Mercifully, there was only one body in the autopsy area, and it was covered with a plastic sheet. Junior was using a long-handled brush with stiff bristles to clean the floor. When he saw MacNeice and Aziz, he nodded toward Richardson’s office.
Richardson looked up from a folder on her desk as they came in. “She’s been dead twelve years and six months, give or take a week.” She got up and slid three photographs of the body into the clip rack, followed by two X-rays. The way the flesh still clung to the bones, it appeared as if a powerful vacuum had sucked the life and everything else out of Grant.
“She was entombed very quickly following her death,” Richardson said. “Her insides suggest the diet was meagre—basically cereal. She wasn’t only starved, she had to have been refused liquids, because she was severely dehydrated.” She tapped one of the images. “Before she died, she probably looked not too much different than she does here.”
As if being starved wasn’t sufficient, Richardson pointed out the signs of torture. There were rope burns so severe they scarred the flesh of her wrists, rib cage and ankles. “It looks like she spent the end of her life in constant bondage. And she’d been hit several times across the back by something with a metal head. The marks suggest the metal threading of a broom handle or hose.”
“A hose,” MacNeice said. “It’s in his diary.”
“Ah.” Richardson put down her pencil and crossed her arms. “I don’t want to think about that.” She began pulling the images from the clip rack. She returned the photos to the file and picked up her pencil, poised to write. “Who shall I release the remains to when it’s time?”
MacNeice thought of Dylan and how impossible the idea of arranging his mother’s funeral would be for him. Aziz stepped in when MacNeice didn’t respond. “I’m sure it will be her parents. I’ll send you their contact information once I’m back at Division.”
Outside in the parking lot, it hit him. “Fiza, I just realized I’ve been struggling with the fact that David Nicholson got exactly what he deserved. It’s made it hard for me to concentrate on finding Constable Szabo’s killer.”
Aziz replied in Arabic.
When he asked for the translation, she said, “Let’s just get out of here.”
He turned out of the lot into traffic, and they drove in a silence that lasted for a good five minutes. Finally, Aziz cleared her throat. Looking out the side window, she said softly, “It’s from the Qur’an. It means, ‘He punishes whom He pleases, and He grants Mercy to whom He pleases, and towards Him are ye turned.’ ” She glanced at him. “And for that, I can only live in hope. Nicholson played a vengeful god but wasn’t finally punished by God.”
“Maybe he was, Fiza. I think Nicholson knew his killer. He knew that he was being punished when that grenade was taped under his chin. He thought salvation had arrived when the firefighters showed up. He was definitely praying to someone—and he certainly heard the answer when the pin was pulled. He had five seconds to ask the question, ‘God, why me? I’ve been a good father.’ Maybe, just before that fifth second, he realized what God’s answer was.”
“So who do we think killed him?” Aziz asked. “We’ve considered the Grants, the father and brother, and the landscape designer, McLeod. With all three of them, you have to ask, why now?”
“From what I saw of McLeod’s reaction to the news that she’d been found, he knew nothing about her imprisonment, torture and death. If he had, Nicholson would have been dead years ago.”
Aziz curled into her seat. “So maybe she had another lover. Jennifer Grant made two bad choices in men, first McLeod and then the worst—Nicholson. She was unhappy, which I don’t think would have improved her judgment.”
The on-board phone rang and MacNeice pushed the hands-free button. Deputy Chief Wallace’s voice crackled out of the speaker: “I’ve got a press conference on the Nicholson case tomorrow morning. What do I need to know?”
“The son is reeling from the news. Safest thing for Dylan at this point would be for you to announce at the end of the conference that an unidentified body has been found in the basement of a home on Ryder Road.”
“All right, I’ll be careful not to link them as of yet, but I need to be able to say we are making headway in locating the killer.” Wallace paused. “We are, I trust?”
“Yes,” MacNeice said, and hung up.
His thoughts turned to Dylan. There was no way to keep the identity of the body quiet for long, but the revelation would put pressure on Dylan Nicholson, the one true innocent in the unfolding story.
