Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

by Jeffrey Round

  “What makes you think the two murders are related?” Dan asked.

  The chief gave a significant look to Constable Pfeiffer, who addressed Dan for the first time.

  “Like the victim you found earlier this week,” the young officer said, “the ex-priest was severely beaten and had his left ear cut off.”

  Dan recalled the change in attitude of the cop on duty at the slaughterhouse. Once the officer learned of the severed ear, Dan was suddenly no longer welcome on the site. Someone had murdered an ex-priest, and now a poet, cutting off their left ears. What did it signify? Perhaps more importantly, what did the two men have in common?

  The chief cut in. “When Sergeant Danes phoned me with his report, I knew immediately what we were dealing with. You may recall that part of the National Sex Offenders Registry was dumped on the Internet last year. Both the ex-priest and Hillary were named on it.”

  Dan recalled reports of the incident, the inconclusive findings as to whether it had been deliberate or not. He held up a finger. “Excuse me. Was it proved to be an accident? The names being dumped on the Internet?”

  The chief nodded in acknowledgement. “We still don’t know how it got there, but the information was deliberately released by person or persons unknown.”

  Dan thought about Darlene Hillary’s pleading question: How did these people even find him? she’d asked. They have their ways, he’d replied, thinking of the registry at the time. It gave cold comfort to know he’d been right.

  The registry was created to compile information, including current addresses, phone numbers, and identifying markings, such as tattoos, that would enable police officers to finger possible suspects in sex-related crimes. Providing up-to-date personal information was mandatory on the part of the offenders. The public was never supposed to have access to the list, however. That the registry had been leaked on the Internet was cause for alarm for any number of reasons, including the possibility that someone might try to harm or kill anybody named in it, as seemed to have been the case here.

  “So you think someone is targeting known sex offenders?”

  The chief nodded. “That’s my best guess at present. The only thing linking the two victims is that their names were on the Sex Offenders Registry and they both had their left ear cut off.” He scrutinized Dan’s face. “Are you fine with everything we’ve told you so far?”

  “Except for one thing. I understood from Hillary’s sister that he had applied to have his name removed from the registry on the grounds that he was not likely to be a repeat offender.”

  A look passed between the chief and Danes, who shrugged.

  “We don’t know anything about that,” the chief said, turning back to Dan.

  “Okay.” Dan nodded. “I still don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

  The chief opened a file and placed it in front of Dan. Clipped to the dossier was the photograph of a young man in jeans and a sweatshirt. His cherubic face and curly dark hair made him look like the junior member of a boy band.

  “This is the chief suspect in the murder of the ex-priest, Guillaume Thierry. He was an altar boy at the church in Montreal where Thierry worked. Eventually, Thierry was convicted of sexual interference with a number of minors, all male. He went to jail for eight years and was released just two months before his murder.” He put a finger on the photograph. “The young man’s name is Gaetan Bélanger. He was a minor until a few days after Thierry was killed.”

  Dan had been listening intently. “Why do you think it was Bélanger instead of one of the other abuse victims?”

  “Speculation, mostly, but he blogged his intentions to harm Thierry and was heard uttering death threats against him when he was released.”

  “He blogged it?” Dan asked, surprised.

  “Yes. He put his intentions online. That doesn’t make the threat more real, but it does constitute a clear motive.”

  “Physical evidence?”

  “Nothing conclusive.”

  “Anything connecting him to Hillary?”

  “Nothing yet. What we know of this kid since his molestation is that he’s lived by thievery. He was caught twice over the past few years, both times before Thierry’s murder. Nothing major, but the second instance earned him a term in juvenile detention. The first time he was caught stealing from a church — not the one where he was molested, but I’m sure there was a connection in his mind.”

  “But why kill Hillary?” Dan asked. “Why not murder another priest?”

  “We’re not sure why, but the missing ear tells us it’s Bélanger. It seems to be his signature. That’s why I’ve put two of my brightest officers on the case.”

