That was about it. Mrs. Desjardins in particular was morbidly curious about what had actually been done to Doris but Franklin was tight-lipped. I forgave him a lot for that.
Finally we dismissed them with strict instructions to bring in a locksmith as soon as possible. Franklin wrinkled his nose in disgust before they had even closed the door.
“Jesus wept, where did they find those two? I wouldn’t want a relative of mine living here.”
I certainly agreed with him. The one solid piece of information the Desjardins had given us was that it was pathetically easy to gain access to the residence.
Edith Cowan, bless her heart, had sent down more tea and a plate of toast and jam for us. Franklin had ordered in two large pizzas with everything but my stomach still said breakfast and the toast went down nicely.
The next three hours were difficult. Franklin had assigned another young female constable to sit in on the interviews and keep a second set of notes for me. Most of the residents were women and even though I tempered what I said, there was no way to avoid telling them that Doris had been assaulted. She had been well-liked and the shock and sorrow of her death and the circumstances surrounding it were overwhelming to many of the residents. Fortunately, Mrs. Cheevers had worked quickly and efficiently and family members, anxious, hassled, began to arrive. I was glad when several of them decided to whisk away their elderly residents.
We took names and addresses and noted who had keys. Nobody had reported a lost key but once again it was obvious that there were possibly dozens in circulation. I was rapidly ruling out stranger rape. Our bad guy was somewhere in this circle, however wide it might appear.
My last interview was with Mrs. Cheevers. She had actually anticipated the matter of the keys and came with a file folder containing names of residents and next of kin, previous superintendents, home care workers, social workers, anybody who had access to the building as far back as three years ago when she said they’d had new locks installed that were considered safer. This was an invaluable list and I handed it over to Franklin. He riffled through the sheets. He looked miserable but who knows if it was just him thinking about his bottle of cold beer.
“This could be like catching fleas on a black dog. But I’ll get some of the guys onto it. Do you want a copy?”
“Sure.”
I thought he was hoping I’d cast my eye over it and magically come up with a name. Save him a lot of work.
“You never know, these funny cases might be connected.”
“Funny cases?”
“You know, raping old ladies, killing deaf girls.”
The coroner hadn’t thought Deidre had been sexually assaulted but I didn’t feel like going into that with him.
He yawned, hardly bothering to cover his mouth. “You know where to find me if you get any insights. Whose got your other case?”
“Ed Chaffey.”
“He’s a good man. We’re in the same bowling league.”
I wondered if I could talk Ed into dropping a bowling ball on Franklin’s foot.
I decided to have a look around a bit more before I left. Grace had asked, “Why Doris? Who would want to hurt an old lady?” Unfortunately victims can be any age. There was one notorious case that I’d studied as part of my training. It had occurred in the United States, where a man preyed exclusively on elderly women who all lived in one particular apartment complex. He’d gone undetected for a long time.
I took the ever so slow elevator again to the second floor and just as I exited, I saw a couple of forensics leaving the apartment. They were androgynous in their white bunny suits, which covered everything except for the face. However, one of them pulled back the hood and shook out her long hair. She introduced herself as Sandy Zarowny.
“How’s it going?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to say. The victim took a shower and the bathroom is pristine so there’s no joy there. We’re hoping for something from the wheelchair. Joanne’s pulled several good latents and we’ll check them out.”
The other person, a female, also now hoodless, nodded. “We’ve put a requisition in to the hospital to hold the clothes. We might be able to get something from them.”
“He got in no problem,” said the first woman. “There’s no scratch on the door jamb. There’s a screen on the windows and you couldn’t get up there anyway without a ladder. Either he had a key or she let him in.”
Doris had told Grace the man appeared behind her as she came out of the bathroom. She hadn’t let him in. However, she could have left the door unlocked, in which case his choice of her apartment might be random. He’d entered the first place he found accessible. On the other hand, it is quite possible he had a key and we were back to, “Why Doris?”
I’d been holding the elevator door for them and Sandy looked at it. She sighed.
“I suppose we should dust the panel but it’s going to be smothered in prints and it’ll be murder to get anything clear.”
A forensic’s job is not an easy one, that’s for sure.
“We were just going out for a smoke,” she said. “We’ll do it when we come back.”
I left them to it and walked down the hall. Doris’s apartment was next to the fire exit and the stairs. Had the rapist come that way? I’d guess he had. An elevator was too chancy. There was another apartment directly opposite to Doris’s. There was a pine wreath hanging on the door which said Bring on the Snow. A cheery snowman beamed out at the world. Gently, I turned the door handle. It was locked. I was about to knock but decided against it. Franklin was taking care of all of that.
I shoved open the heavy fire door and went into the stairwell. Dust bunnies filled the corners. Somebody had spilled coffee and left the Styrofoam cup on the stairs. So much for the Desjardins’s cleaning standards. I continued on down to the ground level. That exit opened directly into the backyard, currently drab and rain soaked in the November gloom. In the summer it must be a pleasant space for the residents to get some sun, but not now.
