The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  "What happened next?" Ted asked.

  "He looked up as if the thought had just occurred to him, then said, 'If I were the murderer, why would I do it in my own studio? Wouldn't that make you suspicious right away?' I said, 'That's exactly why you did it. You're a brilliant man, Bill. You figured we wouldn't suspect you because who would be stupid enough to foul his own nest?'"

  Tom interrupted, "Then all of a sudden, Thompson is crushed. Charlie had him. But then he looks over at Webster and for some reason, he gets a second breath. He starts to almost whine. 'It doesn't matter what I say. You think I'm guilty. I guess I better get a lawyer in here,' he says."

  Ted waited expectantly for the punch line.

  "So what does Webster do then?" Charlie said, stretching it out. "He gets to his feet, just unfolds that big fat ass of his and towers over us. Without any warning, he moves toward Thompson. And you know that look, Ted? Where he's all puffy and bulging, his fat face spotted red?

  Ted nodded with enthusiasm, encouraging the drama, fuelled by the beer and the atmosphere.

  Charlie continued, bolstered by his friends' reactions. "He practically hollers in the guy's face, and says—and I quote, 'I'm Chief Webster, Professor. I was told by Detective Fairburn and Constable Haynes that you'd be co-operative.' He says it like we'd lied to him or something."

  Charlie paused, savouring the moment that he was about to relate—the crescendo, the coup de grâce. "But that isn't the worst part. He gets even louder and more agitated and then he shouts, 'Start telling the truth, or so help me God, I'll beat it out of you.'"

  Ted actually gasped out loud. "No shit!"

  "No shit," Tom repeated. "And that was the end of it. Even if Thompson hadn't reacted the way he did, I would've had to stop the interview anyway. But of course the Professor suddenly sits up all smart-ass once again and this time formally demands a lawyer or let him go."

  "Fuckin' asshole," Charlie muttered, taking another swig. "Naturally we went into our best-friends mode. We had to smooth it over, practically kiss that pervert's hand, then send him on his way. Good thing the evidence is starting to move our way or we'd have no case left."

  "I couldn't even speak to Webster," Tom said. "I was lucky we were out on the case most of the week, because I think I might've said something I'd be sorry for."

  The other men shook their heads in sympathy.

  "But the case is looking good, eh?" Ted asked, his Canadian mixed with his Japanese inheritance lending a staccato rapidity to his words.

  They always sat in a large booth at the back of Flip's Bar. Separated by a long counter stacked with coffee cups and other supplies, it was distanced from the rest of the customers.

  Pictures of Marilyn Monroe were strung all across the wall behind them. Incongruously, Charlie sat under her most famous photo with the skirt swirling around her slim legs from the subway draft.

  Despite its cheesy atmosphere, the booth was an area in which they could not be overhead, where they could speak frankly and debate the merits of their cases without censor. It was their unofficial brainstorming conference, each of them bringing their ideas, skills and experience to generate theories.

  "We've got a few things going our way," Tom said circumspectly, gazing into his beer.

  He could feel the tension in his shoulders and his gut. A thread of hope zinging through him, he held up his fingers and counted the facts.

  "One, the professor really has no alibi. He told us he was home with the wife when the girl was murdered, but Charlie here just proved he's lying about that one."

  "I had a feeling the wife's friend knew something when I went to her school that first day. Yesterday afternoon, she spilled."

  He glanced at his notebook.

  "Her name's Elaine Martin. She teaches with the missus. Seems like the professor and the wife had a fight that night and he stormed off. Mrs. Thompson really has no idea what time he got home, even though she told us it was ten o'clock. Martin will make a good witness if the wife continues to stick to her story. And even if she doesn't, Martin can establish he has no real alibi."

  "As long as they accept it. Could be hearsay," Ted inserted.

  "You a lawyer or a coroner?" Tom asked, then continued as though the man hadn't spoken.

  "Two, he's got a motive. Charlie also got the little wife to tell him she's pregnant and that the professor wasn't exactly thrilled."

