Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  As he takes a deep drag, I cannot help taunting him, “So we all have our addictions, eh Nick?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  I nod toward the cigarette in his hand.

  “Fuck off, Rogan. It’s just a cigarette. I’m not like some scumball junkie. Cigarettes are legal.”

  “What if they weren’t?”

  He takes another drag and I get the feeling that I’ve spoiled his enjoyment of it.

  He changes the subject. “I keep thinking about that kid, Michael. Weird, huh?”

  I shrug. “I suppose.”

  “How’s your kid?” he says.

  It is the first time that he has asked me about my life outside work. “She’s great. She’s eight.”

  “What’s her name again?”

  “Ellie.”

  “Nice name, Ellie.” He takes another drag of his cigarette and stares off into the distance. He looks at me for a while before deciding to speak. “I got kids, too. Two of ’em. A boy, Matt and a girl, Lucy.” Another deep drag. “I never see ’em, though.” I am stunned. I had no idea he has kids; we have never been close but we have known each other since he moved here from back East, nine years ago.

  I want to ask him more about his kids but before I can say anything, he drops the butt and grinds it out with his foot.

  “Let’s do it,” he says as he pushes open the door.

  The first thing I hate about this place is the odor. It’s different from the rest of the hospital. It’s more chemical: a mixture of heavy duty cleaning liquids, formaldehyde and something else indefinable but unpleasant.

  “Where’s Dr. Marcus?” I ask the girl at the desk. She and I do not get along. Never have.

  “Doing an autopsy.” She makes a point of speaking without looking up at me.

  Crap! There goes any chance of talking to the pathologist in her office.

  Stammo leads the way up the corridor and through the double doors into the autopsy room. We know the drill in here. We have to stay at least six feet away from the corpses to avoid any possibility of contaminating them.

  Dr. Kaye Marcus, the pathologist, is bent over, working on the body of a middle aged woman. It makes me feel uncomfortable, voyeur-like. How would this woman feel if she knew she was lying here naked, for all to see. I make the effort to look anywhere but at the corpse.

  Stammo does not seem to share my sensibility in this area. “Hiya, Doc,” he says. “What you got for us on the kid who was killed in the Endowment Lands?”

  She looks up. “Hi Nick, Rocky.” She is new in the job so she never knew me before, never knew me as Cal. She peels off her gloves and throws them in the trash, then grabs a new pair from the box beside the autopsy table and snaps them on.

  “The first wound was to the heart, via the solar plexus,” she says. “It was delivered either from the front by a lefty or from behind by a righty. It didn’t immediately stop the heart but I’m guessing it did a lot of damage to the aorta, hence the blood. The other four body wounds were delivered post mortem as was the cross on the mouth and the wounds to the eyes.”

  I cannot shake the image of someone doing this to Ellie. I know I won’t sleep properly until I have this killer off the street.

  We follow her across the room to the drawers that hold the bodies.

  “By the pattern of the blood on the body, I think that the heart wound was made first while he was standing up. The killer kept him upright for a minute, pumping blood, and then laid him down to deliver the other four wounds and the cut across his mouth.” Stammo swears and I imagine the terror that Terry must have felt as he watched the blood spurting from his chest. His brain must have still been working as the killer laid him down and delivered the other four stab wounds. He must have known that he was going to die right there in the woods. I feel a rage bubbling up inside me. I don’t just want to catch this killer, I want to hurt him. I have always abhorred vigilantism but a tiny part of me wants to kill him.

  She stops and looks at me. There is puzzlement written on her face.

  “It’s an odd murder,” she says. “I’ve seen a lot of rage killings and this wasn’t one. It was done slowly with a great deal of precision and care. The five body wounds are very symmetrical and even the cross on the mouth is done carefully; the arms of the X are meticulously done by either a very sharp knife or an old open razor. It was all very clinical and extremely creepy, if you ask me.”