He dialed Sally Bourke-Stanford’s office number, even though it was after office hours. But she picked up after three rings.
“Sally, I wanted you to know that Deputy Chief Wallace will be holding a press conference in the morning about Dylan’s mother. He won’t name her, because Forensics is still confirming that the DNA, fingerprints and handwriting found on site match those of Jennifer Grant and David Nicholson. But her identity will come out soon, especially as it’ll be tied to Nicholson’s death. Do you have Dylan on a suicide watch?”
Bourke-Stanford’s tone was grave. “Before I leave this evening, I’ll personally call the foster parents and his caseworker to alert them of your—our concern for his safety.”
Ryan was still working when they got back to Division, though it was past eight. He had made progress narrowing down the date of Anniken Kallevik’s disappearance from Markus Christophe’s emails—finding a message that must have been sent from an Internet cafe. He read out, “ ‘Wonderful day ahead. I’m going to see a horse race in Toronto, then to dinner.’ That was one of the last emails she sent to him. When he replied and asked who she went with, her response was, ‘Just a friend. It was the end of the season. The horses were beautiful, but it was so cold we stayed bundled up drinking hot chocolate. I won $30 betting on Glory Girl in one race and lost $25 on Hard Candy in the next. I didn’t bet anymore, so I’m still ahead $5.’ ” They corresponded in English, presumably to increase their proficiency.
Ryan had found out that the last day of thoroughbred racing was December 13. Her responding email was dated December 14. There would be two more emails, one in which she forwarded news from home and the other answering Christophe’s request that she make her way to Whistler before the New Year, so they could keep to their original schedule and head down to California. Ryan showed them that one on screen, dated December 22 and cheerfully annotated with pictograms: “Yes big brother Λ. I’ll be there soon;-) AK Bisous.”
Christophe sent her a total of twenty-two emails after that, and twice as many text messages; all went unanswered.
MacNeice asked Ryan if he’d already requested the videotapes from the track’s surveillance cameras. He had, but they were recycled after three months—nothing existed from December 13 except direct video replay of the actual races.
Studying the photographs on the whiteboard, MacNeice reminded himself that the friend might have been from the hostel, the yacht club or both. But he didn’t believe it. Anniken went to the races with a man who knew racing—Duguald Langan. That she didn’t mention his name suggested that she knew Markus might insist that she be on the next train to BC.
By the time MacNeice picked up his coat, at 9:18, the rest of the team had gone home. As he headed for the stairs, he looked back once at the whiteboard and remembered the image that wasn’t there yet—the one of Jennifer Grant’s naked corpse on Mary Richardson’s wall.
That night, sleep came slowly for MacNeice. The city had installed a new lamp on the road near his cottage, which effectively projected the rain streaking down his window onto the wall beyond the bed. It took discipline to see the images as raindrops and not snakes or endless tears.
Normally, he would never bring grappa to bed. Much better if he put the glass in the sink as any responsible drinker would do. But there he was, glass in hand, his eyes glued to the light up the road. Black branches crowded about the glow, for warmth, he imagined.
Warmth. He tried
bringing Samantha to life, but she emerged only in fragments: mopping up the sauce on a plate, or her naked silhouette at the window of her bedroom in the morning light. Soon she would be looking out the window to morning in Athens. Like loose wires shorting out a fixture, Fiza’s face appeared in his mind.
He got up and pulled the curtain shut and sat down on the bed. Sipping the grappa, he wondered what Kate would make of the new lamp. She’d hate it, for sure. Kate needed total darkness to sleep. Finishing the grappa, he put the glass in front of the clock radio, fragmenting the digital display. When he was exhausted, his mind always slid back to her. He lay down and closed his eyes, and wondered, yet again, when exactly it was that he’d lost Kate. It wasn’t when she died—it was way before that. Even before the morphine drip, drip, drip, that disappeared the pain but left you in a coma until you stopped breathing.
“So when do you think it was then?”
Ah, you’re here. I knew you were. I think I lost you when we were told the cancer was terminal.
