Bay of Blood

by A. M. Potter

  Naslund silently agreed.

  “Dr. Kapanen surmised the victim was alive when he entered the water and not placed there already dead. I concur with him.”

  Moore nodded.

  “I also concur with his PMI estimate. The victim likely died somewhere between four a.m. and eight a.m. on Monday July eighth.”

  Moore nodded again.

  “We’ll be running a full toxicology screen,” Leonard said. “The results will be back in three to four days. I’ll release the body at six p.m. this evening, after we get toxicology specimens.”

  “Thank you,” Moore said. “I’ll inform the funeral home.”

  “By the way, I’m ordering burial rather than cremation, just in case we need to exhume. Any questions?”

  Moore shook his head.

  Naslund had one. She’d been thinking about Thom’s assault. It was easier to attack someone on land than in a skiff in heavy seas. MacLean could be lying. She could have said that Thom left the cottage dock but attacked him near it. Not likely, an inner voice said. She’s not strong enough. Maybe not, Naslund thought. However, if not her, someone else. An assailant could have attacked Thom on land, put him in the skiff, sailed out to White Cloud, and then pushed him overboard. In which case, the team would need to look for an assault scene on land. “Doctor, I understand the victim didn’t die on land, but is it possible he was attacked on land, disabled, and then moved to the boat?”

  “Possible,” Leonard said. “In that scenario, we’d expect to see evidence of him being dragged or carried. Possibly bound first, in case he began to struggle.” Leonard examined Tyler’s ankles and legs. “Other than the anchor line, I see no evidence of ligatures.” He moved slowly up the corpse to the head. “I see no ligature marks around the torso or arms and no abrasions consistent with dragging. And no evidence of a mouth gag. As to carrying, I see no bruises which indicate he was roughly handled or carried for any distance.” Leonard carefully turned the body over. “Again,” he eventually said, “I see no ligature marks, no abrasions consistent with dragging, and no bruises consistent with lengthy carrying or rough handling.”

  Naslund nodded. Maybe she was getting carried away. Her land-attack idea was complicated. Likely too complicated. The truth was usually simpler.

  ***

  Having stopped to eat dinner, the two detectives drove toward Wiarton after sundown. They didn’t talk much. Naslund sensed Moore thinking and remained silent. She tried to let her mind rest. For the first time since being called to Rathbone’s farm, she succeeded. The stillness helped. Dusk drew a cloak over the land. Other than in Owen Sound and a few built-up areas, they passed through the evening like a ghost, guarded by phalanxes of cedar and spruce and pine.

  When they entered Wiarton station, the only person present was Constable Kraft, the duty officer. Chu and company were at the MU. Moore’s two FID men, Mitchell and Wolfe, were still at Tyler’s cottage. It was too late to bring the team together.

  Naslund followed Moore into the boardroom, a crowded chamber which was now the murder room. A few chairs had been shunted to the back wall. The boardroom table dominated the front of the room. Three computer hutches lined one side wall, desks for Mitchell, Wolfe, and Naslund. She’d willingly given her office to Moore, believing that a lead investigator needed their own space. Thinking room. A pair of hutches hugged the opposite wall, for two detective constables who were joining the team tomorrow, Conrad and Lowrie.

  Earlier that day, Bickell had complained about losing his boardroom until Moore verbally drove him off. Naslund had enjoyed the show. It’d been like watching rams spar. Constable Chandler had enjoyed it as well. He winked at her as the bosses locked horns. Afterward, he pulled her aside.

  “Did you hear what’s new?” He grinned comically. “Bacon beer.”

  “You men,” she said, “you have it all.”

  “Yep.”

  “What about us girls? There’s chardonnay with oak chips. How about chardonnay with chocolate chips?”

  “You could be on to something. Wine and chocolate. The wife would love that.”

