a wounded child. “That’s a complete mystery.”
Smith allowed Tracy’s mother a good two minutes before he pressed on. “When was the last time you saw your daughter, Mrs Earnshaw?”
“I don’t really know… maybe a Christmas ago.”
“That’s quite a long time Mrs Earnshaw,” he said softly.
“Mmm… I don’t like to leave the house, you see. It’s safe here. I don’t walk so good and Tracy didn’t like it here I don’t think,” she said quietly. “I don’t t
hink she liked me too much either. Ever since her dad died she didn’t like to be here. They were close you see and she was our only child was Tracy. I never had no more.” She pulled the sodden handkerchief from her pocket and dried her eyes. “Well it’s done now.”
“Do you think Tracy was depressed? Is it possible that she could have killed herself?” Smith asked cautiously.
Suddenly the woman’s eyes seemed clearer and more focussed. She furrowed her brow. “You don’t need to ask me that Mr Smith because you have forensics. I’ve seen those programs on the TV. They can discover anything by studying a death. The scientists will tell you that. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me Mr Smith.”
There was a brooding silence between them.
“When you last saw her how did she seem?”
Mrs Earnshaw smiled sadly. “She was as she always is… disappointed.”
“With what?”
“I never knew. Life, me, the weather. There was always something disappointing her. I told her if she got a job she’d be happier.”
“A job? Didn’t Tracy have a job?” asked Smith curiously.
Zinnia Earnshaw shrugged. “I never knew.”
“Have you a recent photograph of Tracy?”
She shook her head. “No. She didn’t like having her photo taken and if she did she never gave me one… I’ve got some of her at school if that’d help.”
Smith nodded and watched as the woman stood up stiffly and made her way over to a dressing table and pulled out a drawer. She yelped as her arthritic fingers cracked. She took out a brown unmarked envelope and opened it. A smile flickered across her face as she took the three photographs out and looked at them. She passed them over to Smith who muttered his thanks.
“Which one is your daughter?” he asked, looking at a mixed class of teenagers all dressed in bland nondescript uniforms. The group looked indifferent to the concept of being photographed, a mixture of boredom and irritation being the most easily identified expressions. Zinnia Earnshaw stretched out a finger and gently tapped the chest of a girl with mid-length brown hair, a slim, tallish frame and even features. If Smith looked away from the girl he suspected he wouldn’t be able to pick her out again. He was about to look at the second photograph when his eyes fixed on a second figure standing next to Tracy.
“Mrs Earnshaw,” he said trying not to sound too excited. “Which school did your daughter attend?”
“She went to Greenslade High School over on the west side. We lived there when her dad was alive.”
“And the boy standing next to her. Can you remember what his name was?”
Mrs Earnshaw took the photograph from Smith and peered at the figure standing next to her daughter.
“I can.” She frowned. “That’s Lee Hughes that is. The one whose family were killed.”
Chapter Twenty
“For fuck’s sake I said I will! Now have you done anything resembling police work today huh?” shouted Wadesky into the phone. There was a pause as she scribbled down some notes onto a jotter. “You are shitting me!” she caught Johnson’s eye and put a finger up to indicate that news was coming in. Johnson was in the middle of a reorganisation of the timeline, filling several blank spaces with photographs and data sheets. He had four coloured marker pens dangling from nylon necklaces and a small pouch attached to his waist filled with blu-tak, sticky tape and drawing pins. Eleanor and Mo were the only members of the precinct who didn’t snigger when they saw him in office mode. With a look of intense concern Johnson walked over and turned her jotter round to read the latest news. Wadesky scowled at him as she put down the phone.
“Is this coded?” he asked. “Two full at five pm? What does that mean?”
“It means that I need to remember to put two scoops of dog food into this idiot’s food bowl,” she said pointing at Monster who was lying on his back at Mo’s feet, fast asleep. “Apparently the information concerning our suspect was of lesser importance.”
“Go on,” said Mo smiling.
“Guess who went to Greenslade High School?” said Wadesky.
“Tracy Earnshaw,” said Johnson, a broad smile appearing on his face. He began to run the marker pens between his fingers, ready to attack the board.
“And better even than that. Mom has a school photo with her and Lee Hughes standing next to each other.”
“Classmates!” said Johnson excitedly.
“Uh huh!” said Wadesky. “Smith’s gonna bring in the details when he’s finished at the morgue. You go colour that board Johnson. Mo and I have some press to take care of.” Wadesky stretched her aching back and rearranged her blouse over her belly. She laughed at Mo. “It does a girl good to see someone in worse shape, it really does. Gimme your hand.”
Mo hesitated.
“I’m pregnant not disabled!” She grabbed his hand and tugged. Gradually Mo straightened out, groaning and belching. Monster stood to attention and whimpered as Mo struggled upright.
