Indiana Pulcinella

by Garry Ryan

  Simpson asked, “Mom and baby okay?”

  “He’s in NICU. Something called meconium aspiration syndrome. They have him on antibiotics. The nurses say he’ll be fine.”

  Chief Simpson frowned. “Does this make you a great-uncle?”

  Lane shrugged. “Just happy.”

  Simpson looked at Nigel. “You two can say no.”

  Nigel looked at Lane, who said, “It’s our job.”

  The Chief handed Lane an address. Lane glanced at the paper and said, “It’s about two blocks from where I grew up.”

  Nigel drove the unmarked grey Chev up the hill, guiding them away from the river valley along Crowchild Trail. The pavement was cleared of snow but not of black ice. He asked, “Is your house big enough for a baby?”

  Lane watched a panel van slip and grip in the right lane. “Christine, Daniel, and the baby will have the bottom level, we all share the kitchen, and Matt moved upstairs. I imagine it will be kind of crazy until we all adjust.”

  “How do Dan’s parents fit into the picture?”

  “That’s a good question. Christine and Dan’s mother have this tempestuous relationship.”

  Nigel eased into the right lane. “Tempestuous?”

  How come so many questions? “Lola’s a successful business woman who likes control. Christine doesn’t like to be controlled.”

  “Oh.” Nigel nodded, easing onto a ramp, then a side street.

  Seven minutes later, they arrived in front of a stylish yet understated two-storey home renovated to accommodate the established neighbourhood’s architecture. Nigel parked behind the Forensic Crime Scene Unit. They looked at the house and its coat of snow. A freshly shovelled twenty-foot front driveway led to a two-car garage set beneath the right side of the house. Lane saw it was the smallest in a neighbourhood of three- and four-car garages.

  Lane stepped out of the Chev, looking around. The limbs of mature evergreens sagged under the weight of snow. Here and there, smoke plumes rose from chimneys. Beneath the chimneys stood four- and five-thousand-square-foot homes, custom-built or extensively renovated. Some were stuccoed, some had brick faces, and one was made of sandstone. A few driveways and curbs were dotted with older Mercedes and BMWs. Not many domestic cars in sight in this part of the city.

  A garage door opened, a starter whined, and an engine coughed and caught. Lane watched a silver Mercedes SUV backing out of a garage. Its tires crunched over the snow. The woman behind the wheel looked to be thirty-something. She spotted Lane and looked away.

  He walked toward the vehicle when she stopped in the street, shifting into drive. She was facing him. He could see that she was blonde, her eyes were blue, and her left hand gripped the top of the steering wheel. A substantial engagement ring glittered next to a diamond-encrusted wedding band flashing in the sunlight. Lane glanced to his right. The sun sat just above the rooftop of the victims’ home.

  Lane reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID, holding it up.

  The woman slouched into her seat, her shoulders fell, and she mouthed a curse.

  Lane walked up to the driver’s door of the silver Mercedes. He stood on the other side of the glass, waiting a full thirty seconds before an electric motor whirred and the window rolled halfway down. The subtle scent of perfume mixed with leather. Lane saw skin tightly stretched over cheekbones and sunken eyes. I was off by thirty years. She’s at least sixty-five.

  “I’m late for a hair appointment,” the woman said.

  “How well do you know the Randalls?” Lane asked.

  “I did know them.” The woman nodded in the direction of the house.

  Word games. I’m tired of this already. “Name?” He waited before he said, “Please.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?” The woman sat up straighter, attempting to look down on the detective.

  Lane shrugged. Calling a lawyer will make you even later for your appointment. Stop wasting my time by establishing a pecking order.

  “Megan Newsome.”

  Lane got the distinct impression she thought the name should ring a bell with him, and it did. The Newsomes were regulars at his father’s church. I saw your face at my father’s funeral. He decided to wait for an answer to his initial question about the Randalls.