  So would she, Naslund thought, and right now. Instead, she opened a bottle of water and sat at the boardroom table. Moore was just getting the full machinery of the investigation humming. To date, he’d assigned actions to four station PCs. Constables Chandler and Derlago were charged with questioning all fourteen cottage owners on White Cloud Island, Constables Singh and Weber, with canvassing the Mallory Beach area as well as the east side of Colpoys Bay. Any suspicious results would be turned over to Naslund and the two DCs arriving from Central. She welcomed the help. The DCs would also interview Tyler’s family members and local acquaintances. She and Moore would handle all POIs.

  Moore joined her at the table. He looked tired. “Well,” he said, “the real work begins tomorrow. I suppose we could round up all the usual suspects,” He grinned. “But I’m guessing there’re none up here.”

  Naslund smiled. So the inspector had a funny bone. “Pretty law-abiding up here,” she said. “Mostly B-and-Es. Plus a string of pot growers, and a few ex-pedophiles, returned to the community. We can talk to all of them. See what they might have heard.”

  “Right. Any ex-murderers?”

  “Two down in Owen Sound, totally reformed from what we know.”

  He nodded. “It’ll likely be someone close to Tyler. It usually is. Someone who knows him well, like a family member or a friend.”

  “Or knew him well years ago.”

  “Exactly. Could be a local, or could be someone from Toronto. He had a condo there, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll talk to one of my contacts at Metro. He should be able to do some legwork for us. I’m sure he can get Metro detectives to interview Tyler’s city contacts when we have a list.” Moore eyed her. “Any problem with that?”

  “None at all.” She hated cop turf wars: old boy posturing. Good news, Moore seemed to agree with her. She sighed inwardly. You never knew with old boys. “I’ll make a list. Might take a day.”

  “Fine.” Moore stretched then stood. “Let’s leave it at that. Good night, Sergeant.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  As Moore left, she glanced at the clock on the wall: 2310. Another seventeen-hour day.

  Outside, she stood beside her car and gazed heavenward for a long time. The sky was salted with stars. Constellations spun through the heavens, rotating earthward, seemingly falling from the sky. It felt like they would fall forever, until the sky was dark.

  Chapter 7

  Wiarton, July 11th

  Naslund rolled over and read her watch: 0704. Get up, you dozy head.

  After breakfast--porridge with dried cranberries (considered strange in Wiarton, but she had some big-city tastes)--she walked to her front door and picked up the town paper. Thom Tyler’s picture dominated the front page. Underneath it was a color copy of his most iconic local painting, a depiction of Wiarton from Colpoys Bay. The sky came alive with his signature blues. The harbor buildings were exaggerated-white, making a town located just below forty-five degrees North look more Mediterranean than Canadian, like an archetypal Greek port.

  She flipped the small paper open. There it was, a tribute on the third page.

  Much-loved Painter Remembered

  Visitation Today: 10:00 a.m. ~ 4:00 p.m. & 6:00 p.m. ~ 9:00 p.m.

  Local friends and family, as well as art circles in Toronto and as far afield as London and Tokyo, were shocked by the news that Thomas Norton Tyler was found dead in Colpoys Bay on Tuesday, July 9th. A visitation will be held today at Bartlett’s Funeral Home, 232 Berford St, Wiarton, 10:00 a.m. ~ 4:00 p.m. & 6:00 p.m. ~ 9:00 p.m.

  Mr. Tyler’s small sailboat ran aground on Monday, July 8th. There was a strong wind prevailing, but Mr. Tyler was an excellent sailor and swimmer. His body was recovered the following day, a hundred meters from White Cloud Island. Foul play is suspected.

  Mr. Tyler, one of Canada’s most celebrated painters,
was especially fond of nature. He traversed the Great Lakes for months at a time in a sailboat outfitted with an artist’s studio, in search of what he called the lost soul of Canada. He first won acclaim for his work over a decade ago...

  Naslund dropped the paper. She could guess what was next: a glowing account of Thom Tyler’s success, the world-wide appetite for his work. She shook her head. The Thom she knew didn’t care about money or success. She pulled out her phone and called Moore.

  “Detective Inspector Moore, OPP.”

  “Morning, Inspector, Naslund here. If it’s okay, I want to attend Tyler’s visitation.”

  The inspector didn’t reply.