“I suppose.”
The lump on your collarbone; it suddenly appeared, the size of a dime, then a nickel. I told you it must be a fat globule.
“That was cruel, Mac. Never tell someone you love she has a fat globule.”
I was too terrified to say what I really thought. That was the best I could do. Do you remember, Kate? That very spot—it was one of my favourite places to kiss.
“I know, and I never asked you why.”
Because it had a special quality; it was open … but hidden, and there was always this smell.
“Scent, darling, not ‘smell.’ ”
A scent then, like perfume but not perfume. You. It was a private pleasure, like kissing the small of your back or behind your neck; you couldn’t watch me, so they were—
“Stolen kisses. I always loved the idea of that.”
Kate, when do you think I lost you?
“It began with a lump the size of a dime.”
Chapter 24
Before he entered the team cubicle the next morning, MacNeice knew something had happened. It was as if a tremor was emanating through the concrete floor: his chest tightened as he stepped out of the stairwell door. “What is it?” He looked at each of them, wondering who was going to speak first. Ryan, uncharacteristically, didn’t turn around or say good morning.
Williams stood up. “I’ve found something, boss. You want me to read it, or just give you the book? I’ve marked the pages with orange tabs.”
“It’s big,” Vertesi chipped in.
“Hand it to me,” MacNeice said, as he sat down wearily at his desk and put on the gloves. Williams carried the diary to him. Taking a deep and, he hoped, discreet breath, MacNeice opened it to the first tab.
Williams smiled grimly. “It’s November 22nd. She’s got less than a week to go. Two days later, he notices her calendar on the back of the door. He punished her for that even though she had stopped tracking the days: she didn’t have the strength. He refers to the punishment as being for ‘past sins.’ She dies four days later.”
MacNeice looked down again at the sickeningly neat script.
5:12 p.m. I thought J was made of sterner stuff. She stopped eating two days ago (little stools, mouth ulcers, coughing blood!). Had to carry J downstairs for her lessons—that wasn’t easy, the stench.
5:35 p.m. Thought that now was the best time to confront J with S. Disappointed! She opened her eyes a little, but said nothing. She hasn’t spoken for a week or more. Perhaps I’ve waited too long … hope not. We’ll see.
5:50 p.m. Tried force-feeding Cheerios, but she coughed them back up. I ask how she thought she’d get away with it—S, I mean. No response. I’ll try tomorrow.
November 22, 2001. 4:29 p.m. A New Day for Truth. J force-fed Ensure—I wait.
4:31 p.m. Throws up—much blood—feed her some more. I wait.
5:25 p.m. It stayed down. Try some more … it came up almost immediately. Nevertheless, J seems more alert—I ask again about S. Her eyes are closed now all the time but she smiles. MISTAKE. Smacked her for smiling.
5:41 p.m. I think she got the message: she’s not smiling anymore. I say, “I hope it was worth it. Is it worth it to you now?” No answer.
MacNeice looked at the Post-it hanging off that last sentence and then at Williams, who took the diary back and laid it on the table. He pressed the palm of his hand on the closed book as if it would otherwise open of its own evil accord, then peeled off the latex gloves and set them down on top. “You don’t need to read any further, Mac. He never mentions ‘S’ again. She never speaks or even opens her eyes again. He keeps trying to feed her Ensure, but her system’s shutting down. I’m amazed she lasted that long.”
The day she died, Williams told them, Nicholson had exams and got to the house late. “After hosing her down, he put her in the wedding gown. He’d dug the pit over the previous two weeks after researching how to lay concrete in the Our Lady of Mercy school library. The equipment was all rented under his pseudonym, Christopher Marlowe. He paid cash.”
MacNeice looked at them all. “I want all first and last names beginning with S of the male teaching staff at Mercy, past and present, including the principal.”
The phone rang and Ryan picked up. Without even asking, he handed it to MacNeice. It was Sally Bourke-Stanford. “Dylan left his foster parents’ house early this morning through the bedroom window. He took a gym bag with all of his clothes.”
