Stammo checks his watch and takes a different tack. “Mrs. Wright said to us that Terry was in the hands of ‘the Great One’. Does that phrase mean anything to you?”
“Ah,” she smiles, “you probably misheard her. I suspect that what she in fact said was in the hands of the Great Ones, plural. She would have been referring to the Transcended Masters whom we revere as role models for humanity’s highest ideals and who have gone before us to prepare a place for us. Terry is certainly with them now.”
I search my mind but I can’t be certain whether Elizabeth Wright used the plural form. However, this interview is not going well; from the start she has exercised control and Stammo is getting irritated with her. “Terry’s body was mutilated,” he says. “Whoever killed him carved a five pointed star, a pentacle, on his skin. I see that over your front door is a picture covered with pentacles and moons. Is the pentacle a symbol connected to your religion?”
She is not in the least fazed by this question. A smile plays on her lips. “That disk hanging above the front door is a picture done by the child of one of our parishioners. It represents the sky with moons and stars in it. Nothing more, Detective Stammo.”
At one level, I admire her deft handling of Stammo’s clumsy questions but her slickness bothers me. Stammo seems unable to get control of the interview so it is my turn. I know he will be pissed off if I leap in with a question, so I just stand up, turn away and wander over to the pictures on the walls. I head for the closest one that is framed by a pair of the black drapes and, just as I get close to it, I turn and look at the Reverend Harris. For the first time I detect an uneasy expression on her face which she immediately banishes with a smile.
“If you would like, detective, I could show you those pictures at some time and explain their significance,” she says. “Unfortunately, I have to prepare for the service which must start at six, sharp. But if you would like to come back at another time…” She raises her eyebrows, her invitation coquettish.
“It’s OK,” I assure her, “I’ll just take a look at these while you are talking to Detective Stammo.” I turn back toward the strange picture and examine the details.
Behind me, I hear her remonstrate, “I am afraid that’s not possible. I really must prepare. I will have to ask you both to leave now. We are in the phone book. Please call and make an appointment for a more convenient time.”
Her self-assurance of minutes ago has slipped and Stammo takes advantage of it. “Why don’t we stay for the service? You’re free, right Rogan?”
Her tinkling laugh now sounds forced. “Although we welcome new members to our little church, this evening’s service is restricted to established followers of the Masters. It would be forbidden for you to attend.”
We have her off-balance now. “That’s OK,” I say, without turning away from the picture. “Nick, come and take a look at this.”
I hear the creak of the chair as Stammo stands; the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor; and, just before he reaches me, the deep rumbling growl that we heard as we approached the front door.
I turn to see a tableau, stranger than the picture I was examining.
Two paces from me is Stammo, facing me, frozen, eyes like saucers. Morgan Harris is looking at us with the smile returned to her face. Behind her, the black curtains have been drawn back, revealing a door—it must open onto the backyard of the house—which frames a tall man restraining the biggest dog I have ever seen. He looks like a cross between an Irish wolfhound and a pit bull, having the size of the former and the disposition of the latter. He isn’t slavering but the baleful look he is giving me could be a precursor. I have never been frightened by dogs and consequently have never been bothered by one, but I can see some room here to make an exception.
Stammo, however, is rooted to the spot. He and I may have had our issues and although I have little respect for his powers of detection, I know for a fact that he can be fearless and has received many commendations for bravery. But right now he is paralyzed.
There is only one thing to do.
I let go of the tension that has crept into my shoulders and walk calmly past Stammo and the Reverend Harris toward the dog who is still emitting a quiet rumble. “Boy, he’s beautiful,” I say. “OK if I stroke him?”
The man pulls back on the leash wrapped tightly round his left hand but it is an unnecessary action. The dog is making no aggressive movements; he is just focused on my face and the growling has stopped… for the moment. I come to within a pace of him and crouch down so that we are eye to eye. “What’s his name?” I ask, looking up at his handler. With a shock, I realize that the man’s face is familiar; he is someone I know well, but I just cannot place him. It feels like meeting someone out of context, like when you run into a checker from your local supermarket in a cinema line up: you know that you know them but you can’t remember from where.
The man is not pleased. “BL,” he says. It’s a strange name for a dog; I wonder what it stands for.
I open my hand and move the flattened palm toward the dog’s nose. “Good boy, BL. What a handsome boy you are.” He sniffs my hand and his brow ridges soften. I can see a slight twitch in his tail. I smile at him and advance my hand toward his face and rub his cheek then let my hand rub under and behind his ear until his tail is in full swing.
Still fussing him I stand up and say, “We’ll let you get on with the preparations for your service now.” I turn back toward Morgan Harris, who looks relieved. “However, we will be back to talk some more soon.”
I glance over toward Stammo. He has managed to turn round but he has a patina of perspiration on his face and a very pasty look to him. I take a couple of steps up the aisle toward the front door and turn back, just like Lieutenant Columbo used to do in that old TV show. “Before we go, just one more question. What does O – B – O – E mean to you?”
I’d bet dollars to donuts that the mystification on her face is genuine. I look at BL’s minder and his face is a blank. Then out of nowhere, another question leaps into my mind, a question stunning in its total irrelevance to the Terry Wright investigation.
