Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  The paramedic discovered a lump behind MacNeice’s left ear. “I don’t know what your head hit, sir, but I’m certain this is fresh. You may be feeling disoriented and fuzzy. I think you should get it checked out at Emerg. Get that hand stitched up while you’re at it.”

  “I won’t go with you now, but I’ll go later. Where will they take that young man?”

  “St. Joe’s is the closest trauma centre.”

  His partner looked up. “I’ve cleaned the wound and applied sterile adhesive closures, but you will need sutures.” The paramedics packed up their medical bag and wandered over to check on their colleagues.

  “Michael, call the boy’s mother and tell her what’s happened. Then, assuming that your car isn’t damaged, pick up her and the brother and take them to St. Joe’s.”

  “Will do. My car’s okay.”

  “Let me know when you’re at the hospital. Perhaps I’ll meet you there.” With that, MacNeice raised the glass to his lips and sipped. The liquid was smooth, the way a knife is smooth. As it slid down his throat, he winced. He realized there was no way he could go on sipping, so he took it down in one shot. The heat was intense. He smiled up at Stanitz. “Thank you. That was . . . bracingly good.”

  “Instant courage. It’s under lock and key in my desk, sir. But you know where to find me.” Moose put the empty glass in his tunic pocket.

  “Some of your CDs are fried,” Williams said, carrying over a bag of MacNeice’s belongings. “I counted seven — five cruisers, two unmarked cars — hit. Some of them are done for.”

  “The pound’s gonna have a meltdown,” said Vertesi.

  Moose leaned in. “Already been called, Detective. And it’s eight vehicles, with your Chevrolet taking the worst of it.”

  [47]

  MacNeice’s cellphone rang; it was Aziz. “Ryan said you were attacked in the parking lot.”

  “I’m fine, Fiza. Really, I’m okay. It was one of the Galanis twins. He’s wounded, but he’ll make it.” MacNeice was back at his desk and wanted her to know he wasn’t being heroic. Yes, his head and neck ached and he needed a few stitches in his left hand. “I’ve arranged to get it done soon.”

  She was too smart to be easily persuaded, but his headache was too painful to discuss, so he tried changing the subject. “How are you doing?”

  He heard line static and could imagine her face, her eyebrows dipping and her dark eyes piercing his ruse. “I’m fine. Mac. I’m only going to say this once: do what you would insist I do. Go to Emergency and let them decide how well you are.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Circumstances had hijacked the reason for her call but not her commitment to say it. “Mac, I want to come back. You need me. I’m fine, and unlike you, I’ll tell you when and if I’m not.” She paused in case he wanted to protest the characterization. He didn’t.

  Her wound-care specialist would soon reduce their appointments to twice a week, and she could do them in Division’s interview room if necessary. While she wasn’t out of pain, she had begun taking walks in the ravine — albeit not far, but short and slow — and sitting at her desk reading and doing research on savage killings that had been captured in art.

  “And?”

  “Catholics have been particularly good at this kind of thing. I suppose Jesus on the cross is the first and best example. But so many of their saints in paintings and sculpture are depicted through the suffering that elevated them to sainthood.”

  “So you’re saying he’s a Catholic. Can you predict what he’s going to do next?”

  “Not necessarily Catholic. And no, I don’t know.”

  “What does your surgeon say about starting work again?”

  “Well, he’d prefer I wait till the wound-care specialist has finished poking silver nitrate sticks into my body. There’s still a tiny opening in my back, but it’s closing fast.”

  From the buffeting sounds, MacNeice knew Fiza was outside. She seemed unaware of the noise and continued. “When I pressed the doctor, he relented. I’ve got an appointment with him at midafternoon today. If he likes what he sees, he’ll hold his nose and sign me off as fit for duty.” She added the surgeon’s proviso: “I must continue wound care until the specialist says I’m healed.” She said that her walks, which had grown from five to fifteen minutes, had made her feel stronger. “Honestly, Mac, I’m ready.”