  Megan sighed. “I didn’t know them well. We travelled in different social circles. Met them at a charity event once and at the theatre last summer.”

  “Did you see anything unusual last night?”

  Megan shook her head. “Not a thing. Are we finished?”

  “For now.” He stepped back, turned, and walked toward Nigel, who was tapping the face of his phone. “Get the plate?”

  Nigel nodded. “Why? Did she lie to you?”

  “I think so.” Lane walked up the sidewalk and then the steps. Reaching the front door, he turning the knob and stepped inside. His nose was assaulted with the stench of blood, piss, bleach, and shit. Nigel closed the door behind them.

  As he looked around the room, Lane spotted Dr. Colin Weaver, or Fibre, as Lane referred to him, head of the Forensic Crime Scene Unit. The doctor had the face and physique of a Michelangelo male on a Sistine ceiling, and the social skills of a shag carpet. Let’s hear what Fibre has to say. Lane was one of the few who knew Fibre was the father of triplets. They lived with him and the extremely fertile PhD who’d seduced him and co-parented in the other half of Weaver’s duplex. And he’s amazing with his kids. Lane recalled seeing Fibre animated and smiling in the company of a trio of toddlers in the mall.

  Weaver looked over his shoulder. He stood at the entrance to the living room. Lane noted the nine-foot ceiling was spattered with blood and brain matter.

  “Hello, Detective,” Weaver said.

  “Can we take a look?” Lane asked.

  Weaver nodded as he pulled back the hood on his white bunny suit. His blond hair stuck to his scalp. “Take a look if you like. Be careful, we’re still working the scene.” He used his right hand to wave them closer.

  Lane and Nigel stepped under the curved opening in the wall. The corpses sat facing each other. Robert Randall was dressed in a black tuxedo. Elizabeth Randall wore a leather coat, a white blouse, and red pants. The back of Robert’s head was visible, his chin on his chest. The exit wound was a pulpy mess of blood, bone, and tissue.

  “It appears Mrs. Randall was shot in the mouth after witnessing the execution of her husband,” Fibre said.

  A chocolate-coloured Labrador retriever was crucified on a wall of birdseye maple, its sightless eyes staring at its masters.

  It’s all staged. The crucifixion of the family pet. The pair killed facing each other. The blood spatter on the ceiling. Whoever did this wants us to think it’s art. Lane looked at the floor, seeing three round indentations in the carpet. And the killer recorded it.

  Lane heard rapid breathing beside him and turned. Nigel’s eyes were wide, staring at the scene.

  His eyes aren’t focused. Lane knew Nigel was reliving the horror of another scene.

  Nigel’s hands began to shake. He looked at them as if they belonged to someone else.

  Lane looked back at Weaver. “Thank you. We’ve seen enough.”

  Lane grabbed Nigel at the elbow, got him turned around, opened the front door, and guided him down the front steps. He watched the cloud of frosty air puffing out of Nigel’s open mouth. He’s hyperventilating.

  They made it to the Chev.

  Lane opened the passenger door, got Nigel to climb inside, closed his door, and walked around the front of the car. He got in behind the wheel, closing his own door, and started the engine. T
hen he pulled the glove off of Nigel’s left hand and handed it to him. “Breathe into your glove.”

  Nigel nodded, wide-eyed, placing the glove over his mouth. He exhaled. The fingers of the glove filled with air, imitating an open hand. Nigel inhaled. The fingers formed a fist.

  Lane waited, watching Nigel’s eyes as they began to focus. Nigel blinked, continuing to breathe into the glove.

  What do I say to him?

  Nigel closed his eyes and his chin dropped.

  “You worked with Netsky?”

  Nigel nodded.

  “What was that like?”

  Nigel took the glove away from his mouth. “He talked. I was supposed to listen.”

  “Then?”

  “Netsky didn’t like it when I asked questions.”

  Lane waited.

