The photographer snapped pictures when Ted pointed at spots of interest that only he could see beneath the thick oily paint.
They carefully turned her over.
The pale bloodless skin where her body had been pressed against the wall was almost a relief from the artificial colours her killer had created on her front.
"She's been dead about twelve hours."
As Ted spoke, an officer took rapid shorthand notes, following him around like a pet.
"Rigor mortis is complete. We have seen a rare case of cadaveric spasm. She exhibited the death rattle and the body contractions. When the murderer stretched her body onto the wall, she very likely wasn't quite dead, but certainly dying."
Dr. Sato directed his findings to the chief, who was avoiding the sight of the body splayed on the sheet by looking the coroner in the eye. Seemingly oblivious to the officer's distress, Ted glanced at his watch.
"That means I'll set the estimated time of death for between 9 p.m. and 9 a.m., when the body was found."
He began to speak in a monotone, as though lecturing or rehearsing his courtroom appearance.
"Of course, I will have to take into consideration the temperature last night, both inside and outside, since she was affixed to a brick wall and there's no heat source in here. It was cold last night but heated up with the sun today. It's often difficult in these cases when there is such trauma to the body, but I still might be able to set the time of death a little more exactly when the autopsy is done.
"She shows signs of sexual assault. There are ruptures in the vaginal area, but again, it's hard to see until I get rid of this paint. He could've cut her there, I suppose."
The doctor stood up and stretched his legs before he continued. His droning, formal speech created a vortex around him, giving the dreadful scene a framework upon which to place the remaining officers' attention.
"The cause of death isn't terribly clear. I can see some petechial haemorrhaging, so she may have been strangled, but there are no obvious marks on her neck. Hard to see under all that paint, though."
"The cuts in her skin were performed as she was dying. Her heart must have still been pumping, though slowly. Gravity did the rest. However, the murderer certainly did a great job of cleaning it up. Must've used some kind of bleach…"
Ted looked around then, as though he'd just remembered there were other people in the room.
"Of course, I will have lots more answers after the autopsy. Speaking of which, uh, chief, can I talk to you?"
The pathologist gestured to the corner, where the two men adjourned and began speaking in low tones.
Charlie could see his boss's shoulders quivering, as though he were bearing an enormous weight. At first, he shook his head violently in answer to whatever Ted was suggesting, but as the coroner continued to talk, Webster obviously became resigned.
It was only when Sato turned toward the two crime scene assistants that Charlie realized the enormity of what was going to happen next.
Gently, each of the men perched at one of the girl's sides, while Ted, with ruthless expertise, snapped the hardened muscles in her shoulders, then her hips, in order to lower her arms and legs. The sound in the room was excruciating.
The solid crack of the joints echoed in Charlie's head. Now the slim, beautiful blonde, a girl barely out of her teens, looked like a monstrous tattooed old woman from a seedy circus, crumpled and misshapen, her image in tatters from the defilement to her body.
Charlie felt tears behind his eyelids. He saw his colleagues blink and turn their heads.
Quickly, the aides wrapped Linda in the sheet, positioned the body bag, and covered her in black. Soon the stretcher headed out the door.
Charlie felt relieved and ashamed at the same time.
The pathologist gave a short wave and a brief smile to everyone as he gathered up his tools.
Appearing to realize the toll this discovery had taken on the constable, Ted placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder before following the body down the hall.
"See you later," he murmured.
Chief Webster wasted no time on sentiment.
"Fairburn, Haynes," he commanded, inclining his head toward Charlie and Tom Fairburn of the homicide squad in that condescending, get-over-here manner his underlings so detested.
"I want you to lead up this team, Fairburn."
Webster waited until the Detective gave him the expected nod.
"Haynes, you're on the squad too."
This was highly unusual and Charlie felt a frisson of apprehension.
In contrast, Tom's eyes actually shone with eagerness. Charlie figured his friend couldn't wait to tell Betty, ambitious Betty, that her husband had been handpicked by the chief for an inquiry that was guaranteed to be big news.
On the other hand, Charlie's sergeant would not be impressed, nor would the district inspector. As though he'd read Charlie's mind, Webster continued.
"I'll clear it with Inspector Cooper, Haynes. You have expertise in the art world, so we need you to interview these suspects. They're a different breed, I'm told, and I guess you would know."
Charlie wasn't surprised at the chief's knowledge of his personal hobby. After all, Ted, Tom, Charlie and Ken had started out together in the Hastings District, where bonds were quickly formed as the officers often struggled to digest the depths to which human beings could fall.
Webster's ambitious and often ruthless nature, along with an ability to schmooze, had led to a quick rise up the ranks.
Charlie also wasn't surprised or insulted by the Chief's condescension toward art and artists. That was Ken.
"I'm also going to talk to the girl's family," the chief continued, trying to sound distanced from the victim but not quite succeeding. "I want you guys to find the man who rents this place. What's his name again?"
"Professor Thompson," Charlie supplied. "He's a teacher at Three Arts."
"Find out what he was doing last night. I'll ask the family for names of any boyfriends and then you can chase them down too."
