by Cathy Ace
If I could have killed him on the spot I’d have been happy. If I could have run him through a woodchipper, alive and screaming, I’d have been happier. This man was the epitome of smugness, and a perfect example of the tendency of the inept to float to the top in the politically charged world of the modern police force. I hated him, but I kept smiling. If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that you don’t let an animal with bloodlust smell fear. I stepped forward; I didn’t want anyone to see me shake with anger in case they thought I was scared by this slimy little toad, and his sneaky plot.
I beamed my most professional smile, and spoke as graciously as I could. ‘Gosh, chief superintendent, what a treat! You’ve obviously gone to a lot of trouble, and I really appreciate it. Hello, too to Constable Webber, and his “cam” –’ not even a titter this time – ‘but I don’t want you to think of this as a party trick or a parlor game. Victim profiles can take days, sometimes weeks, to build. I think we have less than half an hour left tonight?’
Dufray grinned back at me; he thought I was wriggling on the hook, and was moving in for the kill. ‘I’m sure there’s something you can show us in thirty minutes or so, professor.’ He hissed my title at me as though it was an accusation, not something I’d spent years earning.
‘Please, call me Cait,’ I replied, smiling. ‘I ask all my students to use my first name.’ I knew I was sinking to his level, and had to stop myself, so decided to give the little creep a run for his money.
‘Okay then folks – here we go – a lightning-fast victim profile.’ I decided to try to get some of them in the room on my side, but could tell it would be hard going. ‘I promise I won’t keep you longer than half an hour, so let’s see what we can do in that time. I’ll work through the victim’s home, then tell you a story about their life after we’ve had a look around. How about that?’
It was like drawing teeth; without an anesthetic for them, or me. There was nothing left to do but get on with it, so I did. I stomped up the flights of stairs that led to the back of the amphitheater-style lecture room and took an empty seat in the middle of the back row. I had the best possible vantage point and, despite some wobbling, I had to admit the picture from Webber’s camera was pretty sharp. He was standing beside a fairly nondescript front door, which obviously led to a flat – something I’ve now learned to refer to as a condo.
I spoke into the microphone, ‘Can you tell me where you are, Constable Webber?’
Dufray answered in a shrill scream at the front of the room, ‘No, he can’t tell you the address, Cait, but I can tell you it’s a Downtown condo, on the twenty-third floor overlooking Coal Harbour. Over to you now, Webber.’
As Webber pushed open the front door I had already worked out the condo in question must have cost somewhere between $600,000 to well over a $1 million, depending on its size and when it had been purchased, so already I knew we were talking about someone with, probably, a pretty healthy income.
The doorway led to a stubby entry hall; to the left the open-plan living, dining, kitchen area enjoyed a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows. As Webber moved inside I asked him to go to the windows and sweep the view. It was the first chance I’d ever had to see what the people who lived in those condos saw, and it was amazing; when they put ‘Beautiful British Columbia’ on the license plates around here, this is certainly what they’re talking about. There, on a perfect early-summer’s evening, we all saw the snow glistening on the tops of the mountains, the trees of Stanley Park magnificent against the skyline, and restaurant- and bar-going knots of people wandering happily through what is some of North America’s most expensive real estate. I could almost taste the calamari and the Granville Island Ale; but the stark reality was that I had to perform like a circus animal to get us out of this dreary lecture hall.
‘Thanks, Webber – you’ve made us all as sick as pigs!’ I called out, raising an unexpected wave of wry laughter from the room. Now there was a double entendre I hadn’t intended. ‘Oops!’ I chuckled, and asked him to take me around the rest of the apartment. We moved from the open-plan living area into the hall, then across to a gleaming grey marble bathroom and a bedroom that seemed to be mainly bed, then we were back at the front door again.
‘Thanks, Webber, now we’ve got the lay of the land, could you take me into the bedroom please, and let’s have a look into the closets.’