  “He figured out I was smarter than he was. It pissed him off.” Nigel put his hands over the dash where hot air was blasting onto the windshield. “Of course I didn’t help the situation much. You know me. I understand that telling an unpleasant truth will piss people off, and I should keep my mouth shut. Then I say it anyway.” He turned to smile at Lane.

  “I need to ask this because we’re partners.”

  “You want to know what happened in there?” Nigel asked.

  Lane nodded.

  “My father staged my mother’s body. He had her sitting in a chair. Her eyes were wide open. Her head rested on her chin. The room had been cleaned with bleach. Some of the furniture had been turned over. He left the front door unlocked and said my mother must have done that. He made it appear as if an intruder had killed her. Then he went to work as if nothing had happened. Seeing the tableau in there brought it all back. Opening the door. Walking inside. Seeing the body of my mother. The stink of bleach.” Nigel looked out of the window.

  “You want off this case?”

  “Are you fucking kidding? I want to hunt these assholes down!”

  “How do you know it’s more than one?” Lane asked.

  “I assumed it would take two to subdue and record.”

  “Let’s get to work, then. We need to review the files of the initial crime. Fibre will call us as soon as he has his preliminary findings.” Lane shifted into drive, checking for traffic.

  “How come you call him Fibre instead of Weaver or Colin?” Nigel asked.

  “I don’t know where the nickname came from. It’s taken a few years, but I’ve come to understand he’s more complicated than that.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “This is my case!” Fred Netsky stood across from Lane and looked sideways at Nigel. Fred was six four, weighed over two fifty, and was a year or two over forty. His hair was dyed black, styled and gelled to make him look younger.

  Nigel opened his mouth, shutting it when Lane lifted his eyebrows.

  “Hey, Freddy! Got your annuals seeded yet?” Lori wore her broad smile, new blue shoes, a blue pinstriped pantsuit, and glossy clear-coated nails.

  Fred looked down at her. “I was planning on getting started in about a month.”

  “I don’t know what you do to the soil, but those flowers of yours are amazing. Can’t wait to see what you bring in this year.” Lori looked up at Fred with frank admiration.

  “The soil is my little secret.” Fred smiled.

  Lori blinked a couple of times to show off her blue eye shadow. “The detectives got their orders from the Chief. This case is theirs. You want me to get your old files?”

  Fred shook his head. “I’ll get them. I know where they are.” He walked past Lori and down the hall.

  Lori looked over her shoulder before stepping inside Lane’s office. “Watch and learn, boys. If you want to survive around here, watch and learn.”

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 21

  chapter 2

  “I phoned Alexandra. One of us will need to pick her up at the airport,” Arthur said as Lane parked in the Foothills Medical Centre parking lot. “Christine really needs her sister with her.”

  Five minutes later, they stepped onto the elevator. Lane looked at Arthur while waiting for the door to close. Arthur’s thinner face and hair made him appear younger. He smiled as he felt Lane’s eyes on him.

  Daniel’s mother Lola led her husband John into the elevator. The brown-haired woman wore a pantsuit, a tasteful set of white pearls, a full-length cashmere coat, freshly dyed hair, and a frown aimed at Lane and Arthur. She turned her back on them to face the elevator door as it closed. Her husband John — dressed by Lola — was in a suit and peacoat to complement but not compete with his wife’s outfit. He half-smiled at Lane and Arthur, turning his back when his wife took him by the elbow.

  Lane watched the numbers light up above the door. Dan’s so different from his parents. Makes me wonder about genetic diversity. Then he smiled. Look at the family I came from.

  Arthur elbowed Lane in the ribs.

  The door opened to the fifth floor, Lola exited first. Her heels click-clicked on the linoleum. John followed, then Lane and Arthur.

  Arthur hummed. “Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.”

  “You’re forgetting Christine is a force of nature.” Lane watched Lola and John as he pressed the button opening the electric doors to the ward. For a moment Lane was overcome by the desire to protect Christine and her baby. He began to move forward.

