by L E Fraser
“Are you saying I’m controlling?” It was a struggle to keep his face neutral.
“Yes, I am. You’re a cop.” He waved his hand in a flippant gesture. “Maybe not at the moment, but I suspect you will be again. Cops are black and white. The thing is that people aren’t. Sam and Lisa have history, and it’s tough to come into a play in the third act and expect to follow the story.”
“I’m not interfering in their friendship,” Reece repeated brusquely.
Jim ignored him. “Take Roger, for example. Lisa likes him but I find him an odd duck.”
Now this topic, Reece found more interesting. “How so?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Working with the clients I do, I form judgements.”
Jim was one of Toronto’s top defence attorneys. At least two of his clients—that Reece knew of—had been stone-cold killers, murdering for profit. One had been a serial rapist. Was Jim lumping Roger in with those character types?
“Are you defending Roger, if he needs representation?” he asked.
Jim folded his arms against his chest and his lips narrowed. “Whenever you’re a person of interest in a police investigation, it’s advisable to have counsel,” he replied. “But my schedule is full so I referred him to another attorney.”
Having worked with Jim in the past, Reece knew he seldom declined high profile cases. The murder of an ex-Argonauts player and the involvement of a New York Times bestselling self-help author were right up Jim’s alley. Lots of media attention.
Jim dropped his eyes to the magazine and fiddled with his tie. “Do York Regional Police suspect him?”
“I’m not privy to the direction Detective Alston is taking his investigation.” It was time to stop dancing around. “Do you believe Roger is capable of murder?”
“No,” Jim said slowly, gazing out the window. “But he also might not say anything if he knew who did murder Graham. He might keep that nugget to himself.” His face darkened.
“You don’t like him.” Reece made it a statement to gauge Jim’s reaction.
“Doesn’t matter. My wife likes him. I don’t object to including him in things.” He stood. “I should hit the road.”
At the door, he turned back. “We’re having a dinner party on Saturday. Hope to see you there.”
The last thing Reece wanted to do was suffer through a dinner party with grouchy Lisa. It seemed to Reece that the selfish woman was only happy when she was the highest priority, with everyone’s lives pivoting around her needs. It wasn’t fair to Sam, and Reece wasn’t going to support the parasitical relationship. Period. It would thrill him if Sam ended the friendship. If that made him unreasonable and controlling, so be it.
And now, after Jim’s reprimand, Reece wasn’t keen on spending an evening with him either—or chatting up Roger, a probable murderer.
“Let me talk with Sam.” Reece didn’t bother to disguise his reluctance.
Jim studied him with a slight frown before reaching for the door. “Consider what I said. Thanks for the coffee.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sam
“DO YOU THINK I’m controlling?”
Sam kept her eyes glued to the road as she drove and tried to think of how to frame her answer. The question annoyed her because you shouldn’t ask a question if you couldn’t deal with an honest answer. People did it all the time. Sometimes they ask because they have limited self-awareness, in which case a truthful answer can incite a defensive response that escalates into a vicious argument in a heartbeat. Other times they ask because they’re insecure and seeking validation, in which case a candid reply is hurtful. Reece was neither unaware nor insecure, so Sam wasn’t sure what motivated his loaded question.
“You love me,” she said cautiously. “Sometimes love can be a tad controlling. It’s not a big deal. You aren’t a dictator.” Hoping to change the topic of conversation, she rushed to add, “When we get to the Harris farm, let’s interview Brenda together. Based on her reaction, we’ll figure out who’ll lead.”
“Controlling how?”
Oh boy, he’s not going to drop it.
“Well… My thesis.” She kept her eyes on the road as she drove. “You didn’t like the premise and strongly suggested I change it.”
“What! That’s not true,” he argued. “I said it would be difficult to find evidence to support the hypothesis. I offered guidance and advice.” He folded his arms and frowned. “I was not controlling your decision.”