“This is a hell of a good dog. Why doesn’t Whitefoot like him?” he pondered rubbing Monster’s head which was now buried in his crotch.
“Well my Jo always says that when a person don’t like another being, be it dog or otherwise, it’s ’cos they aint leaned to like themselves,” she replied.
Mo nodded sagely.
“Johnson, how long before we’re aired?” asked Wadesky.
“Major networks covering 1800 and 2200 hours,” he replied as he carefully drew a red line between the photograph of Tracy Earnshaw and that of Lee Hughes, using a straight edge.
The man was in the habit of taking a late afternoon coffee at his local bistro and a small plate of carpaccio whilst he ran through the local letting papers. Having little to no interest in local or national political news, unless it affected the market, he seldom switched on his television or bought a national paper. He was contemplating taking a second espresso before taking a brisk walk through the park to his office for a final couple of hours of work. He nodded to the waiter and made a pinching gesture with his fingers, which was code for the coffee, and allowed his eyes to settle on the woman who sat at the adjacent table. She was attractive with large bovine brown eyes partially concealed by heavy dark-rimmed glasses that kept slipping down her small, well-shaped nose. Unfortunately, his study time was being interrupted as she manhandled a large newspaper, trying to find an article that took her fancy. She finally settled and pulled the newspaper higher, exposing the front page to him. He registered the shock before he had fully engaged with the meaning of the headline.
‘Kidnappings Arranged’ Card Used to Lure Two Women to Sadistic Murder’, screamed the type. He leaned forward to glean more information. The Toronto Sun had a photograph of Lydia Greystein and Cassandra Willis taken in livelier times and a reproduction of the card under the photographs. Suddenly, the woman folded the newspaper closed and took a final sip of her coffee, preparing to leave. She caught sight of him and intuitively offered him the paper. He nodded his gratitude and immediately turned to the first page. It took him less than two minutes to digest the information and formulate some level of comprehension. The man realised that contrary to all the signs, the daring yet honest use of the card and the promise of redemption it implied, the individual behind the scheme was a psychopath. He sighed deeply and tried to clear his mind of feelings of disgust at the sheer duplicity of mankind and focus on a way to stop this in its tracks.
Gary Le Douce was an enthusiastic reader of newspapers. His business transcended current trends both political and social but a healthy knowledge of local activities kept him one step ahead of the game in a surprisingly competitive business. There was nothing about the murders that caused either incomprehension or outrage in Gary. In fact, he was frequently astonished that there was not more murder and mayhem around, knowing how aggressive and greedy the majority of people were. Not that he had a problem with avarice; Gary had leanings in that direction himself. He was unsure as to what role the man played in the unfolding kidnapping saga but t
he five thousand dollars ticked one of the boxes. Since reading about the case Gary had been formulating something akin to a plan. If, as he suspected, the money had been deposited with him with the intention of purchasing a kidnapping/murder for some unlucky soul then either that bitch Raven would call and wrestle the money off him or the killer would make an appearance and collect it. The latter, though somewhat unnerving, would prove to be the most lucrative for Gary. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the papers offered a substantial payment for information leading to the arrest and prosecution of the kidnapper and when that reached an interesting enough level, Gary would provide them with videotaped evidence that would reveal the killer.
He’d invested several years ago in some discreet video equipment, which he’d secreted behind the bar, where the lighting was good enough to pick up the features of the punters in sufficient detail to make identification pretty much certain. With the money he’d acquired since its installation he’d maintained regular updating of technology so the system, if not state-of-the-art, wasn’t too far behind. Not that it was used regularly – that would have seen his clientele disappear faster than a rat down a sewer – no, it was back-up, used strategically when Gary needed a little favour or a handy cash windfall that would keep the wolf from the door. What he hadn’t taken into consideration was that the person who came to collect the money was the last person on the planet that Gary had expected.
Eleanor Raven flashed her badge at the security guard, placed her .40 Glock on the x-ray table and walked through the magnetic arch. Laurence followed, repeating her actions.
“You’re telling me that Claddis McAvoy actually admitted to having had one of the cards made up and pretended to have found it in a phone booth?” he asked incredulously.
“And as such will be meeting the magistrates at their convenience tomorrow morning,” she replied smiling. “Apparently Mo walked into the room announcing that he’d been too dumb to wipe the file off his laptop. When Claddis burst out that they had no right to search his laptop without a search warrant, rather than denying that there was anything to find, Mo had him. Took less than ten minutes to get a full confession and listen politely to how he was ‘only trying to stimulate the police force into more vigorous investigation for the good of the reading public’.” Eleanor gave a small laugh as she walked towards the storage rooms but Laurence was quiet. He saw her easy admiration of Mo and felt a pang of irritation that so far he hadn’t managed to get so much as a ‘well done’ from her.
