Butterfly Kills

by Brenda Chapman

  Dalal reached into her pocket for her cellphone and checked her messages. A text from Joe! She read it quickly before erasing it and tucking the phone back into her pocket. It wasn’t safe to answer him back.

  Her father and Meeza came through the gate a few seconds later, Meeza holding onto his hand and skipping at his side. Her father looked sternly in Dalal’s direction as if he sensed her guilt.

  “Ghazi will be home from his course in half an hour and he’ll be hungry. What are you doing lying there without supper started?”

  Dalal jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ll get it going right now.”

  “See that you do and take Meeza with you. She needs to learn how to prepare a meal.”

  Dalal hurried across the lawn, but an unsettling thought made her stare at her father as she neared him and Meeza. What were her parents and Ghazi hatching now for Meeza? Were they going to send her to be a helper for another family? Dalal wouldn’t put it past them. She held out her hand to Meeza as she walked by.

  “Come, Meeza. You can make the rice tonight.”

  “Oh goody,” said Meeza, clapping her hands. She leaped into the air and twirled on one foot before reaching for Dalal’s hand.

  Dalal turned at the door and looked at her father again. He stood tall and motionless in the full heat of the sun, watching them with laser-beam eyes. Dalal smiled in his direction, but a sudden cold tingling up her spine made her hand slip from the door knob. She banged her shoulder against the door before she managed to twist the handle open. Meeza squealed when Dalal yanked her into the kitchen away from their father’s piercing stare.

  The bad stuff’s not over yet, Dalal thought. And I have no idea how to stop it.

  Chapter Ten

  Rouleau introduced Kala to the rest of the team first thing the next morning. She shook hands with Ed Chalmers and Zack Woodhouse, then took a seat next to Gundersund. They were in a small boardroom down the hall from their offices. Kala had already been taken on a quick tour after getting a temporary building pass and signing some paperwork that made her an auxiliary officer on loan from the Ottawa force.

  Rouleau watched Vera cross the room in her tight pencil skirt and six-inch heels with Kala’s paperwork in hand and thanked whatever deity had brought her to the chief’s door. She’d performed bureaucratic miracles all before eight-thirty in the morning. Her head tilted toward him and she winked just before stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind her. Rouleau noticed that Kala had witnessed the exchange but her face remained impassive. Rouleau was happy to be a man who didn’t blush easily. He looked directly at Kala. “Right. Chalmers and Woodhouse have been brought up to speed about Leah Sampson’s murder. What you don’t know is that we’re also working on a spousal rape case, so we’re spread thin this week.”

  “Where would you like me?” asked Kala.

  “You’ll be teamed with Gundersund and leading on the Sampson murder. However, Chalmers and Woodhouse might need you to help on the rape case, so be prepared to go between the two, if necessary.” He broadened his gaze to include the others. “Everyone is going to have to be flexible, so keep up-to-date on both files. We’ll have debriefs every morning at seven-thirty. I’ll be coordinating both and dealing with media, needless to say, with Heath’s assistance.”

  “His forte,” said Woodhouse. The others smiled at some inside joke. Kala guessed that the unmet chief must fancy himself a media star. The knowledge might come in handy down the road.

  “Calls have been coming in. The Whig and the CBC are probing the murder story. We’ve even had calls from the Globe and Post.”

  What Rouleau couldn’t say was that he had little faith in Ed Chalmers, who was close to retirement and dogging it. Woodhouse was in his early forties but had shown little initiative. The two men even looked alike — both balding with middle age paunches. Woodhouse was taller and wore glasses, but aside from that they could have been brothers. Around the station they were known as Lazy and Lazier.

  “So, Chalmers and Woodhouse, start interviewing neighbours and co-workers — anyone who knew Brian and Della Munroe. We need evidence to back up Della’s story if it’s true.”

  “We’re on it,” said Chalmers.

  Rouleau wished he could find faith in Chalmers’s words, but failed. “Gundersund, can you sit in on the Sampson autopsy this morning?”

  Gundersund nodded.

