She described the strange circular wounds.
"Pretty brutal," he said. "Sounds like a rage killing."
"He was also drugged."
"With what?"
"Rohypnol. He was given an injection to immobilize him." Her mouth thinned. "Copeland says there are no signs of rape. Later, someone pounded on his head with an unidentifiable weapon and set him on fire."
She told him about the uneven burn pattern on the body and Copeland's theory that Winkler had been placed into a restrictive space before an accelerant was poured on him.
"He was dumped in the Ottawa River," she said.
They were silent for a moment.
"A trunk of a car is quite restrictive," Ben suggested.
She shook her head. "Smaller. He was practically in a fetal position. Maybe a box of some kind."
The blond from the information desk strolled past, giving Ben a coy look that said, "Call me! Day or night."
"You going to call her?" Jasi asked when the woman disappeared into an office.
Ben shook his head and glanced at his gloved hands.
She let out an irritated huff. "You can't let those get in the way—"
"You know what can happen, Jasi."
"That doesn't mean you have to live like a monk."
"Monks aside," he retorted, "let's stop discussing my personal life and focus on what we're going to report to Matthew."
"I think he wasted his time sending us." She looked up at him. "Or at least me."
"Matthew knows what he's doing. He sent us here for a reason."
"Because the government takes care of their own."
"It's been almost a week since they found Winkler. The Ottawa Police Service conducted the preliminary investigation before it was handed over to the RCMP. They've interviewed anyone who came into contact with Winkler before he went missing. Every alibi checked out. Everyone is stumped. That's why we were called in." He smiled. "Besides, Matthew thinks you're ready to lead your own team. This is good prep for you."
She pursed her lips. "What if I don't want my own team? Did anyone ever think of that?"
"Jasi—"
"No, don't Jasi me," she snapped. "I like working with you, Ben. We're good together. With our skills, we complement each other. We make a great team. I don't get why Matthew doesn't see that."
"He knows what's best."
Frustrated, she changed the subject. "Did Winkler have any personal belongings?"
"Nothing in his pockets, no wallet, no identification. Whoever did this even removed his wedding band."
"Didn't want an ID made."
She steered him down the hall, making for the doors to fresh air and life. Morgues always gave her a chill. Death lingered in the air, in every corner.
Around 9:30, they crossed the gloomy parking lot. One streetlight at the far end provided the only light. She noted that two others weren't working.
"Remind me to mention something to Copeland about the poor lighting out here," she said.
They located the rental, a black SUV with dark tinted windows, the CFBI's definition of inconspicuous transportation. Ben unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel, and Jasi climbed into the passenger seat.
"We'll have a full pathology report from Dr. Copeland by tomorrow," she said. "For now, we know that someone drugged Winkler, beat him, doused him in an accelerant, set his body on fire and threw him into the river."
Ben frowned. "Kind of overkill, don't you think?"
"That's exactly what I was thinking."
"Intense rage and overkill. What does that tell you?"
"It tells me that someone wanted Monty Winkler deader than dead." She looked Ben in the eye. "And Winkler knew his assailant."
"So the question is…who?"
She gave him a scornful look. "Are you kidding? He's a politician. Probably had people lining up at his door, just waiting for an opportunity."
"Yeah, I think you're right about that." He fastened his seatbelt, started the car and inched it out into the busy traffic. "Well, since you're in training for team leader, why don't you tell me what we should do next?"
Ben was testing her again. He'd been doing that a lot the last two weeks. On his say-so, she'd be ready to lead her own team. Something she'd been waiting for. She'd been going through all the manuals, studying past cases, listening to and watching recorded testimonies for weeks. She was more than ready to lead her own team.
"We should start with his last known whereabouts and last contacts. Next, we should interview witnesses, make a list of known enemies, find out if any death threats had been issued and look into his political—" She broke off. "Hey, wasn't Winkler the swing-vote in the small arms rights bill a few months ago?"
"Winkler pushed it through before anyone could blink."
"And a lot of people were pissed."
Monty Winkler was responsible for the new law that now gave Canadians the freedom to carry handguns. As long as they carried permits, of course. The gun law had created a surge of dissention across Canada. Some thought it was a long time coming, considering the US had implemented a similar law decades ago. Others thought it would lead to higher crime rates.
For weeks afterward, thousands of people gathered on Parliament grounds across Canada, some in support and some in protest. The pro-gun crowd wanted fewer restrictions on licensing, while the anti-gun crowd protested Canadians carrying weapons at all. Ironically, three people were injured two months ago outside Ottawa's Parliament Hill. They'd been shot by an enraged pro-gun advocate, while the anti-gun crowd carried around massive signs showing dead teenagers in a high school cafeteria and a blood-soaked Toronto alley sealed off with crime tape.
One particularly gruesome sign was a screen capture of Brett Laughlin slumped on his bed, brain matter pooling on the blanket beneath him. After being taunted mercilessly by a group of cyber-bullies, the shy, overweight sixteen-year-old had logged into an online video chat room, then sat down on the bed with his stepfather's newly purchased Walther PPX semi-automatic pistol hidden behind his back.
