Erasing Memory

by Scott Thornley

  MacNeice closed his eyes. He could hear the water falling lazily over rocks that had been there since the ice age; he could hear the call and response of chickadees and cruising crows, and a songbird he didn’t recognize. They sang out along the creek bed and in the birch, maple and oak woods of the hills on either side. He opened his eyes only when he heard the rhythmic thumping of a cyclist riding across the wooden boards at the far end of the bridge.

  A young woman, helmeted and wearing reflective orange sunglasses, beaming from exertion, approached on a sleek red road bike. He pulled in his feet to let her pass and she smiled, nodded and said a breathless “Thanks.” He inhaled deeply as she passed, hoping to catch a sense of her. He knew nothing about perfume but enjoyed breathing in the subtle scent that followed a beautiful woman. There was a faint, almost citrus current in the air; had he been exhaling at that moment, he’d have missed it.

  He looked down at the stream and let his thoughts drift back to Lydia Petrescu. Her death was a crime so lacking in passion that he had already ruled out former lovers and jealous rivals. He supposed her death could be a message to a lover they didn’t yet know about, but if her killing was meant for her father, who would hate that gracious man enough to destroy her?

  His cellphone rang. “Hi, boss. Mr. Petrescu wants to go over for the viewing now. I hear birdsong—where are you?”

  “I’m sitting on a bridge overlooking a creek in the Royal, just south of the train trestle. Do you need me to come with you?”

  “No, sir. I called Mary Richardson, and she’ll be there herself, not that creepy dweeb. She’ll answer his questions and I know she’ll be considerate. He’s also agreed to meet with us again tonight. Said he tried to reach his son but there was no answer.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll leave my cell on.”

  “What you saw at the morgue—do you think he’ll be able to handle it?”

  “No. Well … actually, I never looked at her.”

  “Shall I pick you up at home tonight?”

  “That would be great. Do you know how to get to me?”

  “I’ll find you. And by the way, I love that bridge; it’s my favourite spot in the reserve.”

  “Good luck, Aziz.” He put the cellphone back in his pocket.

  His thoughts took him back to the cottage on the lake, to the beautiful girl and the music, and he found himself humming the opening bars of the Schubert. Why had the killer—it had to be the killer—thrown the record jacket onto the beach?

  He got up and began walking again. As he stepped off the bridge, turning up the gravel trail towards the roadway, he recalled a time, many years before, when he had seen an LP cover slicing through the air, and the ultimate thrill of throwing the vinyl itself.

  The record, Johnny Mathis’s Johnny’s Greatest Hits, had come from David White’s house. Davey hated his mother, so far as anyone could tell, and he particularly hated the music his mother loved. Abducting her Mathis record was in his mind some sort of sweet revenge. On the deserted school grounds he took the cover with the impossibly happy Mathis face, handed MacNeice the LP to hold, and wound himself up like a cartoon pitcher. With a violent whirl he unwound, sending the jacket on a line drive towards the gym exit doors. It flew beautifully for the first twenty yards, but then the drag of the open pocket came into play, and it descended, skipped and skidded harmlessly before coming to a stop just shy of the building.

  In the dim light of that dreary grey place—dreary grey even in the daytime—they could see Johnny smiling up at the night sky, happy as a clam to lie there on the cold concrete of Stinton High. “Okay, Mac, let ’er rip.” Lacking all that built-up hatred, MacNeice nonetheless did his best—and learned something about aerodynamics.

  Caught in the prison-yard lighting of the perimeter poles that washed the fenced-in yard to discourage the kind of hanky-panky they were up to, the shiny black disc climbed swiftly in a sinister arc before banking menacingly towards the school. It shattered against the second-floor brick wall, inches from the window of Room 10A, his and David’s homeroom. “Ho-ly shit, that was great!”

  They took off running, Davey laughing himself silly and threatening to bring his mother’s whole collection out there and let them fly. MacNeice felt nothing but lucky, though seeing the LP exploding like dried tar hit with a hammer—well, that was pretty cool. He’d done stupid things before and he would again—mostly getting caught for them—but he decided he’d forgo any more flying vinyl with Davey.