Unfortunately, all I could see was how private it was, how perfect for an intruder to enter unnoticed. A high wooden fence enclosed the area that was asphalt, and benches were grouped in a semicircle around a stone patio, in the centre of which was a fountain. Mature evergreens stood in each corner, and several iron bird cages hung from the tree branches. Near the gate was a Victorian lamp and tucked into one corner was a large yellow doghouse with the word Nana painted over the opening. I looked around and sure enough Peter Pan himself was poised nearby in the shrubbery, a finger to his lips as he prepared to lead a stony Wendy and Michael and Peter to Never-Never Land. I took a peek inside the doghouse but there wasn’t anything noteworthy that I could see, just a dry wooden floor.
I walked over to the gate, which wasn’t locked, and stepped through into an alleyway that ran parallel to the residence. A high brick wall, that looked as if it was at the end of somebody’s garden ran along one side, the residence fence the other. To my left was a ramshackle garage; to the right; was the alley, which ran only a couple of hundred feet past more garages before connecting with a wider one, which I assumed led to the main street. There was one light hanging on the wall near the gate but the glass was smashed. Secluded, dark, it was the perfect entry for a clandestine approach.
I didn’t have time to do more than a cursory examination but there were no telltale clues. No monogrammed handkerchiefs, no conveniently bloodstained nail to give DNA. Nothing in the alley except the usual detritus you’d expect to find in a place nobody cared about: sodden newspapers blown up against the garage wall, discarded candy wrappers, a mound of cigarette butts near one of the garage, dog feces. Nevertheless it was an area that the forensics should examine thoroughly. There was no doubt in my mind this was where the rapist had entered. I went back to find the young smokers and tell them.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I’d just got into my car when my cellphone chirruped. It was Ed Chaffey.
“Chris, we’ve made contact with
Sigmund Forgach.”
“Way to go! Where was he?”
“At home. He said he had a headache and wasn’t answering his phone. I’ve asked him to come in for an interview. He asked if he could come to the Centre. Hey, I don’t care if we see him in the public washroom. Will you do it? I got in touch with Ray Motomochi and he’ll assist.”
“Fantastic. Does Katherine know?”
“She does and she’s informing Dr. Forgach. And by the way, we have some interesting intelligence from the security guard in young Mr. Forgach’s building. We thought we’d do a bit of casual checking and according to him, the Mazda was parked early on. He said he saw it just after nine-thirty but the Chevy Nova was not in its regular parking space until at least three o’clock in the morning.”
“Gotcha.”
“The kid’s going to be there at one. Call me as soon as you’re done with him.”
I can’t say I was exactly looking forward to this but I was tremendously relieved that at least Sigmund hadn’t done a bunk.
Interviews tended to be conducted differently depending on the situation — who was the subject, what we knew about them, and so on. Sometimes the best approach was casual and friendly: “Would you like a coffee” or “Miserable weather we’re having,” sort of thing, if we thought it important for the subject to let down their guard. Other times, the most powerful tool was silence or a non-communicative interviewer who let the subject stew.
Neither Ray nor Sigmund was talking when I entered. Ray had got his “inscrutable oriental” face on, as he called it, and Sigmund was looking cowed and miserable. He glanced up anxiously but when he saw it was only me he relaxed. I guessed he’d feared it was his father entering.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant Morris,” he said and held out his hand. His palm was so moist I had to resist the impulse to wipe my hand on my jacket. Innocent people are often nervous when they are sitting in a police station being questioned about a serious crime, but I’d yet to see a person pure as the driven snow who was this uneasy. Sigmund was suffering from a bad attack of nerves and 90 percent of the time that meant the interviewee had a guilty conscience about something or other. I was about to open up that pocket of emotional pus.
I sat down across from him. “Mr. Forgach, I guess Sergeant Motomochi filled you in on why we wanted to talk to you?”
I was deliberately adopting a formal stance. Frankly I felt I needed the security of the usual protocol.
“No, not really.” Sigmund glanced over at Ray, who was looking down at an open notebook he’d placed on the table. “I assume you are creating an in-depth character analysis or something like that.” He gave a small giggle, perhaps realizing what he said sounded like a bank credit check. Even though it was Saturday, he’d chosen to wear his banking clothes, white shirt and dark tie, a smart navy suit with a pinstripe, cut skilfully to hide his slight paunch.
“We were trying to reach you all day yesterday.”
I let that sit there for a moment.
He pursed his lips, the thoughts flashing through his mind almost palpable. We must know that he hadn’t been at the bank.
“Yes, well as I told Sergeant Chaffey, I didn’t check my voice mail until this morning. As soon as I realized you wanted to talk to me, I came straight away.”
“I understand that your mother was under the impression you were at a seminar and your bank thought you were home sick. Do you mind telling me where you were?”
Again I could virtually see the rapid sorting out of his words. He was dancing like a drop of oil on a hot griddle, as Al Jackson would say. He gave me a grin that was intended to be disarming but looked furtive.
“I needed a mental health day. Mother is a, er, worrier. If I’d said that she would have made me go to the emergency ward or back to bed so I, er, I thought it was simpler for everybody if I said I was at a seminar.”