"Today is my last day of suffering. And I'm glad."
Brett spoke about his persecutors, about the beatings in the boys' change room, about the time he'd been forced to lick one boy's feet clean. Sobbing uncontrollably, he told the world how difficult it was to not fit in.
"It's not easy being the most unpopular kid in school. I'm afraid every day of what they'll do to me. But no more. I can't do this anymore."
He described how he'd suffered at the hands of his stepfather, who beat him for being weak and not fighting back.
"I just wanted to be liked. I didn't care if I was super popular, but maybe just some respect. Instead I was treated worse than an animal, and no one gave a shit. Not my mother, and especially not that asshole she married." He swiped at the tears on his face. "So why should I care? I'll never be popular. I'll never even be liked."
With millions of horrified people—mostly unsuspecting teens—watching live, Brett Laughlin put the gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening.
In a matter of seconds, his grisly death had become the most popular cyber-suicide video to hit VidWurld, with over thirty million world-wide views before the Laughlin family got a court order to shut it down.
It was ironic. Brett had gotten his wish to become popular. But what a price he paid for it.
Jasi still couldn't get the kid's face out of her mind. He reminded her of her brother Brady—young, impetuous, troubled and filled with resentment. The perfect recipe for disaster.
Pro-gun supporters didn't seem to care what guns were doing to the youth on the street, and no one bothered to look at what gun rights had done to the USA. The United States of Arms, as some called it.
She sighed. "No one outside of law enforcement would be carrying if it weren't for Winkler and that other MP. What was his name?"
"Ravinder Sharma," Ben replied. "They sure surprised everyone with their votes."
"Wonder what made them change their minds."
"Who knows? Some people believe they have a God-given right to protect themselves at all costs."
"Well, they're half-right," she said dryly. "They just don't realize they increase the chance of violence by simply having a gun in their possession. The people shot at the Ottawa protest have proven that."
Ben nodded. "Nothing worse than an angry mob."
Jasi thought of the corpse lying in the morgue.
"I don't think Monty Winkler would agree."
3
The Embassy Hotel & Suites, a regal hotel located on Cartier Street, was cradled in the heart of Ottawa. It had served military and government officials for decades, and the security was impeccable. Security guards and cameras made it virtually impossible for someone to walk into the hotel, carry out any nefarious plan and then get away without being detected.
The sun had gone down by the time Jasi and Ben checked in. They took the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor. Their rooms were side-by-side, with windows facing Parliament Hill and the Rideau Canal.
When Jasi opened the door to her room, she eyed the two queen-size beds. Recycled airplane air always made her tired and she'd give anything to just crawl into bed and sleep the rest of the day away.
"First things first."
She locked the door behind her and tossed her tote bag and backpack on the bed near the window. Shrugging off her jacket, she hung it on the back of a chair. She removed her shoulder harness and quickly inspected the M9 Beretta holstered in it. The double-action semiautomatic was ancient compared to the newer Glock models most agents were fitted with, but Pop had given it to her when she graduated from CFBI training. She'd cleared it with Matthew under the strict rule that she'd have it inspected by a weapons tech every three months.
She slipped the gun into the holster and draped the harness over her jacket. "Time to check out the view."
Crossing to the window, she pulled the cord and the gold satin drapes parted, revealing a sensational night skyline and the Ottawa River. City lights glinted off the Rideau Canal, the 125 mile long waterway that was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site back in 2007.
Jasi recalled that in the winter the canal was closed down and turned into the world's largest skating rink, but because global warming had initiated an earlier spring, a warm spell during the first two weeks of April had melted most of the river ice. Ships and personal watercraft now dotted the Ottawa River, which was back to business as usual.
She left the drapes open and moved to the bed where she opened the backpack and took note of the field supplies in various pockets. A full canister of OxyBlast, two flashlights, extra batteries, bottled water, evidence markers and other items. Everything was in order, so she unpacked her tote bag and hung her clothes in the wardrobe.
She was about to toss the tote bag in a corner when she spotted a gourmet truffle on the pillow.
"Dark chocolate. My favorite."
Paying no heed to the inner voice that reminded her she hadn't gone for her run yet, she removed the wrapper and stuffed the decadent candy into her mouth before her conscience could argue. She let it melt, slowly, savoring the treat.
She ate the chocolate from the other bed too.
I'll add ten more minutes to my morning run.
She tossed both wrappers into the wastebasket.
A beeping sound caught her attention. Unclipping her portable data-communicator from her belt, she read a message from Ben. Have a good sleep, Jazz.
"You too," she texted back. "Tomorrow the investigation begins."
She peeled off her jeans and blouse and sniffed them. They smelled of death. From the morgue. She stuffed the clothes into a laundry bag and set it by the door.
In the bathroom, she stripped completely and opened the glass door to the double shower. Inside was a digital panel set up for touch or voice command. Most modern hotels had these showers now. Jasi had one recently installed in her apartment, a luxury most people couldn't afford. She'd learned a long time ago to splurge on the few things that brought her comfort or pleasure.
"Shower on."