  “Are you sitting on the bench at the verge of the forest?”

  “How the hell — ?”

  “You’re close enough to the road that you turned your head to see a car going by. Plus the breeze and the birdsong, the ambient sounds. It’s different when you’re deep in the forest, so I assume you’re on the verge. You’re also a bit breathless from the walk, which tells me you were marching rather than strolling.” He was speculating, of course, but added one more thought. “You were returning to your apartment when you called in to speak to me. Ryan told you what’s going on here, so you sat down on the bench — the one we sat on together a few years ago.”

  “When you do that booga-booga thing of yours, I really don’t know what to say.”

  “Your appointment is at St. Joe’s: three o’clock, sixth floor, west wing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ll be there.”

  [48]

  “Wallace wants you to call him, sir — immediately.” Ryan mimicked Wallace’s tendency to elongate the word’s first syllable. “He was in the mayor’s office when, quote, ‘the dust-up in the parking lot took place.’”

  “Good. What else?”

  “Detective Maracle left shortly after you, to go to the sports broadcaster. He’s scanned all the televised home games from last season and isolated four sequences that he thinks show our photographer on the sidelines. They’re going to clean up the file and put it on a USB stick. He’ll be back in two hours.”

  “Good news. What else do you have?”

  “I’ve got eight MLS listings for isolated suburban and country properties, sir. That covers the past two years in our target radius.” Ryan set up MacNeice at the Millennium Falcon. He showed him what keys to push, how to bring up the aerial and ground photographs, and how to operate the zoom on both. Between his headache, sore neck, and throbbing hand, MacNeice wasn’t sure anything had sunk in.

  “Can you find a car for me, Ryan? I’ll need to leave in a half-hour.”

  “Will do. Also, sir, coach me as you go through these listings — more of this, less of that — and I’ll do another scan.”

  Sitting at Ryan’s computer, MacNeice felt like he had the first time he got behind the wheel of his dad’s car. His father had given him very little instruction: gas pedal, brake pedal, reverse, neutral, drive, and signal lights. The lesson didn’t go well, but it was mercifully short. Eventually his uncle taught him how to drive, but by that time he’d saved enough money from his summer job to buy his own used car.

  The first property to appear was well hidden from a rural four-lane, but its infrastructure was so extensive that it was clearly an agricultural enterprise. The price at time of sale reflected the health and scale of the operation. MacNeice couldn’t imagine that their suspect might be a farmer who was also a freelance sports photographer and a murderer in his spare time. Did farmers even have spare time? If they did, it couldn’t be in spring.

  The next four were too close to either their neighbours or the road. MacNeice was beginning to think he might have to look farther afield. Perhaps Greater Dundurn had swallowed up any isolated marginal properties, and the legacy farms had all been sold to developers for more sprawl.

  “Got you a loaner, sir. It’s in your spot; keys are with Sergeant Stanitz.”

  “Thanks, Ryan. I’ll try to bring it back in one piece.”

  MacNeice checked his watch and was about to break off when he decided to quickly scan the last two properties. Number
seven would have ticked all the boxes, but for the fact that construction was underway on a major subdivision fifty yards to the east of its rundown farmhouse. Number eight sent a chill up MacNeice’s spine.

  Deciduous and coniferous trees lined a driveway that faded away to the left behind yet another cluster of trees. From the aerial view, he could see the house and garage, but both were hidden from the rural two-lane. In front of the house was a garden bordered by trees that acted as a windbreak. Behind it lay an open field of scrubland and bogs.

  “Ryan, print out all you have on 2010 Valens Road. I want to know when it was sold and to whom, as well as the contact information for the selling agent. I’ll make the calls; just get me the information.”