  Her habitual humor is on hiatus as she undoes the padlock and pulls open the drawer containing the body of Terry Wright. The cold air releases smells of chemicals and putrefaction. I really didn’t want to see this body again. I was hoping for a nice chat in her office, maybe with photographs.

  “TOD?” I ask.

  “Eight or nine Sunday night.”

  I look into the drawer and see that the body is covered by a sheet but my relief is dissipated as she pulls it down to his waist, revealing what she wants us to see.

  I feel my stomach churn. Not from the unusual marks on Terry’s body and not from the distinctive Y-shaped autopsy scar. It is because he was a child, not much older than Ellie. My mind sees her like this. How would I face myself ever again if I let something like this happen to Ellie. I feel a wave of sympathy for what Mark Wright must be going through. In my mind I can see him sitting at the untidy table in their tiny house, bent over his expensive computers while someone did this to his only child, the child it was his duty to protect. How will he be able to spend the rest of his life knowing this.

  “What the…?” Stammo’s exclamation brings my mind back into the room.

  “I didn’t notice it at first,” Dr. Marcus tells us, “because his torso was covered in blood. The first thing that was odd was that the five knife wounds form a perfect circle and are evenly spaced. Then, when I washed the blood off…” She leaves the sentence hanging.

  The five knife wounds are connected by five lines, shallow cuts into the skin. The lines form a five-pointed star with one of the wounds at each point.

  Stammo shakes his head and looks away. “Jesus! Why would anyone want to carve a star on the body of a kid?”

  “Maybe it’s a pentacle.” Dr. Marcus and I say exactly the same words at exactly the same time.

  “What, one of those symbols they use in witchcraft?” Stammo breathes.

  Dr. Marcus covers Terry’s body with the sheet and slides the drawer closed. “The pentacle is a very old symbol,” she says. “It is still used by the Wicca religion today.”

  Stammo turns to me. “Remember what the mother said? ‘He’s in the hands of the Great One.’ That’s been bothering me ever since she said it. Normally you’d say, ‘he’s in God’s hands’ or something like that. I wonder if she’s in some weirdo religion and this is some sort of ritual killing?”

  My overcharged imagination sees a circle of hooded celebrants holding black candles and chanting as a robed priest slaughters Terry like the sacrificial lamb. I must check the crime scene reports for footprints.

  I pull myself back to the body. “What about the cross on his lips?” I ask.

  “That too was post mortem, almost certainly done with the same blade that carved the star. His eyeballs were crushed. It looks like someone pushed his or her thumbs into the sockets. Fortunately also post.”

  “Anything else?” Stammo wants to know.

  “Nothing too unusual. I’ve posted my report on the system, so if you have any questions let me know.” She covers Terry’s body with the sheet, then closes and locks the drawer.

  On a hunch, I ask, “Do you know anything about autism, Doctor?” I wonder if Terry’s death is connected to the fact that he was autistic.

  She’s caught by the change of subject. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Why?”

  “Terry was autistic and his friend Michael is too.”

  Stammo chimes in with, “That poor little kid’s just so weird. What chance…” He shakes his head. There is an unusual gentleness in his voice which, for some reason, makes me ang
ry.

  Dr. Marcus cuts him a sharp look. “Children on the autism spectrum,” she says, “have a great deal of difficulty handling social situations. If you interpret that as weirdness, that’s your problem, not the child’s.” Stammo’s hurt look changes to one of anger.

  She turns to me. “Did you have a question about it, Rocky?”

  “Yes. Terry’s friend Michael kept saying ‘O – B – O – E ssshhhhh!’ over and over again. Does that mean anything to you?”

  She shrugs. “Not the letters, other than that they spell ‘oboe’, but sometimes autistic people get obsessive about something and repeat it continuously.”

  “Michael didn’t seem, I don’t know the word, what we used to call retarded.” I don’t like using the word; it feels cruel somehow.