  Arthur grabbed his arm. “Christine will ask for our help if she needs it. Let’s just sit in the waiting room for a minute.”

  They sat in the chairs set along the hallway wall. As they got settled, Lane turned to observe the other family members waiting, sitting alongside and across. A grandmother with black hair wore an elaborate gold-and-bronze scarf. She stared at the metal doors. A man wearing a ball cap, a black leather jacket, and cowboy boots stared at his toes. His wife sat next to him reading a magazine.

  “Stop that.” Arthur put his hand on Lane’s thigh.

  Lane looked down to see his right knee bouncing.

  The metal doors hummed open. Lane and Arthur turned when they heard the click-clicking of heels on the linoleum.

  Lola swept through the opening. John ran to catch up.

  “I was just explaining how she should breastfeed the child,” Lola said.

  “I know.” John slowed to a fast walk.

  “After all, I am a mother. I have considerable experience.” Lola spotted Lane and Arthur before looking away.

  Lane thought, Didn’t you hire nannies to look after your daughter and son?

  “She’s a new mother. And her baby is in NICU,” John said.

  Lola stopped, facing her husband. “I hope you’re not justifying her behaviour. She asked us to leave!”

  “Just trying to explain.” John took Lola by the elbow, heading for the elevator.

  Lane and Arthur locked eyes as the sound of Lola’s heels receded down the hallway.

  A few minutes later, the metal doors opened again. Dan walked through and spied Lane and Arthur. “Would you like to meet my son?”

  They followed him down the hallway, then through the NICU doors. They found a red-eyed Christine holding the baby. His hair was thick and black, his eyes were closed, and an IV nestled in a vein in his forehead.

  What is going on? Lane took a closer look at Christine. She wore a white housecoat. Her hair was tied back. Besides being exhausted, she looked defeated.

  Dan said, “He’s on antibiotics to prevent infection.”

  Arthur cupped his hand over the back of the baby’s head. Christine smiled.

  “He’s
beautiful,” Arthur said.

  “We’ll probably be out in a few days,” Dan said.

  He can’t stop talking, Lane thought.

  Christine looked up at Lane. “Do you think I’ll be a good mom?”

  Dan stood up. “My mother was just here.” He held his hands out with the palms up, shrugging.

  “She said a good mother knows how to breastfeed instinctively,” Christine said.

  Lane sat down next to Christine. She passed the baby over.

  Lane felt the warm weight of the newborn, looked at the soft tan of his face.

  “His name is Indiana,” Dan said.

  Arthur said, “You know, I’ve been talking with Loraine and Lisa.” Loraine and Lisa, old friends of Lane and Arthur, had a son named Ben.

  Christine leaned forward, focusing on Arthur.

  Lane touched the delicate skin of Indiana’s cheek.

  Arthur said, “They said it took a day or two for Ben to learn to latch on to the breast. That mother and son had to learn together.”

  “Really?” Christine asked.

  Arthur nodded.

  Lane smiled at the baby.

  Indiana farted.

  Arthur smiled. “See? He’s already learning to communicate.”

  Lane opened the passenger door of their BMW. It smelled of soft leather and new carpet. Arthur sat in the driver’s seat. “If Lola thinks she can treat Christine like that, it won’t only be Christine who’s giving her the boot. Kharra alhika! She struts around in her ‘look at me, notice me’ shoes with her whipped husband trotting along behind. She thinks being aggressive gets her what she wants, and we’ll all roll over like beaten dogs.”

  Lane stepped out into the sharp bite of minus twenty air and closed the door quickly. He could hear Arthur swearing in Arabic over the sound of the heater fan and the engine as he walked behind the car. He crossed the street and walked up the ramp to the Crowfoot LRT station. At least he’s over being depressed. Now he’s ready to take on anyone and everyone. He walked along the bridge over Crowchild Trail. Below him a steady stream of traffic pushed through the heavy arctic air. Exhaust trailed in white plumes.