  “I’ll get a bead on his family and some of his acquaintances. Sort out who the new DCs should interview first.”

  Still no reply.

  “I’ll work from home until then,” she added.

  “When’s the visitation?”

  “Starts at ten hundred.”

  “Make it in by eleven hundred. I called a team meeting.”

  “Okay.”

  She signed off and strode to her dining room table. Mind focused on the case, she adjusted her laptop screen, navigated to Moore’s interview of Carrie MacLean, and hit the play button. Forty minutes later, after frequently rewinding the video, she was still unsure about MacLean. She retrieved an apple from the fridge and ate it slowly. Savoring the simple taste, she tried to weigh the evidence.

  Step back, she told herself. Consider the details. All her life, she’d remembered small details, like dates and times and things people said. She couldn’t help herself; she was born that way. Now, rerunning MacLean’s interview in her mind, she focused on the little things MacLean had said and done.

  MacLean hesitated more often than Naslund had originally thought. MacLean admitted to knowing about anchors and rodes. She admitted to being aboard the skiff. She seemed defensive at times. She seemed to be overstating her mental fog. Seemed, Naslund reflected. That was the problem. Seemed didn’t translate to guilt. Nonetheless, Naslund had no intention of going easy on her. She didn’t owe Carrie MacLean anything.

  Navigating to her inbox, Naslund found a new forensic report, an update on Tyler’s skiff. The MU team had processed the skiff’s anchor roller. They hadn’t uncovered any FPs or DNA carriers, but the clasp was missing. She sat back and envisioned the anchor roller. You had to open the clasp to release the anchor. Perhaps someone pulled the clasp off? Someone impatient, she thought, or someone unfamiliar with the skiff. The report next noted that the skiff’s adjustable centerboard was damaged. No surprise there. Two screws had popped out from the centerboard housing inside the hull. Seeing no evidence of tampering, the report concluded they were forced out by the heavy seas and/or the grounding. Naslund wasn’t so sure. The grounding would have snapped off the centerboard, but housing screws rarely popped out. Had someone loosened them or removed them?

  Shifting gears, she began a list of Thom’s city contacts. A Toronto art maven had christened Thom and seven other painters the “Gang of Eight,” a tribute to Canada’s exalted Group of Seven. Over the last few years, Naslund had met five of the eight at Thom’s cottage. Four of them lived in Toronto. She found their particulars on the web and added them to a spreadsheet. She recalled that Thom had been vice-president of a Toronto artists union. She looked up the union president, phoned him, and convinced him to email a members list. By 1000, she had the full particulars of twenty-nine more names.

  Shutting down her laptop, she walked to her bedroom closet, found her best navy suit, and selected a dark blue blouse. She had dozens of colorful blouses--all of them “preposterous,” according to Pete--but she couldn’t wear one today, not to a Baptist visitation.

  Hair brushed back, she left her house and drove downhill. Other than a car coming uphill, William Street was empty. Maples lined the street, their leaves filtering the morning sun. After years of working Toronto’s underbelly, she loved being stationed in Wiarton. The town was low-key yet confident, an easygoing amalgam of past and present. It was home to about 5,000 residents, a mixture of limestone and tinted glass, of working boats and pleasure yachts. Not long ago, it demarcated the outer reaches of cottage country but now urbanites flocked to the Bruce, flooding the area with city money, which, as Naslund knew, wasn’t all good news. The more money, the more B&Es, fraud, sham bankruptcies, and arson, not to mention Bickell’s peeves: speeding and DUIs.

  Although just opened, Bartlett’s Funeral Home was packed. The low ceiling reminded Naslund of a dungeon. She made her way toward the casket to pay her respects. Most people she passed bent her ear, claiming Thom Tyler had no enemies. She recognized the faces. As a cop, it was her business to know them. Half way to the casket, she got boxed out by a gaggle of church ladies. Why did they always set up shop in the aisle? Damned if she knew. When she’d gone to church as a girl--forced there by her mother--no one halted for a huddle in the middle of the aisle. Bit like parking your car on the Gardiner Express.

