Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  I remain enthusiastically yours,

  Chanel Bourget

  Curator and Managing Partner

  Galerie Weitzman-Bourget, Paris

  * * *

  Her signature was an elegant and swiftly rendered one-stroke CB that vaguely reminded him of the mark of Zorro. He folded the letter and tapped it twice on the steering wheel. If Chanel Bourget came to Dundurn with the images he’d provided, life could get complicated very quickly. It represented no greater threat to him than the police investigation, but it would put an end to the exhibition. He dropped the letter onto the passenger seat and pulled away from the curb.

  Driving west on York Street, he ran through various scenarios, most of which had Bourget experiencing accidental encounters that would lead her to the police. But as she believed the works were art, staged or Photoshopped to appear authentic, it wouldn’t occur to her to bring in the police. But she might visit the Dundurn Art Gallery to inquire — with his submission in hand.

  From the media reports he was aware that Detective Superintendent MacNeice was leading the investigation. After researching the man’s reputation, he was certain the detective was making progress. He felt like an animal before the arrival of a violent storm — all senses on high alert. Being apprehended wasn’t the issue; that wasn’t going to happen. His images would be seen— that was his only mission. They’d represent his testament, his homage to a brutality that spanned centuries. All but one of the series was ready, and it hadn’t yet been created. Turning northward, it came to him. That final piece must complete and possibly define the entire exhibition.

  He stopped the van next to the “No-Trespassing” sign before turning down the narrow-rutted road to the farm. He lifted a shoebox from under the passenger seat and set it on his lap. One by one he took out six garage-door openers, clicking them in turn as he proceeded along the lane. While there weren’t any garage doors to open, he was meticulous and methodical about pointing, clicking, and returning each device to the cardboard section it had come from.

  He parked the van beside the house, took out the last opener, and clicked it in the direction of the back door. A tiny red light, positioned above the W in an old “Welcome Home” sign, blinked twice before turning green. He put the last of the openers in the box, replaced the lid, and slid it under the passenger seat.

  Once inside, he flicked the switch that rearmed what the door openers had disarmed from the lane. The only thing required now was to push a red light to green. He dropped the mail on the kitchen table and went to the fridge for a beer, glancing briefly at the Farmer’s Co-operative calendar. May 26 was just a day away.

  [50]

  “I didn’t see it fall, but I heard an awful smack when it hit the sidewalk.” Aziz pointed to the spot where a grey squirrel had landed twenty feet or so from a telephone wire. “It twitched for a few seconds and then it was still.” She looked over at MacNeice. “I immediately thought of you, as in: What would Mac do?”

  She had walked towards the animal, thinking she’d stroke it back to life. As she got closer, it rolled onto its belly, one front paw outstretched, reaching for an invisible finish line. She couldn’t tell if it had seen her or if that was just another phase of its dying. As she was retrieving her phone to call MacNeice, the squirrel stood up. Looking intoxicated, it stumbled towards the grass and into the flower garden bordering the trail.

  “It was hard to believe it could survive that fall.” She described squatting down and peering through the peony leaves to see the squirrel blinking back at her. “It was visceral, and I felt helpless.” She cleared her throat. “Out of interest, what would you have done?”

  “I don’t know. Probably just as you did.” He looked off towards the garden.

  “I’m a realist, Mac. I know that every year cars hit hundreds, maybe thousands, of squirrels in this city alone. And I know many people think of them as pests.”

  “All true.”

  “You’ve done this to me, you know. Connecting me to birds, where they nest, wondering what they’re calling, and why . . .”

  “And now squirrels.”

  “Apparently.” She laughed and asked what was becoming of her, though she didn’t really want an answer.

  “If you look up to the tree canopy behind me, you might see a red-tailed hawk.”

  Aziz swung her head around, looking at the trees to the right. It wasn’t there; it was sitting on top of the hydro pole.

  “I heard it call.” He reached over and touched her arm. “Tell me about your theory.”

