Bay of Blood

by A. M. Potter

  Naslund guided her toward a chair. Finally she had her seated, shoulders back, head upright. “Can I get you something?” she asked.

  MacLean shook her head.

  “Sit tight,” Naslund cooed. “I’ll get you a sandwich.”

  MacLean forced a smile.

  When Naslund returned, the chair was empty. She walked toward the door. There MacLean was, down at the end of the hallway. Standing next to her was Ward Larmer. Although he’d rented a summer cottage in nearby Hope Bay, he looked like he’d just flown in from Manhattan. His thick red hair was swept-back and the lively cast of his eyes spoke of easy camaraderie. He needed a shave. But he always needed a shave. His burly torso was packaged in a tight blue suit framing a too-crisp white shirt and shiny blue tie. The clothes seemed more appropriate for a wedding than a funeral.

  Naslund knew never to rush a judgement yet Larmer was an obvious POI. Arranging a friendly look on her face, she approached MacLean and Larmer. Coming closer, she heard MacLean say, “Not now, Ward, later.”

  Naslund slowed her step.

  “Now,” Larmer insisted.

  “Later!” MacLean hissed.

  “Later? Christ, now!”

  MacLean tore off in a huff. Her heels beat a furious tattoo.

  Larmer turned to Naslund and shook his head. “Look at her. Thinks she’s starring in her own movie.”

  Naslund nodded agreeably. She was in work mode: everyone’s friend, everyone’s confidant. “Sandwich?” she offered Larmer.

  “Why the hell not? Got to fly.”

  “Where are you off to?” she casually asked.

  “My cottage. Getting things ready for some of the Gang.”

  She nodded. Other than Thom, Larmer was the most famous member of the Gang.

  “They’re staying with me,” he explained. “For the funeral and all.”

  “That’s good of you.” Or suspicious, she thought. His hospitality could be a cover-up, the kind of gesture a murderer might make.

  Chomping the sandwich, Larmer made for the door.

  Naslund stepped back to study the crowd, to observe without being observed. Her eyes swept the room. There was Louise Hennigan, Thom’s previous agent, black from head to foot, from dyed hair to pointy-toed shoes, looking like a voracious crow. The crow flew past Naslund, chasing a rich Torontonian.

  Inching farther back, Naslund melted into the wall. Someone had attacked Thom Tyler. Ward Larmer came to mind. Another man did as well: Thom’s current agent, Jock MacTavish. Thom had once said that although MacTavish was a good salesman, he was probably cheating him. Naslund hadn’t been surprised. She knew MacTavish. Her mother Elaine had once been “friendly” with him. MacTavish was money-hungry. Perhaps Thom had caught him red-handed, and MacTavish had to silence Thom? It was a stretch, Naslund knew, but sometimes you had to stretch.

  Having recently spotted MacTavish and guessing that he’d head to the refreshments table, she stood near it. Keeping watch, she ate a peach tart.

  No MacTavish.

  She considered heading off to “bump into” him, but instead ate another tart.

  No MacTavish.

  Persistence, she ordered herself. Wait.

  Ten minutes later, she called off her mini-stakeout. As she veered toward the table to deposit her empty plate, she saw MacTavish coming her way.

  The agent looked ready to impress a bevy of heiresses. Although he was over sixty, very few people knew it. He was muscular and tanned. His blond-white hair was moussed and tousled. He seemed more a collection of expensive items--ring, suit, shoes--than a person. Despite the mourning venue, he wore a light pink shirt and a cyan-blue Harry Rosen suit, the lapels as narrow as his cream-colored tie.

  “Eva, my dear, terrible news.”

  “Horrible,” she commiserated.

  He pulled her aside. “I hear rumors of suicide.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Some say Thom killed himself. Attached an anchor to his leg and jumped overboard.” MacTavish shook his head. “I’m going to quash that rumor. Bad for business. An untimely death, au contraire, is good news: dwindling supply, growing demand. The value of his work will skyrocket. Don’t get me wrong,” he hastily added, “I’d rather Thom was alive. He had brilliant years ahead of him. Absolutely brilliant.”

  “He did.”

  “Speaking of supply,” MacTavish effusively said, “I have a wonderful selection. Why don’t you tell Elaine to come down to my gallery? I’ll give her first dibs.”