The camera wobbled into the bedroom and there was a bit of a kerfuffle as Webber pulled at the sliding mirrored doors. Inside I saw a row of well-organized women’s clothes; a few dresses, some lightweight business suits, blouses, and smart casual pants took up most space. Everything was arranged in color blocks. It was a single female’s apartment; what sort of a woman?
‘Could you pull out an item and check the label and size for me please, Webber?’
‘Size eight,’ he called back, ‘and it’s Diane von something.’ The poor constable seemed baffled. I put him out of his misery.
‘It’s okay, I recognize the print and those two other dresses are by the same designer. Can you show me her shoes? Hold up a couple of pairs, would you? Also her bags and purses; can you do the same, please?’
He did, and I swallowed hard. She must have spent thousands on clothes and accessories; they were all classic, yet bang up to date. This woman had some serious money tucked away in her closet. Knowing she was dead made it all seem so pointless; being a size eight didn’t mean she necessarily had to starve herself, but being a comfortable size fourteen I knew that if I’d ever wanted to look good in those things I’d have to go without pretty much everything that I loved, for a long time. And even then I wouldn’t be able to afford them. I rationalized maybe she was an ‘eat to live’ person; so, not like me at all – I’m definitely a ‘live to eat’ type.
‘Can you go through the undies drawers please, Webber?’ We saw La Perla, Victoria’s Secret, Marks & Spencer’s, and Rigby & Peller labels. There were a few pairs of socks and packets and packets of unopened light tan hosiery. There were a couple of silky nightgowns, a few sets of tees and shorts, and a few sets of fleecy pajamas.
‘Thanks, now can you go over to the bedside table?’
There we saw a frighteningly complex and modern alarm clock, an unopened bottle of spring water, and a tiny pewter elephant, sitting so his trunk pointed toward the window. The bed linens were clean, the bed well-made. The chocolate-brown suede headboard made the room look like a hotel, but its sweeping height balanced the tall windows quite pleasantly. The drawers of the table were empty.
‘Have you removed anything from the scene?’ I asked Dufray.
‘Yes, but nothing that would prevent you from forming an impression of the victim,’ was his pompous reply.
‘Great,’ I replied, loading the one word with as much disdain as I could muster.
The other bedside table was both empty and bare, so I asked Webber to move into the bathroom. Once again, everything was ordered and clean. Her make-up box didn’t hold the sort of clutter my own little squashy bag does – no half-used palettes of cheap and cheerful powder shadows for this pretty miss – she had a box with a magnifying mirror set into its lid with special lighting fitted into it too; it sat up on a glass shelf. I asked Webber how far from the ground it was – he said about five feet. Within it were expensive cosmetics, all clean and fresh-looking; the woman favored a neutral palette, and her lipsticks were in the beige to brown range. Her blemish stick was medium, her mascara brownish-black. At the bottom of the box were a few aged condom packets.
Beside the bath were lavender and chamomile bath salts, but it was clear she used the shower more often than the bath – loofahs, scrubby net balls, and salon quality shampoos and conditioners were all ready to go inside the glass cubicle. Her towels were white and fluffy. The room looked like a spa.
‘Thanks Webber – now back to the main living area, please, via the hall closet?’
Webber pulled open the hall closet to reveal wet weather o
uterwear and a couple of cardboard boxes on the floor.
‘Can we see inside the boxes, please?’
Webber hauled them out and opened the first one. He rummaged around and we were able to see a collection of old and battered items: a teddy bear; a catcher’s mitt; a couple of golf balls; some cocktail umbrellas that read ‘Duke’s’; a couple of swizzle sticks from a bar called ‘The Onion’; a pretty pathetic looking rosette from a bouquet of flowers with no card attached; lots of napkins from various eateries; a faded old folder that contained school projects, reports, and a yearbook. The other box offered up much of the same – though this time the detritus seemed to be neither as ancient nor as dusty, in fact, stuffed into the top of the box was what appeared to be a particularly expensive, classic brown and tan handbag. My interest was piqued.