He had told her to change it. He wanted her to pick something outside Roger’s discipline so she wasn’t beholden to him for help.
“Well,” she said, beginning to get a bit pissed off, “you want me to dump my friends.”
The truth was that she was struggling to find a balance between work, school, friends, and their relationship. She’d figure it out, if everyone could get along and give her a chance. Lisa’s cranky attitude and constant blaming, along with Reece’s dislike toward Lisa, was driving her nuts.
When he didn’t respond, she said, “Look, you’re welcome to voice your opinion. After all, manipulation only works when one party is unsure of her own mind or lacks confidence to stand up for her rights.”
He grunted. “Doesn’t describe you, so I guess we’re okay.”
He fiddled with the phone charger. Because she drove a 1973 Grand Am, the cigarette lighter powered the charger. It was hit-and-miss at the best of times.
“The charger isn’t working again,” he grumbled.
“There’s a portable one in the glove box. It’s a red tube, about the size of your index finger.”
He took it out, connected his phone, and put the entire bundle into his pocket.
She glanced over at him slouching against the car window. He looked upset and unhappy.
“I have a confession,” she said in an effort to cheer him up. “I went behind your back two weeks ago and tossed your old magazines into the garbage. In my book, that’s the definition of controlling.” In her peripheral vision, she was pleased to see him smile.
“So that’s what happened to my back copies of Gourmet,” he mused. “I thought I’d misplaced them. There was a recipe for beef back ribs I wanted to try.”
“That’s what the Internet is for, Grandpa. Nowadays, we youngsters look stuff up on the interwebz.”
He chuckled. “Maybe I am a bit controlling. But I worry about you getting hurt. Your plan about handling Brenda sounds good.”
“Are you saying that so you don’t seem controlling?” she teased.
He laughed and placed his hand on her leg.
“I spoke with Roger last night,” she told him. “Brenda is indeed lucid and stable on the meds. But she can’t recall her husband’s death. The last clear memory she has is an argument about Jordan.”
He stiffened up in the passenger seat and removed his hand. “Did you tell him we were interviewing her?”
“No.”
Reece relaxed. “If she doesn’t remember, this will be pointless. Too bad Jordan and Jordanna will be at school. I’d like to see them with their mom. Get a sense of how they interact.”
“Speaking of school, I called to get background on the twins. Even though they’re eighteen, the administration wouldn’t talk to me. It was weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Sort of defensive. Anyway, I’m hoping Brenda can give us the names of some teachers. Get the impressions of people in authority, you know?”
“Neither of them poisoned me.” He clenched his jaw and stared out the front window, avoiding eye contact.
Reece still suspected Roger. It was so frustrating. Roger had no reason to try to kill Reece. Besides, if Roger wanted to poison someone, he wouldn’t use antifreeze. A doctor with medical expertise and access to medication could select an untraceable drug to simulate a heart attack.
She pulled the car into the laneway to the Harris farm and followed the long gravel driveway to the house. It was a relief not to find Roger’s car. Reece would have had plenty to
say about that. The ugly barn loomed in the distance and reminded her she wanted a private opportunity to snoop. Jordanna had said her mother had a makeshift office in the barn. Maybe she’d drafted a murder mystery on how to electrocute her quarry. Murderers sometimes made stupider mistakes.
Sam remembered responding to a robbery one time when she’d been a beat cop. They’d found the perpetrator’s government health card outside the alley door of the clothing shop. Apparently, he’d tried to jimmy the lock with his own picture identification before giving up and smashing in a window.
At the front door of the farmhouse, Sam knocked, waited, and had to knock three more times before Brenda answered. The woman had lost weight since she’d seen her in the hospital. Purple circles ringed her eyes, which were glassy from her medication, but she welcomed them and escorted them into the living room. In contrast to the ramshackle house, crumbling plaster walls, and scarred wood floors, the furniture was nice. The decor was a little too “furniture store showroom” for Sam’s taste, but the pieces worked together. She and Reece sat side by side on a brown leather sofa, and Brenda perched on a matching recliner across from a gigantic television that monopolized the back wall.