  Dan looked over at Mr. and Mrs. Spratt. The missus, he felt sure, would not qualify as bright and probably had been put on the case for other reasons. As for young Mr. Spratt, Dan wasn’t convinced, but his cockiness said he believed himself to be intellectually superior.

  “Did the boy blog about his intentions to kill Darryl Hillary as well?” Dan asked.

  Danes spoke up now. “Not specifically, but he has blogged a number of rants online directed at child molesters in general.”

  “Do you know if he had access to the leaked registry?”

  Danes shook his head. “Nothing conclusive.”

  Dan looked back at the chief. “Presumably anyone on that registry stands to become a potential victim.”

  “That’s what we’re worried about.”

  Pfeiffer spoke up. “All our data indicates that Bélanger is holed up somewhere in Toronto. He may have been here for several months already. In fact, we believe he came to Ontario right after the murder. He probably blends in well. Young Quebeckers are far more likely to be bilingual than English kids.”

  Dan considered this. “Then why not put all your efforts into finding him?”

  Pfeiffer’s expression hardened. “Oh, we’ll find him all right,” he said with the sort of burning zeal Dan distrusted in authority figures. “But we’d prefer to find him before he kills again.”

  Ed spoke up. “That’s why I thought of you, Daniel.”

  “Well, it’s all very intriguing,” Dan said. “But I still don’t understand how I can be of help.”

  The chief smiled tersely. “You are here because of the swiftness and accuracy of your search for Darryl Hillary. We understand you located him in less than three days. That’s impressive.” He looked at Ed. “It was just coincidence that I mentioned your name to Ed yesterday in connection with the case.”

  Ed spoke again. “You’re here, Daniel, because I said you were one of the best missing persons investigators I’ve come across, as well as being the number one person in the country for finding missing juveniles.”

  Dan shook his head. “Still, I’m not a police officer and as far as I know the police force doesn’t hire outside. So, again, I ask why I’m here.”

  The chief looked at Burch then at Dan. “Ed said that you have some very good contacts on the street. I’m told they are contacts the police are not always privy to, for a variety of reasons. We would like access to those sources.”

  Dan sat back. At last it was clear. He shook his head.

  “Even if I gave you the names of the people I use, I doubt any of them would help you. Many of them live on the fringes of society. They want nothing to do with the socio-economic systems of the city, or even of the world, for that matter.” He shrugged. “I know it sounds kooky, but these people have as little to do with our government and political system as possible. Most of them would not willingly have anything to do with the police, if they could help it. You might say that money talks, but I’m sure you realize there are things even money can’t buy. These people can be as fanatical in their devotion to their beliefs as any radical jihadists. And the upshot, if I just handed over my contacts to you, would be that I would lose their trust. Probably forever.”

  “They wouldn’t need to know,” the chief said with a calculating look.

  Dan shook his head.
He stood. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”

  The chief looked grimly at him. “Will you at least think it over?”

  Dan nodded. “I’ll think it over. I’m not unreasonable. I’m just telling you what I’m dealing with.”

  He looked around at the faces watching him. Dan wondered if they resented his refusal. He thought about how audacious it was for them to have asked. He felt bad for Ed, who obviously thought he might have been willing to consider the offer seriously.

  He stood.

  “Gentlemen.”

  “Thank you for your time,” the chief said.

  Dan pushed open the big wooden doors and headed for the men’s room. His early morning coffee was going right through him. He lined up at the nearest urinal. After a moment, he heard the door open. Pfeiffer came and stood next to him. The cop took time with his zipper. Out of the corner of his eye, Dan caught him looking over. If he hadn’t known better he would swear he was being flirted with. After Pfeiffer’s homophobic insults at the morgue, this pseudo-come-on was ludicrous.

  Dan glanced down. Compared with his own endowment, Constable First Class Pfeiffer really was just a boy.

  “You could be doing someone a big favour,” the cop said.