  Ignore the man’s greed, Naslund told herself. Show a friendly facade. “I will. Thank you.”

  He smiled, unleashing a crocodile grin. “By the by, how is Elaine? I haven’t seen her in months.”

  Me either, Naslund thought. Elaine was playing with another new man. “She’s fine. Did you just arrive, Jock?”

  “Half-an-hour ago. Traffic was awful near the city.”

  “Always is,” Naslund lamented. “Been up much this summer?”

  He shook his head.

  “Too bad. I know how much you love sailing.” MacTavish had a thirty-eight-foot Dufour at the marina. “When was the last time you got out?”

  “Mid-June. Too long ago.”

  She nodded. She’d check that.

  “Don’t forget. First dibs.”

  “Thanks, Jock.”

  Naslund eyed MacTavish as he sauntered away. Had he attacked Thom? He had a boat. He was strong enough. She shook her head. Enough speculation. You need some dots. Slipping away from the funeral parlor, she drove to the station.

  Chapter 8

  Wiarton, OPP Station. July 11th:

  Naslund strode into the station at exactly 1059 and headed straight to the murder room. She already knew that Moore prized punctuality.

  The double doors were open. The room was packed. The MU team had taken one side of the ten-person boardroom table: Sergeant Lance Chu; Constable Noreen Ross, the video-photographer, who was now working Tyler’s cottage with Mitchell and Wolfe; and the two forensic scientists, Constable Jamil Chahoud and Sergeant Gina Domani. On the other side were FID Constables Dan Mitchell and John Wolfe and two new men. Naslund assumed they were the DCs from Central, Stu Conrad and Rob Lowrie. The local PCs assigned to the case sat toward the back: Senior PC Elmore Chandler plus PCs Warren Kraft, Vik Singh, Tom Derlago, and Rosie Weber. Even Bickell was present. The staff sergeant had taken the chair at the opposite end of the table, facing Moore. Naslund sat at her hutch.

  Moore called the meeting to order. He wore the same suit as yesterday. It looked grayer. After introductions, he asked if all present had read the Tyler Case summary notes. Everyone nodded. Moore then asked Chu to update the room. He rose, walked to the whiteboard, and wrote three words: BLOOD, PRINTS, DNA.

  “Well,” he said and faced the room, “we have good news and bad news. The good news? We’re further ahead than two days ago. The bad news? We’re not very far ahead.”

  There were a few chuckles.

  Naslund glanced at Moore. He didn’t look amused.

  “Let’s start with what we know,” Chu said. “Blood. By that I mean the victim’s blood and ancillary blood. As the summary states, the victim suffered severe head trauma. He bled profusely. We know what weapons caused the bleeding: a ball-peen hammer and a Phillips screwdriver. And we know their characteristics.”

  Moore raised a hand to stop Chu. “Pardon the interruption.” He addressed the gathering. “As it stands, the two weapons are missing. They are invaluable to our investigation. Absolutely vital. We need to find them.” He scanned the room. “If you’re tasked with questioning witnesses or POIs, don’t ask about the weapons directly. Circle around to them.” He turned to Chu. “Back to you.”

  Chu nodded. “Central has processed the victim’s DNA and matched the blood at the primary scene, the boat, to the victim. The blood at that scene is all his. There is no trace of anyone else’s blood. So we have zero ancillary blood. Which suggests the victim did not inflict any wounds on his assailant.”r />
  Or assailants, Naslund thought, but didn’t interrupt Chu.

  “Regarding the victim’s blood, I want to point out an apparent anomaly. His blood was found near the end of the boat’s boom on the starboard side, starting two-point-four meters from the mast, extending to two-point-eleven meters. However, according to the autopsy, there is no indication the boom hit the victim. Our blood splatter expert--” Chu stopped and gestured toward Domani. “--determined the blood was placed there with a cloth. Whoever did so staged the scene. They attempted to make it appear the blood came from a blunt force wound. Whoever did so didn’t reckon with Sergeant Domani.” He smiled. “She established the blood was placed on the boom with three swipes of the cloth. The cloth was a tight cotton-weave. The lab traced the material. It was imported from Bangladesh. Did that help us?” He shook his head theatrically. “Where does sixty-four percent of the cotton cloth in this country come from?”