  "The pregnancy is the reason the professor stormed off," Charlie explained. "He was pissed because they hadn't planned on having kids yet."

  "His career comes first, obviously, even over his wife and potential kids."

  Tom stated this fact as though his wife weren't a future candidate for the mayor's job and adamant they would remain childless.

  "Third," Charlie said, "we have not one, but two, eyewitnesses."

  "Seriously? Who?"

  Ted leaned far over the table in his eagerness.

  "Remember the homeless woman who hangs around the market area?"

  Ted shook his head.

  "She's an alcoholic. Rumour is she used to have a good job until she got addicted, then moved onto Granville. We pretty much leave her alone. She doesn't cause any ruckus."

  "Doesn't sound too promising as a witness."

  "No, but she swears she saw a man coming down the steps with an artist kit slung over his shoulder around 10:30 that night. Her description sounds exactly like Thompson. She keeps her eyes open and knows everything there is to know about the island. I think if we clean her up, she'll make a pretty good witness."

  "Her statement fits with the time of death too, eh, Ted?" Tom asked.

  "The stomach contents might be helpful," the doctor replied thoughtfully. "Her last meal was consumed just before 8 p.m., according to her friends, and the food was barely digested. But of course, some pathologists believe trauma can stop the digestion process, so—"

  Charlie cut him off, as though what other researchers said was unimportant. "You did say the time of death was between 9 p.m. and 9 a.m. originally."

  "True," Ted admitted. "But you know it's not an exact science, eh?"

  Once again, Charlie ignored him.

  "The 9 p.m. time frame fits. The Professor actually admits to seeing Linda then. He says it was just before he left for home at 9 or slightly after. She was at the local bar with some friends, had dinner with them and left around 8. According to Thompson, she saw his lights and just popped in to say hello. Then she was supposed to be heading back to her friends, but they told us she never showed up again. They assumed she stayed at the studio. Apparently she's been doing that a lot lately."

  "I wonder what she's been doing at the studio all hours," Tom snickered.

  "Are there any other suspects? What about the other artist? The guy with the studio across the hall. What about the boyfriend?"

  Ted had an amazing capacity to listen to the facts, then question every one of them. Usually Charlie appreciated this skill, but in this case he found it irritating.

  "The other artist's a queer," Tom answered, making his voice go up at the end. "Can't be a contender for this one."

  Charlie winced. He disliked Tom's deep prejudices. Tom had no idea how unbiased Charlie was and how much he loved the spirit currently energizing Vancouver.

  Music, art, and every other creative enterprise had benefited from the surge of freedom and acceptance, in Charlie's opinion. To his delight, Joan enjoyed and appreciated this cultural and progressive atmosphere just as much as he did.

  Greg Hughes was one of the people whom Charlie had befriended, even though they probably appeared to be direct opposites if they walked down the street together.

  Greg was lively, kind and talented, in both art and music, but unlike Charlie, he was open, flamboyant and unafraid to declare who he was.

  Constable Haynes was Charlie's public persona. He couldn't reveal the artistic, gentle, dreamy nature of the real Charles Haynes to the people with whom he worked. His closer allies accepted that he dabbled in
painting. It was his hobby, his relaxation. Akin to their hobbies of watching hockey or playing a game of poker.

  Only Charlie knew it was far more than that. It was a part of him, like the need for food or water. A need he was forced to submerge, except when he was in the company of people like Greg.

  The police officer in him, however, often took advantage of the prejudices of others in order to achieve justice. Such as right at this moment.

  "His name's Greg Hughes. I know him from the art school. And Tom's right, he can't be a suspect. The boyfriend has an alibi. He was at the pub with their friends that night. He went home with his roommate, figuring Linda had gotten caught up in her art once again. Thompson is the guilty one. I know it. I feel it."

  And Charlie did. It was a hard certainty that had lodged itself in his chest ever since he'd gazed upon that poor girl, humiliated in death, art twisted into a tool for torture and shame.