The shower obeyed, but the water was cold.
"101 degrees."
She stepped inside and heaved a sigh of relief. As steaming water washed away the morgue blues, she took a deep breath and released it, watching her tense morning swirl down the drain.
She reached for the shampoo bottle. "Damn."
In her haste to catch the flight from Vancouver to Ottawa, she'd forgotten to pack shampoo and conditioner. She picked up the hotel's mystery sample, opened it, gave it a sniff, then shrugged.
"Note to self," she said as she lathered her shoulder-length hair. "Buy shampoo and conditioner in the hotel gift shop."
She wondered how much Monty Winkler had spent on hair care products. Any time she'd seen him on TV, he'd always appeared immaculately groomed, as if he'd just stepped out of a Vidal Sassoon salon.
As she rinsed her hair, she thought about his wife. Marilyn Winkler had supported her husband, followed him everywhere. The woman would be devastated.
At least she doesn't have any kids to break the news to.
She instantly recalled her own father's grief-stricken face the day he had taken her aside and told her that her mother was dead. Her life had changed forever after that. She couldn't recall events from her childhood before that, much less what happened exactly on the day her mother was brutally murdered. There was only one thing she could remember with perfect clarity. The sound of her mother screaming.
That sound still haunted her at night.
On that horrible day so many years ago, eight-year-old Jasmine was the only witness to a home invasion gone wrong. It had happened on Brady's second birthday. Everything she knew was from what her father had told her years later. He had returned from an outing with Brady and found Jasmine on the floor. She was covered in blood, holding her mother's limp hand, singing a lullaby. Her father had placed Brady in his playpen, then pulled Jasmine into his arms and carried her into her bedroom, where he broke down, sobbing.
Jasmine had said nothing. She was in shock, nearly catatonic. Realizing he needed to also tend to Brady, Pop tucked her in bed, kissed her forehead and left the bedroom. Ten minutes later, while uniformed officers and a crime scene unit invaded their home, Pop had sat on her bed, stroking her hair. He tried to explain that her mother was gone, that she'd never be coming back. Ever.
Her mother's death had left a gaping hole in Jasi's heart. Over the years she'd tried to remember, but every time she thought of that horrible day, all she could recall was her mother's scream.
And the blood. There had been so much blood.
In the shower, Jasi blinked away the tears and tipped her head back under the cleansing spray. But all the water in the world couldn't wash away that memory of death.
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Lancelot’s Lady
LANCELOT'S LADY
by Cherish D'Angelo
Chapter 1
Pacing in the expansive marble foyer of Lance Manor, Rhianna McLeod tried to calm her nerves as she waited for her life to change. One man's decision would determine her fate. Would she have a new job and a place to call home? Or would she be sent packing?
A tall, thin man in a dark gray suit approached her.
"Are you Mr. Lance?" she asked, holding her breath.
The man smiled and fine lines crinkled the corners of his warm brown eyes. "I'm Higginson, Mr. Lance's butler. He's resting at the moment. Perhaps you can leave your name."
Rhianna blinked back tears. She couldn't be turned away. The trip to Florida had taken most of her savings and she didn't have enough money to fly back to Maine. Besides, if it weren't for Mr. Lance's letter, she wouldn't even be in this predicament.
"B
ut Mr. Lance is expecting me. I'm Rhianna McLeod, the palliative nurse he contacted. In his letter he said I'd have the job if I came here."
"I'm dreadfully sorry. Mr. Lance already has a nurse."
"But I don't have anywhere else—"
Somewhere in the stately mansion something crashed to the floor. Before Rhianna could comment, a crystal-shattering shriek pierced the air. This was followed by a terrible wailing sound.
The butler groaned. "Oh, no. Not again." He rushed off in the direction of the commotion.
Unsure of what to do, Rhianna took a determined breath and followed him. When they passed beneath a pillared arch and into a long hallway, she saw a reed-thin elderly man dressed only in a threadbare blue plaid bathrobe. It gaped open in the front, threatening to reveal more than just a hairy chest. Beside him, a plump woman in white scrubs was trying her best to calm him down, even though she was dripping wet and very upset.
As they approached the dueling pair, Rhianna tried to remember everything she could about her potential employer. In the past year, the tabloids had been filled with stories of multi-millionaire JT Lance and his fight against an aggressive disease, a cancerous brain tumor that made him an unruly and difficult patient. From what she could see, the rumors were true. Once exuding strength, confidence and perhaps a touch of arrogance, JT now looked frail and helpless.
"JT?" the butler called out.
"Higginson, get this woman a towel. She spilled my water."
"I did not spill it," the nurse snapped. "Mr. Lance refuses to take his meds or draw a blood sample. Now he's having a temper tantrum. He threw that water pitcher at me."
JT's eyes flared. "That's because you keep trying to poison me, you old bat!"
"I am not trying to poison you," the nurse sputtered. "The medication will help—"
"How the hell do you know what will help me? Half the time, you keep me so drugged that I don't even know who I am when I look in the mirror. The other half, you're busy taking my blood for your tests."
Children of the Fog Page 30