  “We’ve located her parents in Montreal and they’re on their way, and the autopsy is scheduled for right after they see her. Stonechild, I want you to check out the staff where Leah worked. Her murder could be tied into her personal life or the help line. The killer might have been a stranger, but if so, why torture her? See what you can find out and bring along Officer Marquette. He’s waiting at his desk for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Check in as you go and I’ll let you know next assignments.”

  Everyone stood and started for the door. Gundersund fell into step with Kala.

  “Do you have the help line address on campus?”

  “No, but it shouldn’t be hard to track down.”

  “I’ll call you when the autopsy’s done to find out where you are. Can I have your cell number?”

  She recited the number and he jotted it down in his notebook.

  Gail Pankhurst lurched forward a step and dropped into the empty chair facing Jucinda and Nate sitting on the couch. Jucinda’s melodramatic announcement that Leah had been murdered kept repeating in her brain like a news bulletin stuck on replay.

  “I can’t fucking believe it,” Nate said. “No fucking way.” His face was the colour of whipped meringue. He slumped back and held onto his chest as if he’d been shot.

  “Well believe it,” said Jucinda. “The cop in there talking to Mark and Professor Tadesco is 100 percent certain. Plus, Leah missed her shift yesterday and again today, so that would appear to clinch it.”

  “Where’s Wolf?” asked Gail, her head swivelling around the office. “Does he know?”

  Jucinda shook her head. “Mark called him to come to the centre but didn’t tell him why.”

  The two women exchanged looks and the expression on Jucinda’s face sent a jolt through Gail’s nether regions. Juicy was smiling, her lips lifted at the corners, with a smug look in her eyes as if someone had handed her a gift. Gail recalled her vitriolic condemnation of Leah the day before and her interest in Wolf. She squirmed at a sudden rush of guilt at her own part in the conversation. For God’s sake, Leah might have already been dead when they were discussing her loose morals, her spirit hovering in the room, listening to herself being called a slut. Surely Juicy had nothing to do with Leah’s death, but her smile was disturbing. Gail swung her eyes back toward the office.

  “Who’s that with Beach Boy and Tadesco?”

  “It’s a detective. Stonechild, I think she said her name was,” Nate roused himself to respond. “And she brought along a police officer.”

  “Christ,” Gail said. Her stomach rolled and she swallowed hard. Sweat was making her armpits wet. She was glad she’d worn a sleeveless white top that wouldn’t show the dark stains.

  Mark’s office door opened and the detective crossed the floor in their direction. Gail stared over: an Aboriginal, about their age, younger than thirty anyhow. She had long black hair tied back in a ponytail and black eyes that were drinking them in, assessing and processing. Dressed in navy slacks and a white shirt, the detective looked lean, muscular, and confident, everything Gail knew herself not to be.

  “Hello, I’m Detective Stonechild,” the woman said upon reaching them. “I know the news of Leah’s death has come as a shock, but it would help our investigation if I could speak with each of you individually.” She looked down at her notepad. “I’ll start with Jucinda Rivera. Please follow me into your supervisor’s office. Gail Pankhurst and then Nathan Anders will follow. Officer Marquette will stay with you. I’d appreciate it if you do not discuss anything about Leah amongst yourselves. Thanks.�
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  Wow, no messing around. Gail felt that sick feeling back in her stomach. They were actually being interrogated, like on a police show, but this was no work of fiction.

  The detective turned and Jucinda rose to follow, throwing a rolling eye glance in Gail’s direction. Lucky for her, Marquette had his back turned. He was leaning against Gail’s desk and pulled out his cellphone as she passed by him. Mark and the professor joined Nate on the couch.

  “Well, this wasn’t what I was expecting today when I got dressed for work,” Gail said. Nobody smiled and she couldn’t really blame them. Making light when their colleague had just been murdered was in extremely bad taste, but she had to cope somehow. Every inch of her body felt like it was burning up with fever. She even smelled rancid, fear changing her body odour to something putrid and disgusting.