  “Delayed,” she corrects me. “Many autistic children are delayed but there are some who are geniuses or are highly skilled in a very narrow field, like engineering or computer science. Remember the movie Rain Man?”

  I nod. “Terry was like that. He was an amazing artist. I saw some artwork in his bedroom. It was way more sophisticated than an average ten year old’s.”

  I’m surprised that Dr. Marcus knows so much about autism, it seems out of scope for a pathologist.

  Stammo has turned away. “We’d better get going,” he says without turning to face us. There is a catch in his voice. This case has got to him too. I shouldn’t be surprised… but I am.

  “Hang on Nick.” While I’m here I might was well get an update on my other case. But Stammo doesn’t hang on. He heads out, letting the doors slam behind him.

  Dr. Marcus sighs. “Everyone reacts differently to the death of a child,” she says.

  Glad to be able to change the subject, I ask, “Are you also doing the autopsy on Mrs. Varga, the hit and run?”

  “Yes. That’s her on the table.” She walks back to the autopsy table and goes through the ritual of changing rubber gloves. “Pretty straightforward. Her neck was broken when she was hit by the vehicle. Death was pretty much instantaneous.”

  “Anything unusual?” I ask. I want there to be something unusual. I want there to be something to puzzle over, to become engrossed with. Something that I can turn to when I want to distract my mind from Terry.

  “Not yet but I’m only about half way through. If anything odd shows up, I’ll call you.”

  We say our goodbyes and I head out. I am not looking forward to the drive to the Bentall Centre. I just know that Stammo is going to be exploring his killed-by-witchcraft theory, making us companions that do converse and waste the time together.

  Thank heavens it’s a short drive. I want to get this next interview over quickly.

  8

  Cal

  Stammo’s hard shell is back in place and he is pissing me off again. Yesterday he assigned me the hit and run killing of Mrs. Marion Varga and told me that it was my case to handle as I wanted. “I think you’re ready Rogan,” he said. Smug bastard. The fact of the matter is that he probably didn’t want to drive all the way out to Langley to interview Philip and Florrie Franks. But now that I have discovered that it was almost certainly murder, he wants in on the action. “You should handle the interview,” he says, “but I just need to be there to supervise.”

  As if that wasn’t enough, I feel out of place in these plush surroundings and I don’t like the feeling. For some reason I have always been intimidated both by banks and by high powered executive types and here we are at the offices of Toronto National Bank, about to interview the Senior Regional Vice President of Private Banking. My only consolation is that Stammo, his wrinkled suit hanging on his skinny frame and stinking of cigarette smoke, looks very much my junior in rank, if not in age, and is completely out of place.

  A secretary, as plush and as lush as the surroundings, leads us into the office of Harold Varga. Mr. Varga is in a suit that would cost a month of my detective’s salary and I wonder what his annual bonus might be as a senior VP at one of Canada’s largest banks. We show him our IDs, offer condolences at the loss of his wife and he leads us graciously to a corner grouping of leather furniture I would love to have in my apartment.

  On the drive here, while Stammo expounded what I must admit is a pretty convincing theory that Terry Wright’s killing was connected to the black arts, I planned out my interview with Mr. Varga. In Vancouver, most murders are drug related—of which I have seen more than my fair share, both as a cop and as a junkie living on the streets—or spousal. So when a woman not involved in drugs, is murdered the first suspect is the husband. I need to come at this obliquely.

  “I appreciate your visit, detectives,” Varga is saying, “my good friend Superintendent Cathcart said that he would put his best men on my wife’s hit and run.”

  The combination of name dropping and the implied flattery of us as Major Crime Squad’s best men makes me suspicious of this man. We will see how he answers my first question.

  “Well I’m sorry to tell you, sir,” Stammo is in there before I can open my mouth, “but I think we should be honest here, we have discovered that your wife’s death was probably murder.”