  Her demeanour changed, and with it her posture. She moved forward on the bench and turned his way. “This is about art, but not exclusively. I believe it’s about sacrifice — not of the people he kills for his tableaus, but for individuals offstage.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Father and son, the drug addict and prostitute — it was Aziz’s feeling that they were all symbolically innocent, no matter their circumstances or whatever crimes they may have committed. “DeSouza and his bodyguard were both guilty of crimes — likely much worse than anything the other victims may have done — but they weren’t part of his plan. We know he has a better than average knowledge of art history.” With her hands she created four rectangles in the air between them. “These were,” she said, “works from the past and the present: Daumier, Goya, the Chapman brothers’ irreverent take on Goya, Walter Sickert. He could continue mining art history, but we’re overlooking the greatest trove of human-sacrifice art the world has ever known.”

  She looked up at him. “Like I said before, the Catholic faith. Any religion may experience or commit slaughter, but no other that I know of makes art out of it. And those examples have been depicted as religious art for more than two millennia.” She nodded, seeing MacNeice’s eyes widen. “The Renaissance lasted thirty-five years, but it produced Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael.”

  “Keep going.”

  “He could use artists’ works depicting sacrifice from any time, so why choose such obscure references? Because he wants people to get it, or at least be intrigued enough to try. Like the donkey-head man.” She sat up straight. “While all of this is conjecture, there’s more. I do think he’s a Catholic . . . or at the very least a lapsed Catholic. We all agree he’s ex-military. I think these human sacrifices are saying something about the sacrifices he witnessed — or made — on the battlefield. His fury is all-consuming, but he’s found a way to express it creatively.” She stopped as MacNeice turned quickly towards her.

  “We’ve discovered that the name he was using, Patrick Manserra, is that of a Canadian soldier killed in Afghanistan.”

  Aziz rocked back and forth, looking around for the hawk. When she couldn’t find it, she returned to MacNeice with a sad smile. “He’s paying homage. There may be more.”

  “More killings?”

  “Well, yes, that. But more aliases as well. I think they were comrades. Let’s find out how Manserra died and if there were other casualties. Most important, let’s find out who survived.”

  [51]

  Charlie Maracle was first in line when MacNeice arrived at Division. He had ditched the crutches and was standing with a cane tucked into his pocket as he taped screen captures from televised football games onto a second and much smaller whiteboard. Shot at different games, they all featured a man in a sweatshirt, cargo pants, and a peaked ball cap. In one shot he was on his belly, legs spread, elbows planted in the fake turf, a long lens in front of his face. Seeing MacNeice studying the image, Maracle said, “Reminds you of something, right?”

  “A rifleman.”

  “Exactly. This guy’s going for a low-angle photograph, but he could just as easily be a sniper. He’s selecting a target.”

  There were no clear images of the man’s face. Between plays the photographer was scanning the photographs he’d taken. Otherwise he focused on the game or had his h
ead down changing a lens. He was a wide-shouldered, very fit-looking man. In one series of six stills, he was running down the sidelines as the play on the field unfolded beside him, shooting as he went. Maracle read aloud what a TV colour commentator had said: “Hey, that photographer should be signed up. He’s as fast as the fastest man on Toronto’s team.”

  Maracle was shaking his head. “This guy’s hyper-focused. Look at the other shooters; they’re focused too, but they’ll turn around and look at the crowd, they’ll talk to each other, check out the cheerleaders. Not this guy. As far as I can tell, sir, he’s still on the battlefield. And he’s carrying more gear than a receiver carrying a football.”

  Tapping that last image, Maracle said, “That, sir, is a battle-hardened soldier. I’d stake my other ankle on it.” He took the cane out of his pocket and leaned into it to relieve the pain.

  There was one more photograph. In it, their suspect was looking up, probably at the game clock. Most of his face was in shadow, but the wide jaw and mouth were clear. “Can that shadow be lightened up?” asked MacNeice.