  A curious thought came to her as she looked at the three stooges — Tadesco, Nate, and Mark — lined up as if they were facing a firing squad. Juicy had said that Leah was sleeping around with a married man. Could it be one of these three? She studied them to see if any was more broken up than the others, but had to admit they all looked devastated. Tadesco won out in the red-eyed category though. She looked at him again.

  Immaculate blue suit and open-necked shirt the colour of daffodils, tall with jet-black hair gelled back, and a Mediterranean complexion. Attractive enough if you liked the Italian-prince-slash-GQ look. He was the hotline’s staunchest supporter and considered a socialist — a handicap the wealthier right-wing students overlooked because his psych classes were so interesting and he was such an easy marker. His wife, on the other hand, was an unpopular English prof. Medieval lit major, a horsey face, and expensive silk dresses labelled her elitist and stuck up. Rumour had it that she was cold in the sack. There might have been enough dissatisfaction in their marriage for Leah to move in on Tadesco. As Gail watched, Tadesco leaned into Mark. Gail shifted forward to hear their exchange.

  “I have to get over to the president’s office. He’ll need to speak with media and put out a news release. A murder on campus could create mass hysteria if not handled properly,” Tadesco said quietly.

  Mark and Tadesco both lifted their heads to look at the officer, who was just tucking his phone into his pocket.

  Mark nodded. “You’ve already given a statement so it should be okay.”

  “I just feel helpless sitting here when I know time is of the essence for keeping this contained.”

  Tadesco stood and strode over to talk with Marquette. Tadesco was the kind of man who strode, not walked. Gail thought he was a self-confident son of a bitch and maybe colder than his wife, if his words were anything to go by.

  Marquette and Tadesco discussed his departure in low voices and then Tadesco called across the room to Mark. “I’ll talk to you later. I’ll be available by Blackberry if you need to reach me.” He broadened his look to include Nate and Gail. “We’ll get through this. Stay strong, kids, and I’ll be back later so we can talk.”

  Gail felt she should pump her fist in solidarity but instead waved a hand in his direction and wondered why his promise for a tête-à-tête sounded like a warning. The person he probably should be telling to keep quiet was Juicy, but she was already spilling her guts to the detective. If Tadesco was the married boyfriend and Juicy knew it, things could go badly for his marriage and career. The university was strict about enforcing its rules regarding professors fraternising with students, especially if the student was in their class. Leah had been in Tadesco’s this year and last.

  Gail felt a surge of excitement replace the horror and dread. She itched to get out her laptop to start a new file about the murder and the players in Leah’s life. This could turn into the biggest psychological study ever and she was going to have a front-row seat. At least making this into another human experiment would take her mind off the horrible end that Leah had suffered. It might help her to make sense of the unfathomable and it could turn into a thesis that might get her published. What was that saying? Every cloud has a silver lining. It might sound crass, but life had to carry on and you had to make the most of whatever bounty fell your way.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kala sat in her truck and checked the address she’d copied into her notebook when Mark Withers brought up Wolf’s personnel file on his computer. She pulled out her map of Kingston from the glove compartment and traced the route with her finger. Wolf Edwards lived outside the campus, heading northwest.

  She tossed the map onto the passenger seat and started the engine. If there’d been a common thread running through every interview, it had been the boyfriend Wolf and his recent split with Leah Sampson. Jucinda Rivera was the only one who’d said Leah had been sleeping around on him with a married man, but she’d stopped short of giving a name. Gail Pankhurst had admitted that Leah and Wolf dated at one time, but clammed up about their breakup.

  How angry had Wolf been at Leah’s infidelity? Angry enough to torture her? Men did crazy shit when women left them. Sometimes men you would never suspect of being capable of violence.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She slowed the truck and pulled over to the curb. Scanning the tree-lined street ahead, she counted mainly oak and maple with the odd poplar. Old trees in an old town. She held the phone to her ear.

  “Yeah?” Shit. Gundersund. She’d forgotten all about him.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Just finished up the interviews and am heading to see Leah’s ex-boyfriend, who lives northwest of the university on Centennial Drive. He also worked at the help line until recently. Autopsy over?”