Brenda spoke first. “Roger tells me you’re helping with the investigation into my husband’s accident.” Her voice was high and had a singsong quality to it. She focused her eyes on Reece, so Sam let him respond.
He spoke earnestly. “We’re sorry for your loss.”
“I told him to hire an electrician.” Her expression was calm, emotionless.
The response confused Sam. Did the woman think her husband’s death was accidental?
“Was Graham alone in the basement?” Reece asked.
“I think so.”
“Was anyone visiting the day he died?”
She shook her head and her eyes darted back and forth between them. “No one was home. Just me and Graham.”
Now Reece also looked confused. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Then who do you think called 911?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was shy of a whisper.
Unbelievable, Sam thought. Of course, she knew her son had called the police. It was ridiculous to plea a loss of memory over something so insignificant.
“It was Jordan,” she retorted, not bothering to mask her annoyance. “Have you talked to him about what happened?”
“No,” she said quickly, twisting the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. “We’re trying to move on.”
“Do you remember anything about the afternoon Graham died?” Reece asked.
Brenda’s gaze remained on her lap, but at least she reacted this time, though only by shaking her head.
“Did you know Roger was here?” Reece asked.
Brenda shook of her head again.
“What about Jordan,” he asked. “Do you recall him coming home?”
Her shoulders slumped. “No.”
Reece paused, took a breath. “How did Graham get along with the kids?”
Brenda looked up. The tip of her tongue flicked out and ran across her dry lips. When she released the coiled fabric from her hands, a nest of wrinkles decorated her lap. “He was glad Jordan was on the football team. Graham used to go to his games.” Her eyes dropped back to the ground.
“How about around the house? Did he spend time with his son?”
“Jordan has lots of friends. Players from the team, classmates.” Hair fell across her face and she brushed it aside without shifting her eyes from her feet. “Graham thought one boy was a great linebacker. He taught them a game. They’d link hands in a line and take turns trying to break through.”
“Red rover,” Reece said.
Brenda nodded. “Jordan was jealous of the boy his father complimented. He took the game too far and someone got hurt. My husband was mad. He wouldn’t practise with his son after that.”
Reece caught Sam’s eye, inviting her to interject.
“How does Jordan do in school?” she asked.
“He has good marks,” Brenda answered. “So does Jordanna. Jennifer, well, she’s different.” She clamped her lips together and picked at the wrinkles on her skirt.
“Have Jordan or Jordanna experienced any problems in school?” Sam asked.
“No.”
“Really?” Sam smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Teenagers usually have one or two issues.”
Brenda shuffled her feet and crossed her legs. “Well, a teacher accused Jordan of something last year.”
“What?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know. Graham handled it. I’m not good with things like that.” She spoke quickly and looked up for the first time, meeting Sam’s eyes. Her head tilted to the side and she covered her mouth with her knuckle.
Classic signs of lying, Sam thought, curious over what Jordan did that Brenda didn’t want to share. “What’s the teacher’s name?”
Colour flushed Brenda’s face. “I don’t remember. It wasn’t serious. She doesn’t teach there anymore.”
Another lie. Some people were terrible liars and Brenda was one of them, apparently. Annoying, but Sam knew she’d be able to find out the names of last year’s grade eleven teachers. With that, it would be easy to cross-reference which ones had left the high school this year. Since Brenda had referred to the teacher as female, that would shorten the list somewhat.
“You borrowed a substantial amount of money from Roger before you moved out here,” Sam said. “Can you tell us what it was for?”
“Graham’s gambling debts,” she mumbled.
Sam shook her head. “No it wasn’t. We checked.” She paused but Brenda didn’t say anything. “What was the money for?”