  “Plants?” Chandler said with a grin.

  Naslund glanced at Moore again. Not impressed with Chandler’s humor.

  Chu chuckled. “And the other thirty-six percent?”

  “More plants,” Chandler said, “as in more factories.”

  “I can’t say you’re wrong.” Chu smiled then caught a glimpse of Moore’s face. The sergeant’s mirth immediately disappeared. “In any case,” he continued, “the full specifications are in the notes. As Inspector Moore stated, the assault weapons are vital pieces of evidence. So too is this cloth. It may contain trace material than can lead us to the perp.” He stopped, took a swig of coffee, and continued. “Regarding the secondary scene--the boathouse, dock, and studio--we found no blood there.” He took another swig of coffee. “Any questions about blood?”

  There were none.

  “All right,” he said and pointed to his second word, “on to Prints. Unfortunately, we only have FPs, fingerprints. No bootprints, no footprints, no tire prints. The primary scene yielded three sets of FPs. The secondary scene was a minefield, riddled with cross-contamination. It yielded no clean prints.”

  Bad news, Naslund thought. But at least they had prints from the skiff.

  “One set of FPs belonged to the victim, Thom Tyler, and one to his partner, Carolyn MacLean. The other is as yet unidentified. As to MacLean, we matched FPs on the boat’s bow mooring line to her. Her FPs were likely deposited on the line sometime during the previous thirty days. Which is conflicting evidence. In an interview yesterday, MacLean said she hadn’t touched the boat in five weeks.”

  Moore raised a hand. “We’ll bring her back in a few days.” He eyed the room. “That doesn’t mean she’s a second-tier POI. It means we need to gather more evidence. Remember this: every POI is guilty until proven innocent. Absolutely every POI.” He waved Chu on.

  Naslund realized the thirty-day FP estimate might not stand up in court. Any good defense lawyer could undermine FP evidence. However, she kept quiet, assuming Moore knew how fickle FPs were.

  “Let’s move to the final category,” Chu said. “DNA. You’ve probably heard the old saw that the first rule of a CS is that anyone who’s been there leaves something behind and takes something away. They might leave behind DNA, in a carrier like hair. And they might take away fibers, perhaps from a piece of clothing. Leave. Take. That’s a pretty good rule. However, in this case, nobody left anything--other than the victim, that is. Our boat sweep yielded DNA carriers in the form of his blood, mucus, and skin. But we have nothing on the assailant, the perp. Or perps. We can’t rule out multiple perps.”

  Right, Naslund said to herself.

  “The perps didn’t leave anything, other than traces of the cotton cloth. No personal blood, no prints, no DNA. They weren’t likely greenhorns.”

  Naslund wasn’t sure about that. She’d run it by Chu later. They could be lucky greenhorns. Georgian Bay could have washed away their DNA, even though it didn’t erase other bio matter, such as Tyler’s FPs and blood. Hair and skin weren’t as sticky as prints and blood.

  “Regarding take-aways,” Chu continued, “at this point, we don’t know who took anything away, or what they took. We have to find them first, or their cars or homes. Then we’ll get their take-aways.” He nodded to Moore and sat down.

  Moore stood. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He surveyed the room deliberately, paying particular attention to the non-detectives. “It should go without saying that no one on this team--no one other than me, that is--is authorized to talk to the media. That means no communication with reporters or journalists, local, regional, or national, web-based or otherwise. And no web posts. No Facebook, no Twitter, none of that. Is that clear?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “On another note, I don’t abide by lone wolves. We’re in this together, so we work together. Make sure everybody on this team knows what you’re doing and what you’re thinking. How can you ensure that? Always update your case notes. Always! Understood?”

  More nods.

  “As Sergeant Chu stated, we know how the victim was assaulted and with what weapons. But we don’t know much more. Yet. That’s where you all come in. Everyone in this room can help, whether actively, or in a support role.” Moore stopped and eyed Bickell. “Everyone can help us find those take-aways.” He paused. “Mr. Tyler was murdered Monday. We’re already three days out. They say a case goes cold after forty-eight hours.” His index finger stabbed the air. “This one won’t! Dig into everything and presume nothing! All right, let’s get to work. I’ve drawn up a list of actions. See the corkboard next to the door. Attend to your actions.” He dismissed the meeting.