  “No. The parents were late and had a hard time with their daughter’s death. They were with her a while so we’re about an hour behind. I just stepped out to call you. Maybe you should wait for me and we can go together. What’s the guy’s name?”

  “They call him Wolf. Last name Edwards. Has the coroner found anything yet?”

  “Says she died sometime in the early morning hours on Saturday. There are bruises all over her torso and broken ribs. The fingers on one hand are mashed. She has rope burns on her wrists and ankles where the bastard tied her to the chair. Whoever it was cut her superficially all over her body, but the knife wound in her stomach was deep and nicked her liver. She died when she bled out.”

  Kala let out her breath but didn’t say anything. She watched a squirrel do a high wire act above the road in front of her. A cardinal flashed red in its flight between two trees. She thought about all the normal life that had been going on while Leah Sampson was strapped to a chair, being beaten and cut.

  Gundersund’s voice dropped. “Her crawl to the living room must have been excruciating.”

  She could hear the gentle in and out of his breathing in her ear. She wondered if he was waiting for her to react. If so, he was going to wait a long time. “I’ll come back in after I’ve interviewed the ex,” she said before the emptiness on the line stretched out too long. “Don’t worry, I’m used to working alone.”

  She turned off the phone without waiting for his reply and flung it onto the map lying next to her.

  Gundersund slipped his phone back into his pocket and thought about having a cigarette. Autopsies were stressful and being teamed with Stonechild was becoming another thing to worry about. What was she doing tracking down a prime suspect by herself, especially someone named Wolf? He could feel the beginnings of a headache starting up behind his right temple.

  He’d quit the habit for two months and three days but could conjure up the taste of nicotine and the round feel of one between his fingers at will. Usually, it was enough. This autopsy was the first real test of his resolve and it was weakening. All he had to do was step outside and head to the smoking area on the north side of the building where he could easily bum one. He could feel the pull.

  He looked down the hallway. Fiona was walking toward him with two coffees in her hands. The baggy green scrubs hid her slender body and the heart tattoo on her left shoulder. Her rubbe
r-soled shoes squeaked on the waxed floor. She stopped a foot away and handed over one of the Styrofoam cups. Her fingers touched his hand longer than they needed to.

  “No sugar, right?”

  “You remembered.”

  “I remember lots of stuff when it comes to you.”

  Gundersund laughed to cover his discomfort. “Let’s not dredge up the bad memories. As I recall, you had a long list of my failings by the time you moved out.”

  She tilted her head so that her blond hair swung over one shoulder. Her perfume filled the space between them. It was spicier than what she’d worn when they were together. “We had more good than bad between us.” She sipped her coffee. Her blue eyes stared into his. “I’m living alone again.”

  “What happened to the surgeon?”

  “Long gone. Why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night? I could barbeque steaks, bake some potatoes, uncork a bottle of red.”

  “This case will probably have me tied up.” He was quite certain that taking her up on her offer was a very bad idea.

  “Well, if you end up free, the invitation’s always there.” She pushed the door behind them open with her hip and stepped inside the autopsy room. She looked over her shoulder. “Coming? I’m cutting into her brain next.”

  “Well, since you put it that way.”

  He followed his wife through the door and realized he’d forgotten all about the cigarette, but he hadn’t forgotten about the maddening Kala Stonechild. He should call Rouleau to let him know what she was up to, but that would alienate her and get their partnership off to a bad start. He’d try to finish up early here and track her down. She was turning out to be just one more woman out to make his life hell.

  Guitar music circled the house from the backyard. Kala pushed open the gate and followed a brick path into a small patio area wrapped in flower gardens and shrubs. A man sat on a stool with his back to her, a guitar in his lap, one leather-sandaled foot crossed over the other leg. She recognized a Gordon Lightfoot song: “Railroad Trilogy.” The man’s brown hair was pulled back into a curly ponytail. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders and back lean and muscled. When he turned around, Kala saw why he’d been nicknamed Wolf. The lower half of his face was bearded and his eyes were almond-shaped and a curious shade of green and gold. His hands and body went still.