  “Not from what we have. But maybe if we got the original footage,” Ryan said.

  “I called another photographer, who was shooting for the Toronto Star; I described our guy and asked if he’d noticed him, maybe even spoken to him.” Maracle opened his notebook. “He said, ‘Oh yeah, I remember him. Everyone shooting that day would remember him. It wasn’t just his shooting on the run. Whenever I looked up, he was lying on the ground shooting, or kneeling and resting the lens on a knee, shooting. He’s unorthodox. Most of us use a monopod or tripod, or just steady hands and fast exposures. Not him.’” Maracle turned a page, looked briefly at MacNeice, then continued. “‘I asked him about his shooting style at half-time. He said he’d been a combat photographer, and old habits die hard.’”

  Maracle closed the notebook. “They didn’t exchange names or business cards. As this guy explained, ‘We sell what we shoot. If you’re really good, it might take you to the NFL. It’s a cut-throat game.’”

  Williams shook his head. “Well, Manserra could teach him about cut-throat games.”

  Maracle nodded and made his way back to the desk. “My take? He’s not a sniper and he’s not a combat photographer. He’s just a damn fine warrior. The pictures are just a hobby. A lot of guys carried point-and-shoot cameras; he’s just good at it. Snipers don’t get caught or even seen. They shoot from a distance and disappear. Hell, we’ve got Manserra on videos.” Maracle ran a hand through his hair. “This guy’s Special Forces, or something weirder.” Maracle shrugged his shoulders. “If I’m right, he’s survived because of intense training and some serious skills. He’ll know explosives, how to establish a defensive perimeter, how to use his enemy’s force and skill to his advantage. He won’t be the guy you nab with a knock on the door or in a traffic stop.” He looked directly at MacNeice. “He’ll make it messy, sir. Crazy messy. Whatever this is —” he pointed to the whiteboard, “it’s his mission. And he’s studying us as we study him.”

  MacNeice stood looking at the photos. Manserra had been talented enough to win assignments as a freelance photographer. He was meticulous in his restaging of major works of art, so much so that a cop could shoot from the V and his photo could be identified. He might even be convincing enough to have found a gallery to display them. MacNeice was sure Maracle was right; the bodies passing through Richardson’s lab were testimony that his real talent was killing.

  MacNeice wheeled back to his desk and dialled Aziz’s number. “Question. What do you think triggered this for him?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  He could hear her sitting up in bed. When she spoke, she made it clear that drawing conclusions about state of mind was much hairier than connecting the dots on where the art might go next. “PTSD? Even if that’s not the leading cause of his psychosis, it’s likely a factor.” She thought it was possible that something had gone sideways in his youth or lay in the failures and disappointments of adulthood — or even the successes. As a boy he might have really wanted to be an artist but something had kept him from becoming one.

  Aziz had another theory too. “This one isn’t without its flaws, but consider this. The druggie crushed the dog, the prostitute bullied her child, and the pimp and his bodyguard intimidated the wrong man. It’s not that their sins were major or minor; it’s just that, in an instant, he’s capable of passing judgement and taking lives to serve his purpose. As for the priest and his son, I don’t know. But if I had to guess, I’d say the priest was collateral damage. Our killer was there to mete out justice to the son . . . and there was an old man in the Daumier.”

  “It’s hard to believe this is about art,” said MacNeice.

  “I think it’s about power and sacrifice, and he knows that. Art is about ideas — beauty, nature, spirituality, inspiration — but it’s also about power and sacrifice. I think he knows that too.”

  “Last question. What do you think his next piece will be?” MacNeice was rubbing his forehead; his headache had returned and gotten worse since he’d arrived at the office.

  “As I said, definitely something Catholic.”

  * * *

  Vertesi was calling from his car and his windows were down, so he was almost shouting. “The name for the PO box is David Allan Muller. There was nothing in the box. The manager said that means Muller was likely there yesterday. I’ve called for Forensics to get someone over there to check for prints. Until they do, the manager’s taped a panel over it.”