  Dan zipped himself up. “What kind of favour did you have in mind?”

  Pfeiffer seemed unruffled by the innuendo. “A professional favour.” He looked over. “You might be wondering why we would care so much about a bunch of perverts. Truth is, everyone’s entitled to be protected from murder.”

  “Actually,” said Dan, “I don’t doubt that at all. Cops are hired to enforce the law, not to judge people. The man you referred to as a ‘perv’ in the morgue yesterday was actually the boyfriend of the girl he went to jail for. There wasn’t that much difference in age between them.”

  Pfeiffer gave him a reproachful look. “Still, he broke the law.”

  “And he paid a penalty for it well beyond his so-called ‘crime.’ Some might say it was an unjust law in his situation. Personal philosophy aside, I don’t think he deserved to die and so, yes, I would do what I could to help prevent another such death. In any case, the law protects us all equally, or so I’ve been led to believe.”

  Pfeiffer shrugged. “So they say.”

  Dan turned to look at him. “It wasn’t so long ago that the law put guys like me in jail for our so-called sexual persuasion. Anyone caught looking down at another man’s penis while standing at a urinal, even if out of envy and not desire, would definitely have been considered suspect in that regard.”

  Dan stepped over to the sink, rinsed his hands, and left. Pfeiffer was still standing at the urinal when the door closed on him.

  Ed caught up with Dan at the elevators. His ex-boss looked sheepish.

  “Sorry to get you down here for the wrong reasons,” Ed said.

  “I can’t do it, Ed. As much as I’d like to help out, it won’t work. My sources don’t trust cops.”

  “I told them that. They insisted we get you in here anyway.”

  “So why don’t they listen?”

  “Because they’re hoping I will change your mind. The truth is, your sources don’t need to know that a particular request to find someone comes from the police.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “So, if I were to hire you to help me find someone, you could conceivably invoke the aid of your best sources with no one being the wiser.”

  Dan shrugged. “If I wanted to, that is.”

  “And because I respect you, I would not engage your services without full disclosure.”

  Dan looked at Ed. “I know that, Ed.”

  Ed smiled his comforting smile. “So please don’t be offended if I come to you in future with a request and you happen not to like where it comes from. I hope you will at least consider it before you turn me down.”

  Dan gave him a rueful nod. “You know I’d take any request from you seriously.”

  Ed held out an envelope. “Then please take this one seriously.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the kid’s photograph. If you come across anyone … if you hear anything.”

  Dan hesitated. He thought of Darlene Hillary’s request then nodded and took the envelope. “All right. I can do that much for you.”

  “Appreciated, Daniel.”

  At that moment, the elevator dinged. The doors whooshed open and a tall figure in black strode past them.

  Dan looked after the man’s back as he disappeared down the hall.

  “Wasn’t that…?”

  Ed looked over in surprise. “Someone you know?”

  “Sort of. Someone famous, at least,” Dan said. “I think that was Jags Rohmer. Big rock star from the eighties. Kind of faded now. Still, it’s not everyday you see a celebrity in real life.”

  “I saw Woody Harrelson in a restaurant once. He was quite ordinary looking. You expect them to be bigger than life or lit up in neon or something, but nope — it was just Woody, bald as a billiard ball.”

  “What could Jags Rohmer be doing here?” Dan wondered.

  Ed shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Probably better in this case, since I don’t know who he is.”

  They shook hands.

  Dan got in the elevator and pushed the button for the ground floor. The doors closed. He wondered if Jags Rohmer would be made to sit on a bench in the hallway before being summoned to a meeting by some junior official with a clipboard.

  Eight

  Moles

  Dan watched as the curly red-headed figure on the ledge lit a joint. He held the smoke in for five, ten, fifteen seconds before exhaling slowly. One foot on the radiator, shoulder against the wall, body in full recline mode. At five-eight, and easily two hundred and forty pounds, he could move like a ninja when he wanted to. Right now he was stationary.