Tom gave Charlie a knowing look. Webster was hot for this one and there would be no rest until the culprit was in custody.
As for Charlie, that was fine with him. They were going to catch this bastard.
Charlie and Tom walked out from under the steel girders into fresh, sunlit air.
"Want to head over to Three Arts now," Charlie asked, "and notify Thompson? We could bring him back here to inspect the studio, see if anything's missing."
Tom nodded his head enthusiastically, as though Charlie had invited him out for a beer.
"You think it was a robbery and she walked in on it or something? Were there some valuable paintings in there? Maybe this Thompson guy is famous and his art sells for big numbers."
Charlie looked over at his friend. Tom Fairburn was a very tall, lanky man, with bright red hair, dotted freckles across his face, and a huge bulbous nose. The combination made him extremely homely in a comical way.
Once, on one of the few occasions he came to visit Charlie and Joan, their daughter Lucy had toddled up to him and asked, "Why you have your funny face on?"
Tom possessed an entertainingly quick wit, but was married to a woman who seemed to have no sense of humour at all, which Joan found incomprehensible as well as ironic. They didn't spend much time together as couples, as a result of Betty's dour personality, but Tom, Ted and Charlie got together after work now and then.
When Charlie considered his friends, which wasn't often, he counted Ted and Tom among them. The group used to include Ken, long before he'd begun the race toward chief constable.
Fairburn was a decent, almost placid individual, who would have been content with remaining a PC, a patrol constable like Charlie, but whose wife would not allow it. He'd even been willing to spend a couple of years on the internal investigation squad—something most police officers avoided if at all possible—in order to reap the reward of a transfer to the homicide squad. There was a certain cachet about this p
osition that satisfied his wife, for now.
Of the two men, Charlie was the natural leader. He just wasn't interested in going beyond first-class constable. That was as far on the promotion scale as he wished to climb. However, when it came to natural leadership, Tom was happy to defer to Charlie.
"No, I don't think it was robbery. It doesn't have that feel about it. I don't think Thompson would leave valuable paintings in an unfinished, unsecured suite he doesn't even own yet."
"Good point."
That was another thing Haynes liked about Tom. He never took offense, even when Charlie was caustic, which happened on a fairly regular basis.
They scanned the walkway as they headed toward the Three Arts building. Despite the presence of police cars and a coroner's vehicle, very few people had gathered at the scene.
Perhaps it was deserted because the building was under construction or maybe because the students were in school at this hour, Tom suggested, though his friend barely registered the words.
Charlie was thinking about Linda Courtnell's body—the way it had been painted, the fusion of colours, the skill of the artist coming through despite the horror. Although he found it difficult to understand someone using his talent in such a way, Charlie had to admit the killer must be a real artist. Real in the ways Charlie wasn't—trained, innovative, skilled enough in the mixing of paints that the artist had created original hues. Even with skin as a canvas.
Tom was silent, respecting the other man's need for introspection as a method for processing a crime.
Knowing each other so well, working together in practiced synchronicity during their formative years, they had no need to rehearse their roles in questioning a suspect.
Thus the two policemen reached the art institute in contemplative silence.
Three Arts had arrived on the island two years before The Emily Carr College. An independent, private school, which tended to attract a richer clientele because of its exorbitant tuition fees, it cultivated various talents—visual arts, journalism and music.
Once The Emily Carr moved to Granville, a fierce competition for the visual arts students began, leading Three Arts to hire superstar artists and to lower their fees somewhat.
As he always did, Charlie stared up at the building in awe. A massive red-bricked structure, the institute had once been a factory, but had been redesigned and enlarged. Its soaring ceilings captured the light and suffused the entrance with warmth.
The smell of paint, sweet and salty and oily, redolent with the possibility of magnificence, rocketed through Charlie's being like a drug. He was immediately attentive, energetic and resolute.
The pathos of the girl's death was replaced with the determination of his policeman's training. He gathered his anger and used it like a knife sharpener to perfect his skills and experience.
A small reception desk sat in a corner of the huge entranceway. Seated primly, the secretary was speaking into the telephone, her tones modulated, as though she were trying to smooth over someone's objections.
Tom flashed his badge at her and she nodded, quickly ending the call.
She looked up with large brown eyes ringed with mascara. Her young pale white face was framed by jet-black straight hair. One ponytail sat upright on top of her head. She nervously tapped her long red nails on the desk.
"The police?" she asked in a high-pitched voice, making Charlie wonder what she was so uneasy about. The presence of officers in the art school must be unusual, but she appeared to be overly anxious.
"Yes, ma'am," Tom responded in his best Dragnet style. "We're here to see Professor Thompson."
"Really?"
Again, incredulity forced her tone up a few notches.
Charlie was about to pull his badge out as further proof, when she blurted out a question that made the hairs stand up on his arms.
"It's not about Linda, is it?"
"Why would you ask that?" he countered.
She lowered her eyes, the long lashes skimming up some tears in their wake.