  “Did you ask to see the security camera footage?”

  “I did. But just like the rest, he knows where the cameras are and never lifts his head. Same gear — this time a black hoodie, baseball cap, and shades.”

  “External cameras?”

  “Yep. He comes out, turns left, away from the camera, and disappears around the corner of the building.”

  “Thank you, Michael.” MacNeice hung up and dialled Swetsky’s number. “Where are you, John?”

  “Department of National Defence in Toronto. They were going to send me to Ottawa, but after some grovelling, they’ve patched me through.”

  “Good. Look up a David Allan Muller and get back to me.” MacNeice spelled out the name. “See if Muller is connected to Manserra.”

  “So Muller’s another alias?”

  “Possibly . . . Probably.”

  * * *

  MacNeice studied the aerial photographs of 2010 Valens Road and the realtor’s shots of the property. It had been purchased in October of the previous year by a James Wismer. Ryan looked but couldn’t find anything on social media about him.

  MacNeice considered a full-blown raid but ruled it out. Given what Maracle had said and what they already knew about him, the killer would expect it. He would have chosen a location he could defend and that provided a way to escape.

  MacNeice asked himself what they could do to get up close to 2010 Valens Road, short of a raid. He suddenly recalled his father telling him about the aluminum-siding salesmen who had swept through Dundurn in the 1950s and ’60s. They had defaced whole neighbourhoods by plastering “looks like wood, never have to paint it” aluminum siding over seven-decades-old brick.

  What would a travelling salesman from the twenty-first century want to sell to James Wismer? Someone pulls off the highway into your driveway with a brochure for — what? He looked back at the real estate photos and the long shadows of trees, shot at the magic hour. MacNeice said aloud, “Solar energy.”

  Over the course of the next two hours, a plan was hatched. Ryan’s brother was the sales manager at Sun Solar Systems. Ryan would get a nametag, some brochures, and even a magnetic door sign for his car. Not much of a plan, MacNeice was the first to admit. Williams and Maracle were skeptics. But it was so simple, he thought, it could work. No one shoots a travelling salesman.

  Maracle would sit this one out. Vertesi,
Williams, and Swetsky would be in the follow car and MacNeice would drive in alone. He’d wear a nametag identifying him as Sam Smith from Sun Solar Systems. They’d arrive at the farm at eight a.m. The follow car would stop short of the driveway, hidden by the trees and hedges. MacNeice would call in to their Chevy and leave his cellphone on in his jacket pocket. “If you hear me say ‘wind power,’ that’s your cue to hit the driveway.”

  “Flaky. Man, it’s flaky.” Williams was shaking his head. “If Wismer is our man, do you really think he’ll fall for this?”

  “Yes, I do. For that reason alone — it’s too flaky to be professional. And if he is our man, he’s had salesmen show up uninvited before.”

  “Sounds nutty enough to work.” Maracle shrugged. “Do you know anything about solar energy, sir?”

  “No.”

  [52]

  “Sergeant, is that you?”

  He held the phone away from him to see a number he didn’t recognize. “Who’s calling?”

  “Private Pete Napier, Sarge. We were in —”

  “I remember. How’d you get this number?”

  “Woz — Sorry, Steve Wozinsky gave it to me, sir. We boosted the phone, but it’s almost outta juice.”

  Master Corporal Steven Wozinsky, nicknamed “Woz,” had been in every respect a solid soldier. He’d take point on patrol without hesitation and was smart enough to be wary of everything. The younger soldiers respected him and never hesitated when he gave an order, though frequently the order was “Get the fuck down!”

  “What’s up, Nape?”

  “Well, we were doing some crack. And Woz . . . well, he went first. Then he smiles — y’know, that crazy Woz smile — an’ hands me the pipe. All of a sudden he falls back on the floor an’ he’s gone. Woz is gone, Sarge —”