  The certainty had solidified when he'd realized the privileged bastard who owned the self-important "studio overlooking the creek" was none other than the smug, judgmental William Thompson. Handsome, arrogant, incompetent adjudicator of art contests. Thompson was exactly the kind of man who could not only be a cold, merciless killer, but who could also violate the sanctity of art in such a manner.

  "She was raped, wasn't she, Ted?" Tom asked.

  "Definitely. There were ruptures and bruising in the vaginal area consistent with rape. But he was a careful bastard. Must've used a condom. I found a small amount of seminal fluid. Could've leaked through, maybe because he was so rough, or could've been left from someone else. It might not be of any use as a sample. We're testing it now."

  The men fell silent, each in their own form of consternation. The lack of evidence. The awful violation perpetrated on this young woman. Charlie's certainty and Ted's hesitation.

  "The reporters are sure going wild about this case," Tom inserted to remove some of the tension from the air.

  "Holy shit, yah," Ted agreed. "I know Vancouver is still a small city, but you'd think it was some princess or celebrity who died. I've never seen them go crazy over a murder the way they've glommed onto this one."

  Charlie shook his head. "It's her father. He's Randall Courtnell, after all! He owns half the fucking city."

  "He got his money from banking, then good investments."

  Ted was again a fountain of information. "Bought up a ton of real estate in the early '70s that's now worth a fortune."

  "And he's made himself some good friends in very high places. Did you know Linda Courtnell was Webster's goddaughter?"

  "You've gotta be kidding," Tom responded. "I can't even picture that sourpuss in church, let alone holding some howling baby over a christening bowl."

  The three of them guffawed at the image.

  "He was obviously very fond of her, though. His face went completely white when he saw her body on that wall. Then she did that…"

  "Cadaveric spasm," Ted supplied.

  "Yah, that. He was actually hoping she was still alive. Speaking of which, you're saying exsanguination was the cause of death, eh, Ted?"

  The coroner nodded his head and paused before he spoke, as though gathering his thoughts.

  "It was weird, though. She was brought very close to death by one of those arm locks—you know, the kind you guys use to subdue people."

  "Did he grab her from behind?" Tom asked.

  "I'd say so."

  "The carotid hold," Charlie supplied. "You block the arteries with your elbow. You go too far and it's game over."

  "Well, either he held her in the grip a bit too long and nearly killed her by accident, or he was hoping she would still be alive and would feel what he did to her. She was unconscious from the lack of oxygen though. Brain dead, really, and probably would've died without the bleeding."

  "He didn't break the cartilage or the hyoid, but the lack of oxygen caused a stroke. She had the little red dots in the whites of her eyes, petechial haemorrhages. She was on her way out, but the cutting happened while she was technically still breathing. She bled quite a lot, so her heart had to be pumping, even though it would've been slow and slowing. Not that she could've really come back to life after the near strangulation most likely, but still…"

  "What did he cut her with?"

  "You won't believe it, but I think it was with one of those tattoo needles."

  Charlie and Tom stared at him, fascinated.

  "So Thompson had to have planned it," Tom said. "There wasn't any tattoo equipment in that studio."

  Charlie was thoughtful.

  "It's a similar skill, though, you know. Between that and painting the body I mean. The tattoo artist and the painter, they use some of the same colouring techniques. They do an outline, then colour it in. I wonder if Thompson ever did tattoos in his younger years. Something to look up, eh, Tommy boy?"

  He signalled for another round of beers. They were taking a cab home. They'd been working very long hours all week under loads of pressure, so they'd decided to make a blowout evening of it.

  "So, Ted, you figure time of death fits with what the eyewitnesses are saying, right? Around nine? Say between nine and nine fifteen?"

  Ted nodded slowly. "Yah, I guess so, Charlie…"

  "Good. Another thing I noticed," Charlie went on hurriedly, as though afraid his colleague would change his mind. "I studied some of the Professor's work. He uses a lot of pinks and blues in his landscapes. Very similar to the body art on Linda Courtnell. I bet the Crown could get an expert to say it was most likely Thompson's work."