  It was almost lunch time. Naslund let everyone file out of the room ahead of her. As she left, Moore called out. “I want to run something by you, Sergeant.”

  How about over coffee, she thought.

  Moore had other ideas. He led Naslund to her former office. “Have a seat,” he said.

  She sat in the spare chair.

  “Conrad and Lowrie are currently reading the complete case notes. They’ll join us at fourteen-thirty. In the meantime, I want to explore a new avenue.”

  “Okay.”

  “As I said earlier, we’re not done with MacLean.” Moore pursed his lips. “We’ll bring her in again. But I was thinking of bringing Ward Larmer in first.”

  From what Naslund had seen, although Moore liked to appear collegial, he did what he wanted. Regardless, she agreed with his plan. MacLean could wait. Given Larmer’s words and actions at the visitation, he was an obvious POI.

  “Incidentally,” Moore continued, “Larmer will probably shed some light on her. This morning I went over the list of calls in and out of her cell number. Guess who phoned her three times yesterday?”

  The answer seemed clear. “Ward Larmer?”

  Moore nodded. “As it happens, he’s got a raft of unpaid parking tickets in the city. A brace of speeders too. Seems to be the me-first sort. You knew Tyler. Do you know Larmer?”

  “A bit,” she said. “I socialized with him a few times at Tyler’s place. From what I know, he’s very self-confident. Self-centered too. Your me-first label fits.”

  “Good. We can’t corroborate everything MacLean said, but I don’t think she’s lying about Larmer. According to what she reported, he was envious of Tyler.” Moore smiled. “I know, she could be overstating things. Let’s say half-envious. Let’s call it potential motive.”

  “Okay.”

  “Larmer might have had another motive: Revenge. Remember what you told me about MacLean yesterday, on the way to the autopsy? Tyler stole her from Larmer.”

  “Not exactly. It was before I was posted here, but the way I heard it, she left Larmer for Tyler.”

  “Adds up to the same thing. I don’t think Larmer would forget that. Losing a looker like her.”

  Looker, Naslund thought. Some men’s labels for women were so predictable. From what she’d seen so far, Moore wasn’t a full-blown chauvinist, yet he’d scored high on what she and fellow female officers called the CP--Chauvinist
Pig--Scale, with Pig referring to cop, not man. After all, as her female friends joked, all men were pigs at one time or another. “That was ten years ago,” she said.

  “I know,” Moore replied, “a long time to wait for revenge. But, as the crime psychologists at Central keep telling me, killings often arise from repressed emotions--desire, envy, love--the kind of sentiments that ferment for a long time. Ten years is not unusual. Despite what Larmer says, I wouldn’t be surprised if he and MacLean were still lovers.”

  Really? Naslund thought. From what she knew, MacLean had eyes for Thom and no one else.

  “As for opportunity,” Moore continued, “having frequently sailed with Tyler, Larmer had access to the skiff on multiple occasions.” He paused. “Potential motive and opportunity. A reasonable starting point.”

  Naslund agreed. Even with no apparent motive, Larmer was suspicious.

  “I took a little drive this morning, out to Hope Bay. Nice spot.”

  She nodded.

  “Our tip line got a call from one of Larmer’s neighbors, a Mrs. Carson, an elderly lady who thinks he’s suspicious. I went to see her. She saw Thom Tyler at Larmer’s place five times last month. She said they were often arguing, sometimes even yelling at each other.”

  “Sounds plausible,” Naslund said. “Larmer’s a hothead.”

  “Beyond that, she doesn’t like Larmer--‘too sharply-dressed’--or his accent--‘snooty Englishman.’” Moore paused. “I’d like to take a run at him today, right after lunch.”

  “Sure. Let me call him.” She looked up Larmer’s local number and called it for the inspector.

  Moore switched on the speakerphone.

  “Hello,” a suave British voice answered.

  “Mr. Larmer?” Moore said.

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Inspector Moore, OPP.”

  “What can I do you for, Inspector?”

  Do you for? Naslund thought. Did Larmer think this was a neighborly chat?

  “We want to speak with you about Thom Tyler,” Moore said. “I understand you’re at Hope Bay.”