“How long was Mrs. Marguerite Varga a member here?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a reaction from Stammo but my focus is on Morgan Harris. This time her face shows guile, not mystification. I sense she is weighing options. Her right hand reaches up and she tugs gently on her right ear, her forefinger caressing the diamond stud she is wearing.
Then she realizes that she has paused for too long.
She opts for: “I’m sorry detective, but the names of our parishioners are confidential.”
Not to a court order, I think but refrain from saying it lest she take the advice of the Mayor of York: My lords, we were forewarned of your coming, And shut the gates for safety of ourselves.
“Thank you Reverend Harris,” I say and head for the door with Stammo close on my heels.
There are a number of other questions we could have asked but they are all insignificant compared to what I saw on that wall.
11
Sam
Cal, or should I say Rocky, didn’t give me much warning and now that the time is here, a big part of me wants to delay until we meet on Friday. But the better part of me wants to do this away from the public eyes of a restaurant. With Ellie at her BFF’s house for a Valentine’s Day party, I can tell him the news in private. Just the two of us.
I take courage from the medallion in my hand with its inscription, To thine own self be true. My father’s five year chip always gives me the courage to do what’s right and not to give up. Cal may feel a bit hurt but it is better to—
The doorbell curtails my thoughts and increases my heart rate.
I reach for my cane. But, no. I don’t want to feel weak… or look weak. I can detect the roll in my walk but I’ve learned to minimize it… or so I tell myself.
Through the fish-eye lens of the peephole, he is the one who looks distorted, like a flashback to his distorted yea
rs on the streets. I see him reach for the doorbell and I open the door.
“Hey.” We say it simultaneously and laugh.
“Come in.”
He steps into the hallway and slips off his loafers. They are new. Nice.
“Let’s go into the living room.” I take his arm as a means to cover any possibility of a stumble and then immediately regret it. It’s sending the wrong message. I look at him and the tender smile he gives me confirms it.
He takes a seat on the couch and I take the chance to put some space between us and sit in my favorite armchair.
“Where’s Ellsbells?” His new nickname for Ellie. She always pretends that she doesn’t like it.
“She’s at Sarah’s house for a Valentine’s Day party. She’ll be home pretty soon.”
“Oh, good.”
That’s not like him. “So what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?” I can hear the suspicion in my voice. And so can he. For a moment he looks confused.
“It’s a case I’m working on,” he says. “You took some photos of a Marguerite and Harold Varga?”
Relief! “Oh yes. Sure, I remember them well. It was a couple of months ago. They were really good subjects. How did you—” Then it washes over me with a cold caress. “Has something happened to one of them?”
“Mrs. Varga was killed by a pickup truck on Monday night. We’re pretty sure it was murder.”
“Oh, that poor man.” I can see how they looked through the camera lens. It always shows the truth. And their truth was that they really loved each other.
“Whenever a woman is murdered and no drugs are involved, the husband comes under the microscope as the prime suspect. When I interviewed him he—”
“There’s no way,” I tell him.
“No way what?” He is irritated that I cut him off.
“There is no way that Harold Varga was involved in his wife’s murder. He was completely in love with her.”
“I have difficulty imagining that pompous drone in love with anyone other than himself.” His voice had gone up a decibel or two.
Cal’s radar is usually right-on about people. I am amazed that… “Wait a minute. Are we talking about the same man. Harold Varga who’s a VP at Toronto National Bank?”
“Yes.”
“He’s one of the nicest clients I have ever had,” I tell him. “I don’t know where you get that pompous crap but I really liked him. Truth to tell, I didn’t particularly like Marguerite Varga. She was a bit distant, maybe a bit of a snob too. But Harold was a lovely man.”
“Well he sure fooled you,” Cal is at his most patronizing. It’s infuriating. “When Nick and I met him in his office, most of the time he was arrogant and dismissive.”
“First, he did not fool me.” He wilts a little under my stare. “When you look at someone through the lens of a camera, you are focused on them one hundred percent. All extraneous objects disappear from view and you see the subject as they really are. I am telling you that Harold Varga is a nice, warm, personable man who really loves, I mean loved, his wife. That’s the truth of Harold Varga.”
“Well that’s not the man I interviewed today,” he grumps.
“My second point. Maybe what you call pomposity was his reaction to a couple of cops coming into his office and insinuating that he killed his wife.”
“We didn’t—” He stops himself and takes a deep breath. “I wanted to get your opinion of him, and of them as a couple. It’s just that when I got it, it wasn’t the one I was looking for.” He smiles ruefully.
“So that was what you wanted to talk to me about? My opinion of Harold Varga?” I can’t help chuckling.
His face becomes serious for a second and then he gives me his big, goofy Cal smile. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
We are approaching the moment of truth. “Good,” I say. “Because there’s something I want to talk to you about too.”
He looks at me and I see a glimmer in his eye that I think is hope. Then I know what it is that he wants to tell me and it is not what I want to hear. Worse, what I have to tell him is what he definitely does not want to hear. I’ve got to head him off at the pass.