  "Sure is great you're an artist, Charlie," Tom said. "You know stuff the others don't. The Chief was right in putting you on the murder squad."

  Tom meant this as a compliment, but Charlie still cringed.

  Both men had one of their friend's paintings prominently displayed at home. Only because he'd given them as gifts, Charlie had always thought. Naturally, they professed to like them.

  He still flushed when he remembered the humiliation of the judgement handed down by the Three Arts Amateur Artist competitions. He'd been asked if he wanted a critique, but had regretted agreeing to it when he read their opinions. The loss and the terrible criticism had diminished any small amount of confidence he'd had in his art.

  The only reason he'd put any paint to canvas since then had been in response to Greg's encouragement. But he certainly wasn't about to make the mistake of showing it to his colleagues ever again.

  "Who's the other witness, by the way?" Ted asked. "You said there are two."

  Ted was still ambivalent, Charlie could tell, but the second witness would go a long way to convincing him of Thompson's guilt.

  "Now this is a great one," he said. "The guy just walked right into the station yesterday."

  "We were both there, too," Tom added, "stopping by to get some of the paperwork done before we went back out."

  "He works at Micon Industries," Charlie continued, his tone one of clear satisfaction. "An extremely good witness, squeaky clean, middle-aged guy. He says he saw Professor Thompson in his studio sometime after 10 p.m. He glanced up at the windows and there was the man himself, just pulling the blinds shut."

  "How did he know it was the Professor?" Ted remained in his get-all-the-details mode.

  "He's been in the studio before. His wife likes Thompson's paintings. He actually bought one for her. He swears he recognized the man in the window."

  "But you haven't arrested Thompson yet."

  It was not a question, but Ted's voice was inquisitive.

  Charlie felt a surge of irritation toward his friend that he had to choke off. The idiot has no idea how tenuous this case is, he thought. A twisted, cunning killer might go free to prey on some other innocent girl.

  Tom said, "Webster wanted us to arrest him the first day. But the Crown wants this case to be airtight. They want to be able to win it from the start. There's huge public pressure to catch this bastard, to make sure he's punished, so Wilson is even more de
termined than usual to make sure it's right."

  Crown Counsel Robert Sedgwick-Wilson was a highly respected lawyer whose work with the Criminal Justice Branch of the Assistant Deputy Attorney General's Office had been exemplary. He played the impartial card well. He was professional, efficient and demanded a high level of certainty before he proceeded with criminal charges, especially in murder cases. Thus he had a very high proportion of wins.

  "Time of death is going to be crucial, Ted."

  Charlie leaned over his beer, a suddenly overwhelming presence, his faith almost palpable.

  "This guy did it. He had to have done it. He had the motive. He's the only one on the scene at the time. But that timing needs to be precise to satisfy the Crown and make sure justice is done. What do the stomach contents tell you, Dr. Sato?"

  "Well, if I look at the stomach contents as though it was a normal digestion…"

  "It was a normal digestion, Ted. Think about it. The guy was her teacher, her lover. She never expected anything to happen to her. He probably didn't really plan it all out. His sick genius kicked in afterward. Linda Courtnell, a young impressionable girl with a crush on her teacher, just happened by that night, the night his wife confessed her pregnancy, the night they had a huge fight. And the opportunity presented itself. Maybe he did try to end the affair because his wife was pregnant. Maybe she argued. She had to have been angry and hurt. Maybe she threatened to tell little wifey."

  "So he grabbed her from behind in a fit of anger and…"

  Ted nodded thoughtfully, picturing the scenario.

  Tom watched his friend closely as the tale took shape and suddenly became reality. Charlie's face was red from alcohol and passion as it bobbed up and down under the skirt of Marilyn Monroe.

  Tom had an unsettled feeling. He worshipped Charlie. He thought his friend and former partner was a genius at interrogations. But at this moment, Charlie was crossing a line.