“Have you called his grandparents, or Grace Smylski? Her son, Tom, is Dylan’s best friend.
“Not yet—I just found out. His caseworker went to the school first, then called me to say he hadn’t shown up for class.”
“I’ll get an amber alert issued, and we’ll check the bus and train terminals and all roads out of Dundurn in case he decided to hitchhike somewhere.”
MacNeice ended the call, then said, “Aziz, give me the keys to the house on Tisdale, fast.”
He went alone, parking down the hill so the boy wouldn’t spot the Chevy and bolt. Before climbing the steps to the front door, he turned to see if Grace Smylski was watching—she wasn’t. A moment later he was easing the storm door open and sliding in the key. The heavy oak door gave way in a hush of stale air. Inside, he paused to look around the living room—nothing had been disturbed. The wood flooring creaked as he moved down the hallway. The door leading to the basement stairs was open. In the kitchen, there was a Dr Pepper on the table. He felt the can—it was empty but still cold.
MacNeice went back into the hall and listened for any sounds from the second floor. Hearing nothing, he made his way to the top of the basement stairs. He could see there was a light on. The stairs were hopeless—they squeaked with every footfall.
“Who’s that, who’s there?” Dylan’s voice.
“It’s me, Dylan. Mac. I’m coming down.”
“Haven’t you done enough? Get out of here.”
MacNeice stepped into the rec room. Dylan’s gym bag was on the floor by the sofa. The door to the furnace room was open. MacNeice crossed the room swiftly and there was the boy, standing on a three-legged footstool. He had a belt buckled around his neck and he was struggling to secure it to a hot water pipe. He wasn’t distracted from his task by MacNeice.
“Go away, detective. You’ve done your job. That’s it, isn’t it? Your job: find the bodies, find the killers and fuck the rest.”
“You need a hand with that?” MacNeice asked calmly.
“What? Oh yeah, like I’m some tool. I know you can stop me. But I will do it, I will.”
“I never said I wanted to stop you. Like you said, I’m the one who finds the bodies. You’re still alive.” He stood in front of Dylan, looking up at what he was trying to do. “I assume you’re using your dad’s belt—that’s poetic. Give it to me. I’ll tie it off at the bracket. That pipe’s too wide.” With some force he took the belt out of Dylan’s hands and looped it around the vertical bracket, pulling it tight to make sure it would hold. “You�
�re good to go,” he said.
There was now very little play in the belt, the noose forcing Dylan to stand on tiptoe, which made the stool even less steady. MacNeice backed off and leaned against the door frame.
“What are you doing?” Dylan’s face was contorted with anguish, and the pressure around his neck was painting his cheeks a dark red.
“I’m here to watch you go, if you’re determined to do this. You should at least have one friend.”
“You’re not my friend. Man, you think I’m crazy? You don’t care about me.”
“Okay, so at least I’ll be here to pull you down after it’s over. But for the record, I do care about you.”
“Well I don’t care about you!” The stool wobbled. To steady it, Dylan lifted his head so that he faced the ceiling, his feet flat on top of the stool.
“You do, though. That’s what’s difficult for both of us, Dylan. You do care about me. And I started caring about you the moment I saw that photo of you on the mantel upstairs—that and the wedding photo of your mom that you kept in your room.”
“Don’t talk about that.” He was crying now and began to gag.
“You’re going to choke to death that way too, Dylan. It’ll be quicker if you kick over that stool.” MacNeice stepped forward. “Here, I can do it for you.”
“Get back—get away from me.” The boy’s voice cracked and he went back up on tiptoe to release the pressure on his throat so he could spit and swallow.
“Weird thing is, I actually had a proposition for you.”
Dylan couldn’t look directly at him, but he tried. His expression reminded MacNeice of a porcupine he’d seen caught in a leg trap—the mixture of fear and rage in its eyes—and it sickened him. He went back into the rec room and picked up one of the basketballs. He slammed it against the wall; it bounced back to him across the tiled floor and so he did it again—the noise was startlingly loud.
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