  * * *

  Given his role in an ongoing murder investigation, MacNeice would have been put at the head of the queue for an MRI, but it wasn’t necessary. The patient booked for 2:30 p.m. had had a cerebral hemorrhage and died in bed an hour before.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d slid into the cold and claustrophobic tube to await its mechanical wheeze and machine-gun banging. He recalled the deadpan voice instructions now being fed through massive headphones: “Breathe in . . . hold. Breathe normally. Breathe in . . . hold. Breathe normally.”

  When you go to your happy place, am I beside you?

  “Beside, above, below, and in me.” (Breathe in.)

  You make our lovemaking sound epic. For me it was always gentle and sweet.

  “And epic, at least once.” (Hold.)

  “That time up north on the bed of moss?” (Breathe normally.)

  Yes, that was epic. Still, it was the gentleness of you . . . your hands, your eyes taking in every inch of me. (Breathe in.)

  “I’m losing that, Kate. I know your voice, but it’s getting harder to picture your face.” (Hold.)

  * * *

  MacNeice got dressed and walked through the maze of corridors to Emergency, where his hand would be treated. As he waited to be called, he studied the faces of those around him. He couldn’t help but notice the resignation and boredom, the frustration, anxiety, and fear hanging over the room like a dark grey cloak.

  Nothing surprised the medical staff. After a month or two in a trauma unit, they’d probably seen it all. And they knew there was more of everything to see with every shift. When someone got abusive — such as the loud inebriated woman in the terrycloth bathrobe holding a blood-soaked towel over her wrist — they did their best to calm her down. When that didn’t work and her screaming outrage got the better of her, the nurse called Security and calmly went on to the next patient.

  Within an hour, MacNeice’s wound had been cleaned and stitched and a palm-sized bandage applied. He was taken to the neurologist, who said there was no indication of concussion on the MRI, but the lump behind his ear suggested a powerful blow that would have given his brain “a good shake.” If he experienced dizziness, blurred vision, vomiting, a searing, unrelenting headache, or an inability to form coherent sentences, he was to come back.

  MacNeice made his way to the sixth floor and walked towards the two cops guarding the door to Yann Galanis’s room. They stood a little taller when they saw him coming. “At ease,” he said and walked on to the nursing station, where he was told Galanis had just returned from surgery. The nurse said his mother had been with him; she had stepped out but the nurse assumed she’d be back.

  He considered speaking to Elene Galanis but decided against it. That conversation would happen, as well as one with the other son, but not now. He made his way to the west wing, where a nurse directed him to a waiting room. Aziz was still with the wound-care specialist. It was 3:14 p.m.

  He stood by the window, looking over the leafy neighbourhood to the grand sweep of the mountain. He expected to see turkey vultures riding the thermals but instead was rewarded with something completely unexpected. Two white swans were stretching their necks as they beat their way northwest, probably to the quiet waters of Cootes Paradise. Pumping gracefully and slowly, their wings provided only a power assist to the thermals. He turned, hoping someone was there to share the sighting, but he was alone. The swans were perhaps a hundred yards away, but he could see the elegant black tear shapes that dropped from their eyes and gathered around their orange beaks. Though he couldn’t hear them, he could see that they were calling. What did they talk about, he wondered. Their bodies shimmered like snow in the sunlight, making the city below look dull. Before they disappeared from view, they banked to the right, their wings rising and falling more purposefully now, perhaps because they were leaving the escarpment behind or because Cootes was now in sight.

  MacNeice took a deep breath, his heart racing. He turned away from the window and stood leaning against the cool metal of the radiator. When Aziz emerged moments later, she took one look at him and said, “You look like you’ve just seen God.”

  “I may have.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have the words to describe what he’d just seen. The strange thing was that the headache he’d been worried about from the moment he was pulled out of the Chevy was gone.

  He helped Aziz into her jacket and they walked silently to the elevator. She kept glancing up at him. In the elevator, she turned and smiled. “I like it. That beatific face, so clear of worry and woe . . . it suits you.”

  “And the checkup?”

  “Straight A’s. She agrees that I’m almost done with the silver nitrate sticks. But it’ll continue a bit longer.” Aziz smiled as they stepped inside the elevator.