  Slipping through the gaggle, she nodded to John R and John L then to another John, Johnny Mac, and yet another, Big John B. No surprise, she thought, in a town loaded with Johns. As her father had jokingly warned her, “The more Johns you find in that town, the more Baptist it’ll be.”

  With her nods delivered, she fell into line and eventually reached the casket. Given Thom’s injuries, the lid was closed. She bowed her head. She didn’t fear her own end, but she hated seeing the end of others. Right hand on her heart, she inwardly said her goodbyes.

  You were a fine man, Thom Tyler. You were a fine painter too, but I didn’t tell you that. Many others did, enough for you to know your worth.

  There is one painting I can’t get out of my mind: The Tamaracks. It is almost too beautiful. To me, those trees will always be Tomaracks, with their strong silhouettes and golden hue. Enough.

  Anyway, you didn’t take your worth from painting. You took it from your life. You laughed easily. You always saw the glass half full.

  Giving Thom a final inner salute, she turned and walked down the aisle.

  In the main reception area, she signed the Register Book. Thom’s parents stood nearby. John Tyler looked devastated. His snow-white hair, once jet-black like Thom’s, hung limply on his forehead. The enormous dark bands around his eyes reminded her of a dejected raccoon. John’s wife Deirdre seemed to be holding up better. She looked her usual self, with her still-youthful black hair piled on top of her head.

  Deirdre was younger, true, but she also had more experience of death. Her side of the family, the Kellys, had lost more men to the Great Lakes than anyone in Wiarton, for they’d been schooner hands. Even today, many were laker crewmen.

  Thom’s siblings were scattered about the room, two from John’s first wife Fiona Mitchell, who’d died in childbirth, and four from Deirdre. Fiona’s oldest, Gordon, viewed the gathering like a captain surveying his crew. Being a successful accountant, he considered himself a big man about town. Naslund studied his face. He looked sad, but inconvenienced too. His sister Gillian looked even more inconvenienced. You never knew with half-siblings, Naslund thought.

  She decided to put Gordon and Gillian at the top of the family list and continued her survey.

  Thom’s younger siblings and extended family appeared to be in shock, the whole dark-swathed clan of them hanging their long-necked heads, looking like bereaved black swans. Bottom of the list, Naslund decided.

  She walked up to John and Deirdre Tyler. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. The word wasn’t adequate. Desolation came closer.

  John managed a muted “Thank you.”

  Deirdre held Naslund’s eyes. “Find out who did it.”

  She nodded. “We will.”

  Deirdre clasped her hands. “Get to the bottom of this.”

  “We will,” she repeated.

  Deirdre’s plea intensified her sense of obligation. According to die-hard Baptists, people were put on earth to pray and obey, not to probe. But she didn’
t go to church, and she loved to probe. At the station, they joked that she salted her porridge with curiosity.

  As Deirdre turned away, Naslund heard a commotion at the front door then a loud angry voice.

  J.J. MacKenzie, she thought, and almost immediately John James MacKenzie, Thom’s best friend, a local marine mechanic, burst into the reception room. His face was livid red. “I’m furious!” he roared.

  The Baptist Sea parted.

  “Damn right I am! You should be too!”

  No one disagreed, at least not verbally.

  John Tyler inched forward, approaching J.J. from the side. “Would you like a coffee, J.J.?”

  J.J. stared at him then took in the gathering and bellowed, “He’s not dead, you know! He was murdered.”

  Again, no one disagreed. And, despite the Baptist predilection for arguments, no one pointed out that a murdered man was, in fact, a dead man.

  J.J. stormed out of the room.

  Naslund made a move to follow him but Carrie MacLean was headed her way, dressed to kill. Loaded metaphor, Naslund thought, but true. In her sleek black dress, MacLean looked ravishing. She’d always been an exotic in Wiarton but today she appeared even more striking.

  Rushing up to Naslund, she hugged her. It was the hug of a woman who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. She kept hugging Naslund. She was crying now. “Why, Eva?” Another gust of sobs. “Why?”