  Davey had ended up forgoing it too. At the Stone Road slate quarry a week later, on a dare, he took a short run and went head first into the UNSAFE end of the NO TRESPASSING local swimming hole, right where, local lore had it, a tractor lay submerged some ten feet under the slate black water. Davey found the tractor. His head split like a cantaloupe fallen off a truck, and he floated up, all done for this trip.

  TEN

  —

  RICHARDSON WAS WAITING FOR THEM in the upper lobby, wearing a grey suit and without her usual white lab coat. The drive to the morgue had been tense, and Aziz could feel the fear mounting inside her as she introduced Petrescu and Madeleine to the pathologist. Petrescu’s face was frozen. He said nothing but accepted Richardson’s hand with a nod.

  “Before we go on, may I speak to you a moment, Detective Aziz?” Richardson didn’t wait for an answer but walked several feet away.

  “What is it, Doctor?” Aziz said, following her. Petrescu’s back was towards them, but she noticed that Madeleine was watching them closely.

  “As you can imagine, the acid caused considerable damage. We’ve covered her skull, and I don’t recommend he look at it, but to make the identification he’ll need to see her face—which has turned black. We flushed out the brain pan so it won’t erode further, but there was nothing else we could do.”

  “My God.”

  “Yes, though that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. After we finished the autopsy I did a further check of her abdomen. Her blood and many of her organs had been so compromised that the usual tests we run would not have worked. However, her womb remained intact, and when I dissected it I discovered that this young woman was three to three and a half months pregnant.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’ll let that pass, Detective. And I’ll leave it to you to tell her father.”

  “Would she have known?”

  “Most certainly. Let’s not keep them waiting any longer.”

  As the pathologist led the way, Aziz had to wonder whether she was up to the task after all. She took a slow, deep breath and caught up as they entered the hallway to the morgue.

  Outside the swinging metal doors, Richardson turned to Petrescu and said, “Sir, this will be difficult for you, beyond anything you can imagine. Do you have any questions before we go in?”

  “I want only to see my daughter.” He stared at the metal doors in front of him.

  “As you wish.” Richardson reached out and pushed open the door to the viewing room.

  The first thing Aziz noticed was how cold it was inside, a frigid, sterile space with a stainless steel wall of drawers and white ceramic tiles under fluorescent lights.

  Petrescu stood next to the covered gurney with Madeleine, grim and pale, to his left and Aziz to his right. His daughter’s body lay waiting under the crisp white sheet.

  Richardson asked, “Are you ready, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said, a slight shiver in his voice.

  The pathologist pulled the sheet back to reveal Lydia’s face. Petrescu screamed and fell sideways into Aziz, who struggled to support him. The full horror of the girl’s face had taken her breath away, but she concentrated on keeping the man from falling. Madeleine had turned sharply away and stood there with her head in her hands. Petrescu wailed again, the sound echoing off the hard surfaces of the room.

  “Shall we leave, sir?” Aziz said with difficulty.

  Several seconds passed before he was able to answer. “Leave me alone with her, please.” He pull
ed away from Aziz, repeating his request. “I want to be alone with Lydia.”

  Madeleine averted her eyes from the gurney but put her arms around him. “Monsieur Petrescu, I don’t—”

  “Leave me.” He shook himself free of her too.

  Aziz looked over at Richardson, who nodded. The pathologist folded the sheet just below Lydia’s neck and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Petrescu. Though we can step aside, we cannot leave the room.”

  He ignored her, reaching out tentatively towards his daughter’s shoulder.

  Aziz and Madeleine went to stand near the door and Richardson joined them. Madeleine took out several tissues and wiped the tears from her face. Aziz looked again at Lydia. Her face was almost blue-black. She could make out, even from ten feet away, the veins that traced her cheeks and forehead; as dark as her face was, they were darker still, a network of black lines.