Brenda was silent for so long, Sam figured she wasn’t going to answer. When she finally cleared her throat and spoke, her voice was unsteady. “There was a misunderstanding with a Toronto neighbour. Instead of, ah, going to court, we settled privately.”
Like pulling teeth. “And what misunderstanding was that?”
She shrugged and looked up at Sam. “Graham handled it. An easement dispute, I think. I’m sorry I can’t remember anything about the day Graham died.” Her wide blue eyes shone with sincerity that Sam didn’t believe for a second. “If there’s nothing else, I need to lie down. The medication makes me tired.”
Before Reece or Sam could get up, Brenda had hastened to the stairs. She paused, her hand on the railing, and then spoke softly without turning. “Life is easier when you sleep through it.”
They watched as she disappeared up the creaking staircase. Once she was out of earshot, Sam snorted. “Well, that was weird. Twenty thousand bucks for a property dispute? Bullshit.”
Reece stood. “Interviewing people with mental health issues is seldom productive. I’ll visit their old neighbourhood and see if I can find the neighbour. Want to explore while we’re here?”
Better to ask forgiveness than ask permission, Sam thought. “May as well.” She stood and stretched. “I’ll take the barn.
“I’ll take the basement and meet you out back.”
Outside, Sam spied someone sitting on the grass under the canopy of a group of maple trees about fifty metres from the back door of the house. She headed over, and, as she drew closer, she recognized Jennifer.
The sixteen-year-old wore a pair of white shorts with lacy edges and a cropped pink T-shirt. She was sitting cross-legged, staring into space with her arms hanging limply at her sides. A black cat lay in her lap.
Sam leaned against a nearby tree trunk. “Not in school today?”
Jennifer’s eyes remained fixed straight ahead of her. When a breeze ruffled her hair, leaving a strand across her eye, she barely blinked.
“Jennifer?”
The girl didn’t acknowledge her. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.
Sam knelt to get a closer look at Jennifer. When her hand touched the cat, Sam froze. There was a moment of stark horror mixed with repulsion. Slowly, she turned the cat’s face away from Jennifer’s naked midriff. One
dead eye stared back at her. The other socket was empty.
Shocked, she snatched the corpse from Jennifer’s lap, carried it behind one of the larger trees, and placed it on the grass. In addition to the eyeball gouged from its cavity, something had torn open the belly. A piece of intestine hung from the gaping wound. No rigor mortis. The muscles would have stiffened within a few hours of death, the same as all mammals. It would take twelve to twenty hours before the body became flaccid and decay set in. Now the cat was upwind, she could smell it. Based on the stench emanating from the carcass, the cat had died several days ago.
Something tickled the back of her hand. She glanced at it and cried out, shaking both hands in disgust. Maggots dropped from her fingers, and she flicked fat white bodies from her forearms.
Backing away from the mutilated corpse, she returned to Jennifer. The girl still sat gazing sightlessly across the field. A tear dripped down her cheek now. Blood stained the lap of her white shorts and pulsing worms crawled across her bare stomach. A string of grey clung to the lace on her shorts. Several maggots fell from the hem of her cropped T-shirt to wallow in the dark puddle of clotting blood pooled in the crease of her bent thighs.
“It’s okay,” Sam said shakily. “You need to come with me.” She reached out to take Jennifer’s upper arm and try to lift her into a standing position.
The girl jerked suddenly and yanked her arm away. Something strange flashed across her eyes. The fleeting emotion was too fast for Sam to recognize. In an instant, it had vanished but Sam suspected that shock over discovering her dead pet was transforming into something else. A confusing mixture of repulsion, fear, and anger that the teenager’s mind was too young to process.
Jennifer stood in slow motion. Her eyes dropped and she gasped, swiping the feeding larva from her thighs. She was crying in earnest now. “I wish my brother would die,” she whispered and shook her blood-covered hands manically at her sides.
The teenager turned and ran toward the house. Reece was walking toward them and he had to jump aside to avoid having Jennifer tackle him in her haste to get away.