"Well, Linda Courtnell's my best friend, my roommate. She's been missing all night. Professor Thompson is one of our teachers and I know her parents called the cops because I told them she didn't come home and she wasn't in class this morning. This is my part-time job."
She waved her manicured hand over the desk, as though the latter statement was the most important fact.
"What's your name, Miss?" Charlie asked with his most innocent, sympathetic look planted on his face.
"Wendy Collins," she answered. "This is about Linda, isn't it? Has something happened to her?"
"Wendy, we don't know anything yet," Charlie lied.
Truthfully, since Chief Webster had identified the body, they did know exactly what had occurred, but he wasn't about to let that information circulate just yet.
"We need to speak with Professor Thompson right now," Tom told her.
"I promise we'll come back and talk to you once we know something for sure," Charlie added.
"Thank you," Wendy responded, once again prim and efficient. "I'll be here."
She consulted a large appointment book on the desk.
"Professor Thompson is in Room 240 right now, teaching an art history class. You just go up the stairs and turn left."
Tom and Charlie mounted the wide expanse of steps. A stunning landscape decorated the walls, leading toward the luminosity of the many skylights in the roof above.
Students streamed past them, talking, laughing, hurrying, lugging huge portfolios.
Charlie again felt that familiar lump of jealousy, wishing once again he had followed his heart when he was young and vigorous.
The door to Room 240 was shut. Through the window, they could see the very tall, well-built man at the front of a traditional classroom, furiously scribbling on the chalkboard as he talked. The students avidly took notes, every face enraptured with whatever the professor was saying.
After a moment, a couple of students began to notice the officers' scrutiny and obviously alerted the teacher, for Professor Thompson stopped talking and turned toward them.
Thompson was not only tall and lanky, but also fairly young. In addition, he was classically handsome. High cheek bones, wide brown eyes, hair that fell boyishly over his forehead, a sleek nose and sensuous lips. Most riveting were his eyes—the light, the colour, something about the way he looked into you, not at you.
When Charlie had first laid eyes on William Thompson, he had felt an immediate revulsion. This was a man who could manipulate, lie, seduce. This was a man who could look at a great painting and tell the artist, without compassion or hesitation, that it was a piece of shit. He wondered if Thompson would remember him. Would he have to declare that conflict of interest after all?
When one of the students pulled the door open, Charlie felt the breeze behind him and was conscious of stumbling into the classroom. Tom gave him a quizzical look and Charlie straightened up, shaking off a sensation of being sucked into the presence of evil. He had the feeling they had just found their killer.
Holding up his badge, Tom asked the formal question. "Professor Thompson?"
The teacher dropped the chalk onto the ledge, dusted his hands on his pants, and put out his hand to shake their hands in turn.
"Yes, I'm Bill Thompson," he said.
"I'm Detective Fairburn and this is Constable Haynes."
It was clear the professor didn't recognize Charlie at all, which both relieved and infuriated him.
"How can I help you?"
"Can we speak to you out in the hall, please, sir?"
A shocked hush hovered over the young men and women seated in the desks.
Thompson nodded, glancing back at his students.
"Please read those pages in the text. I'm sure I'll be right back," he said to them, his tone modulated and calm, registering little surprise or anxiety.
Tom waited until the door closed, then continued in a low voice.
"Do you rent a studio over in the Market Build
ing, Professor?"
"Why, yes I do."
Cultured, educated, confident. This time his tone was tinged with some surprise.
"And do you have a student by the name of Linda Courtnell?" Tom continued.
The professor looked from one face to the other, though he focused his answer on the one who'd asked the question.
"She is a student of mine, yes. She's not in this particular course."
He nodded toward the window of his classroom.
"But she's in other classes of mine. She was absent this morning, though, come to think of it."
A small shadow passed through his eyes and he frowned. "Is something wrong?"
"I'm afraid so."
Tom paused, letting the phrase sink into the man's psyche, both men watching the teacher's face carefully.
"A body has been found in your studio."
"A…body?"
This time, Thompson's unusual eyes flared with shock. The word stumbled off his tongue as though it was something foreign.
"A dead body?"
"Yes. Murdered. We have tentatively identified her as Linda Courtnell."
Charlie used his friendliest, most empathetic voice to deliver the brutal statements.
"Linda? In my studio? Murdered?"
The man sagged a little in his shock, his shoulders folding over as though a puppeteer had let go of some strings. Thompson lowered his head into his hands.
Charlie noted he wasn't trembling. In fact, he appeared to be gathering his emotions, regaining control, setting his face.
When Thompson looked up again, there was some moisture in his eyes. Almost convincing.
"How could this be?"
As though reality wouldn't have allowed such an act.
"Can we go to your office or something? Somewhere private?" Tom asked.
"Of course."
They watched as he straightened up and reopened the door.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "Class will have to be dismissed for now. Make sure you finish that chapter before next week, please."
A murmur spread through the room as the students reacted in surprise. Thompson ignored the raised hands and verbalized queries as the young men and women gathered up their books. He quickly led the officers to a door at the far end of the hall.
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 71