  Petrescu supported himself with one hand on the edge of the gurney and rested the other for a moment on his daughter’s shoulder. When he reached for the cloth that covered her skull, Madeleine drew a sharp breath.

  Richardson said, “Do not touch that, sir. I’m sorry, but I cannot let you remove it.”

  He took his hand away quickly and rested it again on her shoulder, patting it gently several times.

  “Sleep, my daughter. Sleep.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. He was crying openly, his anguish so raw that he was shivering. He turned towards them, then back for one last look at his daughter before he stumbled towards the door.

  “Thank you, Dr. Richardson,” Aziz said, as she followed Petrescu and Madeleine out of the room.

  PETRESCU SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT on the way home, staring out the side window as he quietly wept. From the back seat Madeleine leaned forward to rest her hand on his shoulder, but he simply patted it twice, as he had patted his dead daughter, and removed it. No one spoke.

  As they came to a stop outside the house, Aziz said, “If there is anything we can do for you, Mr. Petrescu, please don’t hesitate—”

  “Find who did this.”

  He met her eyes briefly, then got out of the car and walked to the gate. Aziz watched as Madeleine opened it, and then the door to the house. They disappeared inside as if in slow motion, but when the door closed firmly behind them, the finality of it all rang like a gunshot. Aziz took a long, deep breath and eased the Chevy away from the curb.

  ELEVEN

  —

  TURNING ONTO THE SIDE ROAD to Gibbs Marina, Vertesi could see the mechanic working on the underside of a boat hanging in a cradle outside his workshop. He parked in front, crossed the road to the tuck shop and went inside. It sold just what he’d expected it to sell: tackle and bait, fish buckets, life jackets and milk, bread and ice cream.

  Gibbs was behind the counter taking cash for two buckets of worms from a teenager in flip-flops who had put down a twenty-dollar bill. As Gibbs handed back the change by dropping it onto the counter, he gave Vertesi the once-over without meeting his eyes. The kid looked at his change and said, “Ah, sorry, Mr. Gibbs, but I think you owe me another four dollars. I gave you a twenty.”

  “I don’t think so.” Gibbs frowned at the teen and looked in his cash drawer.

  “Yes, he did give you a twenty,” Vertesi said, smiling.

  The teen nodded. He hadn’t picked up the change, as if doing so would somehow complicate the issue further.

  “Okay. Yeah, sorry. So I owe you four bucks.” Gibbs took out two coins and slapped them onto the counter.

  The teen thanked him, picked up the toonies and the buckets and left the shop.

  “Mr. Gibbs, I’m Detective Inspector Michael Vertesi.” He offered his hand but Gibbs leaned back against the cigarette rack with his arms folded and said nothing. “I’m here on an investigation and have a few questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “You rented out a boat, the one that was hauled up from the bottom of the lake.…”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “Well, to begin with, there was a body in that boat. That makes it homicide—and I’m a homicide detective, so it has a lot to do with me. For starters, I need to see your register.”

  “You mean my cash register?”

  “No, I mean the book you keep to record who you rent your boats to, with their names and addresses.”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “No, I don’t. Would you like me to get one, or could I just see the register?”

  “I don’t have one.” Gibbs busied himself with arranging the stack of newspapers on the counter.

  “Then how do you keep track of your rentals for tax purposes?”

  “I know who rents my boats and I pay my taxes.”

  “Fine. Who rented the boat that was pulled up from the lake?”

  “Ruvola. An old customer.”

  “Did he pay with cash?”

  “Credit card.” He picked up a toothpick from the little dispenser on the counter next to the beef jerky and stuck it in his mouth with a sly smile.

  “Can I see the receipt, please?” Vertesi knew that Ruvola wasn’t the name on the credit card slip, and he was working hard to keep his temper.

  “You get yourself a warrant first.”

  “Mr. Gibbs, you are aware that Ruvola’s body was found in your boat and that he was a known drug dealer, aren’t you?”