  He held out the roach to Dan, who shook his head.

  “Look, dude. Don’t even come here if you’re thinking of chatting with the cops.”

  He glanced at a window high above where a finger of light pointed into his underground cavern from the Other World.

  “How do I know you weren’t followed?” The head tilted skyward. “They could be up there right now planning to raid my place.”

  He stood and headed to a console hosting a dozen miniature display screens, tapped in a few quick commands and scrutinized a monitor in the lower right-hand corner. Satisfied with what he saw, he swivelled in his seat and faced Dan.

  “All good. Nothing moving out there. You weren’t followed.”

  “You know me, Germ. I’m cool.”

  Dan was never sure if Germ was just paranoid or if he ran a sideline business that required him to keep watch on whoever or whatever approached his private underground preserve. Better safe than sorry, in either case.

  Dan shook his head. “Besides, I never told them I was coming here to see you. As far as they know, I could be visiting my grandmother right now.”

  Germ gave him an ironic look. “Yeah, right. Your grandmother who lives in a derelict underground garage.”

  Dan smiled. “She probably did once. She was a very cool old lady in her day. Anyway, it’s not like I mentioned your name or anything. They just wanted to know if I could put them in touch with my sources.”

  “And you said?” Another quick intake of spliff. No coughing. The guy was hardcore.

  “I told them not a chance. I said that if I named you I’d lose you and that you were worth far too much to me to risk losing.”

  “Good man,” Germ squeaked out.

  Smoke dribbled from the edges of his mouth, hypnotic and swirling. The milky-blue strands gave a decorative embellishment to the graffiti covering the walls. Every inch of floor, walls and ceiling, even the pipes, was covered in a fabulous concoction of colours and shapes and grimacing creatures. It was life as a permanent acid trip, depicted with all the fervour of a manic cartoonist or an obsessive tattoo artist. Van Gogh or Toulouse Lautrec as street artists,
David Wojnarowicz at his transgressive heights, Keith Haring at his most radiant, and Jean-Michel Basquiat at his most manic-hallucinogenic. It was the sort of artwork found in unexpected places — subway lines, construction fences, the underside of bridges — like an alternate meaning superimposed on top of everyday reality. As though you could read into things only if you knew the secret code that allowed you to penetrate the city’s inner core. And people say the underground is dead, Dan thought.

  “Nice work, by the way. Yours?” he asked

  “Nope. This is Velvet Blue’s stuff. Cool, isn’t it?”

  Velvet Blue was the Japanese girlfriend of the man smoking pot. A female ninja in her own right, she was a whirlwind with the litheness of a pygmy gymnast. The pair was famous for their artwork-cum-industrial sabotage, collages of graffiti and photographs installed over commercial advertising campaigns, signed R.Y.M. Reclaim Your Mind. Art with a social message. The signature was Internet code for the curious to inquire who was behind the toothpaste ad featuring earthworms wriggling from the tube, the mad lyricism of Baudelaire superimposed over sunscreen bottles, or the skull-and-crossbones laid across Tylenol capsules. Germ and Velvet Blue were among the last few practitioners of civil disobedience in public spaces. They were adept at it. “That’s highly valuable mindspace being exploited by these corporations with little or no public benefit,” Germ told Dan the first time they met. “Also valuable in a financial sense, of course. They don’t take well to having their little campaigns fucked with,” he said jubilantly. Germ and Velvet Blue were also among the most knowledgeable people in the city in terms of what was happening on the ground level, dishing dirt with the hoi polloi.

  Having accomplished what he’d set out to do in alerting people that their minds were under attack, Germ changed strategies and took up another target. His latest fascination was for abandoned buildings —

  the detritus of modern living — and thus Dan’s great respect for his arcane knowledge. If you wanted to find someone living off the grid — the ones who didn’t show up on CCTV feeds all over the city, the people who never ventured into banks and shopping malls and subways or entered their PINs in ATMs —