“What did you do instead?”
“Nothing much. Drove around. Had lunch. Sat in the park.”
“Which park was that?”
He rubbed his hands together in what I thought was a Lady Macbeth sort of way. Guilt.
“I didn’t really notice. It was just some small park by the lake … I didn’t stay in Barrie. As you can imagine I didn’t want to run into anybody I knew, so I, er, I drove over here. That is, in this direction, and stopped at a park off the highway.”
“How far would you say you had driven before you went into the park?”
“Oh, er. I wasn’t paying much attention. Perhaps half an hour or so.”
I knew there was nothing that could be called a park off the highway but I let that pass for now.
“So you said you stayed in the park for a while, enjoying nature.” I smiled falsely. “You must certainly be a nature lover as it was a miserable day yesterday. It rained most of the day, didn’t it?”
He shrugged. “When you work indoors all day like I do, rain can be refreshing. I had an umbrella and a warm coat. I was all right.”
“How long would you say you spent in this park?”
“An hour maybe. It’s hard to say.”
“But you walked around?”
“Yes, that’s right. There was a trail that I followed.”
I looked at my notebook. Ray was staring straight ahead. I noticed Sigmund glancing at him uneasily. I could understand why. His silence was unnerving.
“All right, Mr. Forgach. Let me just get my times right. What time do you usually leave for work?”
“Eight o’clock. I am expected to be at my desk at eight-thirty.”
“Was that the time you left the house yesterday?”
“No. A bit later than that. Nine o’clock perhaps.”
“And you drove for approximately half an hour to the park, where you walked around for about an hour. That takes us up to 10:30 … then you went for lunch?”
He gave me a sickly grin. “Sounds more like breakfast, doesn’t it?”
Sounds like a lie to me, I thought.
“And where did you have this meal?”
“Some diner on the edge of town … I don’t remember the name of it. It was one of those anonymous ma-and-pa places.”
“Could you find it again?”
He pretended to think. “You know, strange as this sounds, I don’t think I could. I just stopped the car at the first place I saw.”
Ray intervened. “If you were coming in from Barrie, you must have been on Highway 11. There’s a strip mall just on the edge of town. Was that were you stopped?”
“Er, yes, possibly it was. As I said, I wasn’t paying much attention.”
“What did you have to eat?”
“Bacon and eggs. There, it was a breakfast, wasn’t it?”
My turn. Ray and I in a dance we’d practised before. “What car were you driving?”
“My own car.”
“A red Mazda Miata, I understand.”
“That’s right.” He was slumping further down in his chair.
“I understand you have a second car, a Chevy Nova?”
He coughed. “It’s my mother’s car really.”
“Do you drive it?”
“Sometimes.”
I hung that one up for now.
Ray now. “How long did you stay in the restaurant, Mr. Forgach?”
“About an hour, more or less.”
“Did you talk to anybody?”
“Just the waitress. The place was quite empty.” Again the sickly smile. “I’m not surprised, the food was terrible.”
“Did you pay cash or by credit card?”
“Cash.”
“Do you remember how much the meal cost?”
“Er, no. It was quite cheap really. Five dollars and change.”
Me, now. “Did you keep the bill?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And what did you do after you left the restaurant?”
“I drove around and then came home.”
“But you didn’t pick up your messages until this morning?”
“That’s right. I felt I wanted a quiet night all to myself, so I didn’t check.”
Ray actually smiled at him. “That takes discipline. Me, I can’t resist for one minute seeing who’s called if that red light is flashing.”
Sigmund eyed him warily.
I took up the lead again. “Did your mother know you were home?”
“No, she didn’t. She goes to bed early and I didn’t want to disturb her.”
“What time would you say you were back in the house?”
Sigmund Forgach was getting a harried, trapped look. He was trying to be one step ahead of us and he was starting to chase his own tail.
“I’m not sure. It was after ten because my mother was already in bed… Close to midnight, I suppose.”
I consulted my notes. “We have you leaving a diner, unnamed, at about eleven-thirty or noon. You arrive home about midnight. That leaves eleven hours unaccounted for. What were you doing in those eleven hours?”
For the first time, he became a tad belligerent.
“Look, I’ve been pretty accommodating to date, because I know you’ve got a job to do, let’s not forget I’m the son of a crime specialist.”
Got that one, Sig.
“However, I don’t see the relevance of these questions. What I choose to do with a day off surely has no bearing on what happened to Deidre?”
I waited a moment. “Perhaps you can allow me to be the judge of that. I wonder, Mr. Forgach…”
“Please call me Sig. You’re making me feel like a criminal. You know my father. Surely for his sake you can let go of the formality?”
I couldn’t do that, of course, not with what was already on the table, but I thought that Sig would relax more if he thought we were applying collegiate rules.
“Sig, as you say, your own father has been with the criminal division for many years. I know you haven’t lived together since you were a child but like most people these days, I’m sure you have some knowledge of police procedure. We have found a couple of discrepancies in your statement.”
The K Handshape Page 26