  “You accusing me of something?” He rolled the toothpick with his tongue to the side of his mouth.

  “You’ll know when I’m accusing you of something serious. Right now all I’m accusing you of is being a jerk.”

  “Get the fuck off my property.” Gibbs stepped to the side of the counter and pointed to the door, his face reddening.

  “I’ll be back, with the paperwork,” Vertesi said. “And even more questions, like what is it that cranks you up? And what on earth are you hiding?”

  Gibbs glared at the young detective before throwing the toothpick on the floor. It was clear that the interview was over. Vertesi smiled and walked out of the shop.

  THE MECHANIC, WHO WAS WEARING a well-worn undershirt, cut-off jeans and unlaced construction boots, didn’t turn around till he heard the screen door slap shut.

  “You heard what happened to our cedar-strip, eh?” he said as Vertesi approached.

  “Yes, I did, and I just wanted to check a couple of things before writing up my report. We met earlier—the name’s Thompson, isn’t it?”

  “Yessir, Dennis Thompson, with a P.”

  “With a P … thanks. Dennis, have you seen it?” The mechanic had turned away from him and was staring at the underside of the boat again.

  “Yessir. Good for shit now.”

  “You mean the hole?”

  “Yeah. It’s done that boat.” He reached up to turn the propeller, its edges menacingly serrated from coming into contact with the shoals.

  “What kind of drill would do a job like that?”

  “Not a drill, chief. No, that was an auger—ya know, like an ice auger.” He watched as Vertesi wrote down auger, then he said, “C’mere, I’ll show you. We got a half-dozen of ’em for when the guys go ice fishing.”

  He led Vertesi to a smaller corrugated steel building the size of a double garage. Swallows swung out from under the eaves as they went inside. As Vertesi’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness, Thompson marched on into the gloom where the sweet smell of oil hung in the air. Outboard motors of various sizes lined the racks on one wall, and on the other were fibreglass canoes and plastic kayaks, all stencilled with GIBBS MARINA, stacked three high. At the end of the shed was another rack; from it Thompson lifted a three-foot drill with a circular bit that looked like a cake tin.

  “This is your basic ice auger, chief. It’ll go through a couple feet of ice in February quicker ’n stink through a pig.”

  “You said you have six of them. I count five.”

  “What? Yeah, we got six.” Thompson turned around, put the one he was holding back in the rack and counted them quietl
y to himself. Scratching the Miami Vice stubble on his chin, he looked around the garage, then back at the rack.

  “Is this open all day?” Vertesi looked back out the open doorway and across the road to the tuck shop.

  “Yessir.” Thompson was still looking around for the missing auger.

  “If you’re in your workshop you can’t see the entrance to this building, am I right?”

  “Well, yeah. But up here we don’t lock the doors till night, eh? It’s not like the city.…”

  “That’s true. But what if the guy who took the auger wasn’t from up here?”

  “I see where you’re going with this, chief. You think it was our auger that did the boat, eh?”

  “Don’t you?” Vertesi glanced over at the mechanic, who was kneeling down at the dark end of garage looking at the augers.

  “Whad’dya say the diameter of the hole was?”

  “I didn’t. Ten inches.” He could hear Thompson mumbling something as he checked out the business ends of the remaining augers.

  “We got three eights and three ten-inchers. The one that’s missing is a ten. I better tell Gibbs. He won’t be too happy—the tens were all new last October. D’ya think you’ll find her?”

  Everything’s female to guys like Thompson—except females, Vertesi thought. Motors: “she’s a bitch to get the head off ’er.” Cars: “she’ll climb trees with that hemi in ’er.” Boats and bikes: “she’ll go like a banshee, that one!” But when it comes to flesh and blood late on a Saturday night, the romance has all been spent on machines.

  “I doubt we’ll find her, unless we dredge the lake.” Vertesi stepped into the sun and sat on a crate between the two buildings to finish his notes. “This must be your favourite spot for a coffee break.”

  “Why d’ya say that?”