  The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and three people boarded, each doing the duck walk to the rear and out of the way. It stopped again at the third. MacNeice was alert. He knew who was waiting even before the doors opened; he’d been expecting it each time the elevator stopped.

  Elene Galanis was about to step in when she looked up and saw MacNeice smiling at her. He held the doors from closing. She stepped inside and turned to face the doors. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Aziz nudged MacNeice; when he looked down at her, she raised an eyebrow in Elene’s direction. MacNeice nodded slowly. When the doors opened on the ground floor, Elene was first to exit. She stepped out of the way and then turned to face MacNeice, offering her hand. “Believe me when I tell you, Detective, that I am relieved to see you. I was going to call you.”

  “Detective Inspector Aziz, this is Elene Galanis.”

  Whatever mask Galanis had been wearing melted away as she recognized the face and the name. She took Aziz’s hand and held on to it. “I’m so sorry, Detective. I hope you have recovered from your wounds.”

  “I’m on the way,” Aziz said.

  Elene smiled. “I told Detective Vertesi everything. Yanni is a good boy. But I know that’s difficult to prove today.”

  “Let’s not have this conversation here, Elene. But before we go, I’d like to know about his brother.”

  She shook her head. “Of course. Darius is without rage.” Tears fell and she wiped her hand quickly across her face. “If you wish, you can see that my sons fought about this — Darius has a swollen lip and a black eye. He also loved his father, but he knows Kyros brought this on himself. Yanni is more like his father, but today that ended.”

  “I see.” MacNeice knew he didn’t sound convinced. “What were you doing on the third floor?”

  “I met with the surgeon. . . . Darius didn’t know about this.” Her declaration was loud enough to attract the attention of a couple waiting at the elevator. She lowered her voice, stepped closer, and continued. “When Yanni left the shop, it was to pick up some supplies.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that his surgery was successful. For now, just be with your sons.” He offered his hand.

  “I’m so ashamed.”

  “No good can come of that.” And with that, MacNeice said goodbye.

  * * *

  “Tell me, Fiz, have I lost that beatific glow?”


  Looking at him long and hard, she laughed. “I’m afraid God has moved on.” She pulled the ready-for-duty papers from her bag and handed them to him. “Okay now, do we go straight to Division or do we have a coffee somewhere while I tell you my theory?”

  “Take me to the bench where you were sitting earlier. We’ll look for birds while I listen to your theory.”

  [49]

  Among the things he hated doing most, retrieving mail from his post office box was close to the top of the list. Even with his ball cap pulled low, he never took his right hand off the grip of the pistol in the pocket of his hoodie. But there was another reason. The PO box was registered to David Allan Muller, a twenty-year-old reservist who’d volunteered for active duty in Afghanistan. Six weeks after arriving in Kandahar, Muller had flown home in a box.

  Walking the two blocks from the post office to his van, he kept his head down while he flipped through his mail. One envelope stood out, postmarked Paris, France. That concerned him. He’d made it very clear that communication with the gallery would flow only one way after the initial text message of acceptance. He was tempted to drop it in one of the street bins, but he didn’t.

  Once he was in the van, he opened it. Galerie Weitzman-Bourget’s logo topped the pale grey page. Written by hand in English, the letter was confident and cocky. The writer had used a broad-nibbed fountain pen and every word was a thing of calligraphic beauty. Designed to impress, he thought.

  My dear RCV,

  Galerie Weitzman-Bourget is very excited to present your work next month. So unusual was your submission that I must know more. I write to inform you of my arrival in Dundurn on 26 May. I will be in your city for four days only. My purpose is research — I must know more about where you are from, as clients always want to know. Of course, I would welcome the opportunity to meet with you, but that is not essential. The mystery is intriguing, and perhaps it should remain so. I leave that decision to you. I will take rooms in an Airbnb condominium of the Royal Connaught, Suite 400.