‘Give us a closer look at that purse, can you, Webber? Can you have a look inside?’
Inside were a few receipts from a bar I knew to be located just below where this apartment must have been, on the waterfront. They were dated about six months earlier. There were also two lighters, a book of matches from one of the highest-end restaurants in Vegas, a couple of low-value casino chips from a casino in Downtown Vegas, and a collection of pull-tab cards and Keno slips. Otherwise the bag was empty; the insides were clean and the outside seemed to be in good condition. I wondered why it was stuffed into a box in the hallway, and not on the little shelf in her closet with all her other designer bags.
‘Webber, can you hold the bag in front of the camera for a moment, and turn it very slowly, please?’ The young officer managed to juggle the camera and the bag quite well, and I could see what I needed.
‘Thanks, now let’s dig into this box some more.’
Webber’s delving revealed a small plush grey hippopotamus that wore a purple T-shirt bearing a telephone company logo, an empty bottle of a local micro-brewery’s Christmas Ale, a tackily-romantic glossy birthday card that said, ‘It’s not fair you’re not catching up’ and had a handwritten message that said, ‘And it’s not fair you only get one gift – but you do’. It was signed Don, and there were lots of Xs and Os. A handful of matchbooks from strip clubs and questionable bars were next. Finally, Webber came out with a pack of playing cards which he immediately dropped; they scattered and slithered across the dark hardwood flooring. Webber lay the camera on the ground as he tried to collect up the cards; I knew I didn’t have much time, so I asked him, instead, to get into the tiny kitchen as quickly as he could. A peek into the fridge showed it to be almost empty, except for a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne, and an unopened jar of cocktail onions.
‘We’ve emptied this out, Cait,’ interjected Dufray. ‘We removed all opened food items from the home. We also took away the garbage from under the kitchen sink, and from every other room.’
That helped me somewhat – at least I knew what not to look for.
As Webber moved around the kitchen I noted some implements I’d have expected to see there were not on show; upon his pulling open the dishwasher I saw it had been run – no dirty dishes here. Inside it were two plates, two wine glasses, two bowls, one larger bowl, various serving and eating implements, and a couple of tumblers.
The island counter was clear except for two simple holders with burned out votive candles inside them; the narrow dining table was bare, save a large glass bowl full of seashells and small stones.
The compact seating area was furnished for style and comfort, with a tan suede couch sporting beige throws, a couple of suede half-cube floor cushions, and a glass table that was clear of clutter. Along the end-wall of the apartment was ranged a large ultra-thin television, an expensive music system, and an elaborate dark metal shelving structure that had a couple of photographs tucked into two of its many square display pods. I asked Webber to show us the photos. One showed a little girl playing on a lake beach, holding a shiny quartz pebble to the camera, the other showed a family wedding group where the fashions suggested the ceremony had taken place in the 1970s; the bride was wearing a voluminous not-so-mini mini-dress and the groom had longer hair than his new wife’s. There were some books, but not many.
As Webber turned back toward the couch I spotted a small table tucked between the wing-end of the sofa and the window. I asked him to take us there. On a little leather-covered table was an untidy pile of magazines; it was the only part of the apartment where perfect order didn’t reign supreme. Before allowing him to touch the pile I asked him to zoom in; we saw a jumbled pile of women’s magazines, and they all seemed to have little yellow sticky-notes poking out of them. I asked Webber to pick up a few and flick through to the pages where the notes appeared. In every case he turned to an advertisement – for everything from cars to shoes, from make-up to clothing, and jewelry. Sometimes the sticky paper had a note on it – ‘Damn!’, ‘Typical!’, ‘So wrong for them!’ were some of the comments. After a few minutes I thanked Webber and told him to sit and take a break for a minute.
All eyes turned to me, and I was ready. I walked back down the steps to the front of the room, and could see Dufray had a twinkle in his eye. His micro-expressions told me he was just waiting for me to screw up, and that feeling had infected others in the room; whereas they’d been politely attentive during my talk, now every eye was piercing me with real interest. I knew I’d better be good. I took a big breath, and began.