“Ca— Rocky, I need to—”
“Sam, I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you. I want to be with you. You, me and Ellie. A family again.”
Oh, Cal. No. Damn you Cal! Why did you have to say this now? Now, whatever I say, it’s going to hurt you. Unless… But I can’t.
The doorbell springs into life. Someone is beating a tattoo on it.
Ellie!
“Cal, I need some time to process this. Please don’t ask me to respond right away. Let’s talk again at the end of the week.”
I push myself to my feet and struggle over to the front door. I open it and Ellie is there with Sarah and her dad, Adam.
“Hi guys. Come in, come in.”
I’m opting for safety in numbers. What a coward I am.
12
Cal
Wednesday
As I walk into the room, several flat, neutral stares are directed at me. For a moment I freeze and the longer I stand here, the more eyes are turned toward me. I cannot get Stammo’s words out of my mind: Why risk having a junkie back in the department is what they’re saying. People feel they can’t trust you. Is that what I’m seeing in the eyes of my colleagues? Do they want me out and are they all itching to find a reason for the junkie to be let go? Is it just that I’m four minutes late for the meeting or is it the resentment of me being four months back in the department? Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
“Thanks for joining us Rocky.” Steve’s voice gives no overt indication of the sarcasm that I know is there. Since he was promoted to sergeant, he has initiated twice-a-week meetings to discuss the cases that he is responsible for solving. “Sit down. Nick was just updating us on the Varga murder.”
As I pick my way through the room to the one remaining chair, Stammo is saying, “Anyway, it looks like it was a contract hit and the husband is the most likely suspect. However, Rogan turned up what may be an interesting coincidence but we can get to that later.”
“OK. What about Terry Wright?” Steve asks.
Stammo gives a detailed run down of the investigation so far: no useful forensics at the scene and nothing of interest on Terry’s computer. This is a blow. I had been hoping that Terry might have left something that would lead us to his killer. To my irritation, Stammo makes a point of leaving out any reference to Michael Chan’s repeated spelling of the word oboe. However, through the irritation, I have to admit that it causes me to question whether it has any relevance to the case. I am sure that it meant nothing to the Reverend Harris or to the dog minder but something in Mark Wright’s complete lack of reaction to the word has caused an itch in my mind, an itch I have to scratch. Terry’s friend Michael said, ‘O – B – O – E ssshhhh!’ like it was a secret, something that he shouldn’t be talking about. I need to talk to him again but this time without Stammo. He’ll be pissed and so will Steve, if he finds out, but probably not enough to fire me. Probably not. I think the boy might talk to me more openly without my minder hovering in the background.
“So tell ’em, Rogan.” Stammo’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts and back into the room. I zoned out there, I have no idea what he is asking about. I take a sip from a cup of the department’s excellent coffee while I try to collect my thoughts.
Nothing.
“Sorry Nick, what?”
“On the wall.”
I can feel myself flushing and I wonder if Stammo is doing this on purpose. “What wall?” The question comes out too aggressively drawing a couple of sniggers from the assembly.
“Tell ’em what you saw on the wall… at the church. You know the paintings.”
“Oh, right. There were these paintings all around the walls of the church. I looked at one of them. It was definitely strange. It was like a painting done by…” I stop myself from saying the name of Hieronymu
s Bosch. In my sensitized state about how my colleagues feel about me, I don’t want anyone to think that I am talking down to them. Now I feel guilty about that thought; the people in the room are a pretty smart bunch. “…I dunno, a mad artist,” I finish lamely. “It was like an image of hell. There were dogs gnawing the intestines of people and birds pecking out eyes but in the foreground, on an earthy patch of land, was the body of a man. His eyes were empty sockets and there was an X carved over his mouth with lines of blood running down his chin. It was just like what was done to Terry Wright. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, I can tell you.”
The revelation sends a murmur through the room, although Steve shows no surprise so I expect that Stammo has already briefed him without me.
“Eric,” Steve says to one of the other detectives, “what did you find out about similar murders elsewhere?”
“Not a lot really.” Detective Eric Street is a bright young guy recently transferred from Special Investigations. He has a reputation for thoroughness. “There have been—”
He is interrupted by the door opening. Superintendent Cathcart, the senior detective in the Vancouver Police Department, walks into the room. He was very unhappy at being forced by the Deputy Chief to take me back into the department. My paranoid part thinks that he has come here to fire me publicly. I think of Harold Varga making the point that Cathcart is his friend; maybe Varga has pressured him.
He closes the door but stays standing. “Sorry to interrupt. Carry on,” he says.
“Go on Eric,” Steve says.
Eric Street straightens up, clearly keen to make a good impression on his boss’s boss’s boss. “We were discussing the Terry Wright murder sir,” he says. “There have been other murders where pentacles have been scrawled on the walls using the victims’ blood and there have been numerous murders where the victims’ eyes have been mutilated. There were five cases in the western States where pentacles had been drawn on the body, not carved, but in all five cases they caught the guys who did them and they are all either in jail or in hell depending on which State they were in. There was nothing I could find where an X was carved across the mouth.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 40