  It is all I can do not to shout at him. Within three minutes of telling me I should handle the interview, he has butted in and completely blown the line of questioning I have prepared, probably in an attempt to ingratiate himself with a friend of the most senior detective in the VPD. He has compounded the sin by revealing what we know so early in the interview. It is a fundamental tactical error.

  With a supreme effort, I avoid turning toward Stammo and maintain my focus on Harold Varga. There is an initial flicker in his eyes that gives way to a puzzled frown. “Murder?” he echoes, the disbelief strong in his voice.

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” Stammo says. “I think—”

  I need to get this interview back on track. “Can you tell me sir, exactly what happened last night?” I interrupt. “Where was your wife going?”

  “She was walking to her church.” He is talking like a man in a daze, as one might expect. “On Monday evenings at seven o’clock they have a committee meeting that she attends. She is very involved in the church.” he says. “Or was.” Genuine grief is evident on his face and I feel sorry for the guy. A wife’s death is bad enough, but murder…

  “The incident was at 49th and Granville. Was it the church on the corner there?”

  “No, her church was on Oak. She enjoyed the little walk.” The sadness is evident in his voice. I never imagined that I would feel sorry for a rich banker… but I do.

  “May I ask the name of the church please sir?”

  There is an instant change in his demeanor.

  “I have no idea. I don’t share my wife’s uh… religious interests.” He says this in a snide manner, banishing my feelings of sympathy for him.

  The answer to my next question will likely be shaded by the knowledge that his wife’s death was murder. He must know that he is de facto a suspect. It may make him harder to read.

  “Where were you at the time of your wife’s death sir?”

  “I was on my way home from work.” He shows none of the signs of dissembling. “I arrived at about six forty-five, microwaved some frozen lasagna, ate and was watching CNN when the uniformed officers arrived to tell me of my wife’s death at around eight-thirty.”

  “Is there anyone who can corroborate that?”

  He cuts me a look. The frustration in me bubbles up; this would have been so much easier if Stammo hadn’t told him it was murder.

  “No.”

  “No phone calls?”

  “Uh… No.”

  Why the hesitation?

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Quite sure.”

  I need to do a bit of bridge building. “I’m truly sorry to have to ask you these questions but I’m sure you realize it is just routine. We are obliged to ask.”

  He nods and gives a wan smile of understanding. It is not the look of a man who killed his wife.

  �
�Did your wife have any enemies?”

  “Of course not. She was just a housewife.” Now he’s switched to a pompous ass again. It’s like the good guy and the insufferable one are jockeying for position. He stands up and walks to the window, looking north toward the mountains. His hands are clasped behind his back and he is rotating the wedding ring with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand.

  I sense that he will soon be asking us to leave.

  “How about you sir? Do you have any enemies. Someone who might want to hurt you by killing your wife?”

  He shrugs, his back still toward us. I can’t see his face as he says, “These days there are a lot of people who don’t like bankers, but I can’t imagine…” He sighs. His shoulders sag and he looks somehow diminished. Not at all the imposing executive whom a scant fifteen minutes ago I felt intimidated to meet. I wonder where that feeling of intimidation came from in the first place.

  “Would it be possible to come over to your house and look through your wife’s papers and computer records please sir?”

  He turns and fixes his eyes on mine. “I’ll need to discuss that with my lawyer first. Now detectives, unless there is something specific that you want to ask me, there are things that I need to do.”

  “One last thing sir; do you have a recent photograph of your wife?”

  He strides over to his desk and removes an eight by ten black and white photo from a gilt frame. He holds it in his hands staring at it for a moment. He touches the image of his wife’s face and gives the slightest of smiles, his thoughts unreadable, then hands it to me. It seems familiar. Not the people but the pose; it is unusual and quite different from the standard husband and wife shot. I turn it over and stamped on the back is ‘Samantha Cullen Studios’. As I thought, my ex-wife took this picture; it is her style for sure.

  We rise and I decide to suppress the one other question I really want to ask.