‘Well, that was an interesting fifteen minutes, don’t you think?’ They smiled and nodded. ‘Being a naturally nosey person I for one think it’s great to get a chance to have a look around one of those swish apartments, and on my salary that’s about as close as I’m going to get!’ There were some sympathetic nods around the room.
‘I’m sure your boss wants me to tell you about both who was murdered and who did the murdering –’ I smiled sweetly at Dufray and raised one eyebrow in as threatening a way as I knew how – ‘but, to keep you all in suspense, I’m going to talk about the victim first. Is this the victim’s only home?’ I tilted my head in Dufray’s direction and he nodded. ‘Good. Then the victim was a single, professional woman aged thirty-five. She was of medium complexion with naturally brunette hair, cut somewhere between her shoulders and her ears, and which was – at the time of her death – colored with high- and low-lights. She was fairly fit, but didn’t work out. She walked the sea wall often, but never jogged. She was slim, about five feet eight inches tall, with an athletic build. Her job was as an advertising sales manager for an up-market glossy magazine. She worked on a mixed salary and commission basis, and was good at it. Very good. She frequently traveled on business to London, Toronto, and New York, and had visited all three cities within the last six months. For vacations, she dreamed about returning to Hawaii one day, and recently went to Vegas. When she took a gap year between school and university she traveled around Thailand. She drank – possibly just a little too much at times – but she always had done; she started young, and enjoyed brew pubs, but latterly frequented fancier restaurants and wine bars. She graduated university in Vancouver, in either business or the arts, possibly even a strange mixture of both because she couldn’t decide what she really wanted to do. She stayed here after graduation, but she’s originally from a small town in Alberta. She was definitely heterosexual and sexually active, has had a live-in lover in the past, but she’d been living alone now for at least five years. Not much action on the man-front since then, I’d say, but she did have a relationship which lasted at least six months, that she broke off in early February this year. Her birthday is in late December, and she has a brother, who doesn’t live in Vancouver.’ I drew breath. I’d been concentrating hard on recalling the contents of the apartment, and hadn’t really noticed what was going on around me – I do that sometimes when I’m on a roll, I sort of zone out; now I zoned back in again.
‘Is this the sort of thing you wanted to know?’ I asked cynically of Dufray. All eyes turned from me to him; the poor man was a picture.
He managed to c
lamp his mouth shut, just in time to open it again and say, ‘Whatever you think you can tell us, Cait – please, continue.’ Was that a little shakiness in his voice? I hoped so.
I did as he asked. ‘The woman didn’t own a car, she worked in the Downtown core about ten to fifteen blocks from where she lived. She’d never be seen on a bus or the SkyTrain, and had access to a car service, rather than having to take cabs. For business entertaining, which probably took at least three of her evenings a week when she was actually in town, she’d entertain in Yaletown and maybe some of the up-market ethnic places Downtown. For her own amusement, she’d go to the pubs on Robson and the clubs in Gastown. She loved Sinatra, Bublé, and Beyoncé. Oh, and by the way, she gave up smoking in, approximately, March, and was trying to cut back on her wine consumption at home. She hated to be alone, and used work as an excuse to side-step real life. She was lonely before she died, mainly because she found it difficult to trust people. You’ll probably find she had many acquaintances, but few real friends, and all the people she knew will agree she was always good company, but they’ll each know a slightly different person. She’ll have talked to them about what they were interested in, never pushing a personal agenda. They’ll tell you she was generous and thoughtful; always happy to buy a round at the bar, and probably the one who encouraged people to go on to a club afterwards. She would have been good at sending birthday and anniversary cards on time, and she’d have chosen them thoughtfully, to be suitable for the recipient. Any gifts she gave would, likewise, have always been carefully chosen. She didn’t attend church, but was raised within an actively Anglican family.’
