Harry’s stomach lurched as Welkom drew back one sheet, exposing the body to the waist. It was Deirdre. Just days ago, she had been young and very pretty. Now there was a huge gash above her left breast and smaller wounds all over her torso and arms. Harry closed his eyes once more and reached out for the edge of the stretcher to steady himself. He felt hot.
“There’s more,” the sergeant said, turning down the sheet to the girl’s knees. In contrast to the violent gashes, a neat incision, performed with surgical precision, ran from her navel to her pubic bone. On each side of this incision was etched a garland of rose petals.
Harry turned away. “Why are you showing me this, sergeant?”
Welkom did not reply. He pulled the sheet up over the body and turned to the other stretcher.
“This one was strangled,” Welkom continued impassively, as he drew down the sheet. She was an Asian woman, and she had the same petal design etched on her cheek. Her fine neck was darkly bruised and crushed. Immense force must have been used. Her head lolled to one side at an odd angle. From the navel downward was the same precise incision, decorated on each side with a profusion of rose petals. Harry fought against the nausea welling up inside him.
The sergeant followed him out. Touching Harry’s shoulder, he said, “You remember Rosalind Michaels? She was strangled and cut in sort of the same way, but it wasn’t as good as the Florist’s earlier work.” Welkom waited while Harry took this information in, then said, “The drawing on these two women is simpler.” Welkom seemed to be struggling for words. “More artistic…in a way. The first four women were cut up like the two women here tonight.”
“So the Florist did a poor drawing on Rosie and then, for these two, returned to his usual style?”
“Well, maybe.”
“Or, sergeant, the Florist did not attack Rosie. As you said before, it could have been a copycat killing.”
Ignoring Harry, Welkom ploughed on. “Do you know or recognize either of those women?”
Harry took a moment to answer. “Yes, one of them. They were the ones on the news tonight, right?”
“Right. Deirdre Jamieson and Linda Lee Hong.” Welkom took out his notebook. “Which one do you know?”
“I don’t really know either of them, sergeant.”
“You just said you did, counselor.”
“I met Deirdre Jamieson on one occasion. She closed out some land deals at the registry office with me.” Harry said.
“The Chin deals?”
Harry nodded.
The sergeant tapped him on the shoulder. “We’re not finished yet, Mr. Jenkins. Got more to show you. Follow me.”
Welkom shut the door and motioned Harry toward a seat. Opening a white enamel cabinet, he took out a plastic package. “Exhibit One, counselor.” The light cast an orange color across the sergeant’s face.
Harry leaned forward in order to see better. From the package, Welkom extracted a small silver knife, covered in blood. “Look familiar, Mr. Jenkins?”
“It looks like a thousand other knives.”
“No, counselor, it’s like the one in your office that was stabbed through the papers. We found this one next to Deirdre Jamieson, all covered with blood. Real messy.”
“As I said, sergeant, it looks like a thousand other knives.” Although it was cool in the office, Harry felt flushed. The two men were silent for some moments.
“Maybe you should tell us what’s going on, Mr. Jenkins,” the sergeant said quietly.
“Going on?” Harry was genuinely alarmed. “I don’t know anything about these murders.” Seized with a growing claustrophobia, he stood up. “And certainly nothing of the previous murders.” Then anger flared in him. “You’re struggling to make ridiculous connections because the police haven’t done their work.”
Welkom did not try to disguise his sneer. Harry sat down again.
“There’s more.” Welkom consulted his notebook. “Chin Fong Hue. That name mean anything to you?”
Harry shook his head.
“The house where these ladies lived is owned by a Chin Fong Hue. Telephone’s in that name too.”
“So?”
“Your client’s name is Chin.”
“For God’s sake, sergeant! The name Chin is as common as Smith.”
Slowly, the sergeant rose from behind the desk and stood behind Harry. He gripped his shoulder and said, “Listen, Mr. Jenkins, I’m going to do you a real favor and tell you how we see it. You’re sitting in the middle of one hell of a mess.”
Harry shook his shoulder free of the officer’s grasp and swiveled around in his chair.
“First, counselor, I find you at the Deighton house. Your client’s dead and you’re telling me that she’s just an old lady who’s died of natural causes.”
“What? Damn it, I was the one demanding the autopsy! But nothing happened.”
Welkom waved dismissively and continued, “Then your office is broken into. A small silver knife is sticking out of a bunch of land offers. Rose petals are strewn around. The offer is from an Albert Chin for properties all around the Deighton house. And who’s the purchaser’s lawyer? None other than you, Jenkins. Next, you’re knocked down the stairs at her house, by a corpse.”
“I’m supposed to be responsible for that? That’s ridiculous,” said Harry. “When are the police going to start doing their job?”
Welkom ignored him. “Then we find the Michaels woman carved up a lot like the first four.”
“So? Everything you’ve said adds up to a random killer.
Welkom barreled on. “Before we know it, Miss Deighton’s will’s been stolen. And now, counselor, we’re looking at two carved-up young women. You just happen to know one of them: Deirdre Jamieson. Met her closing the Chin deals. And what a surprise! The murder weapon’s just like the knife in your desk.”
Welkom stood above him, his arms folded across his chest. “Jesus Christ, Jenkins! It don’t look good. Either you’re up to your ass in all of this, or else you’re too stupid to see that you could be lying on that stretcher next.”
“What am I supposed to say to all of that?” Harry nearly shouted. “I don’t know anything about those women. As far as Albert Chin’s concerned, I doubt I’ll ever see him again. All his land deals are closed.” Harry bit his lip. He had to be careful. Solicitor-client privilege prevented him from speaking of Chin. Welkom was standing over him.
“So now he owns all the property around the Deighton house and the church?”
“A search at the registry office will tell you.”
“You’ve been paid?”
Harry did not answer.
“How much?” Welkom took out his notepad.
“That’s my business, not yours.”
The sergeant smiled sadly. “Listen, Jenkins, it’s no problem for me to get a look at your bank accounts and your trust statements.” He waited.
Harry knew the sergeant was right. “I was paid well enough.”
“How well?”
“About a hundred.”
“Thousand?”
“Right.” Harry sighed. The only way out of this was simply to get up and walk out.
“Isn’t that kind of rich for five or six deals?”
“There was a lot of work.”
“Really? That’s more than fifteen thousand a deal. Glad my lawyer doesn’t charge like that!”
“Listen, sergeant. I don’t have to answer these questions.” Harry’s voice was quiet and even. “I have nothing more to say to you.”
“Okay, okay. But don’t make us do things the hard way.”
Harry nodded and rose to leave.
“Let’s just hope you’re not next.” The sergeant smiled. “Oh, by the way, the autopsy report for Marjorie Deighton came back.”
Harry waited.
Welkom took a sheet from an envelope. “Says here…high levels of barbiturates in the blood. Time of death on the 16th between noon and three.”
Harry nodded curtly. “Glad to see yo
u’ve gotten the job done, officer.” Then he left.
Alone, the sergeant cursed under his breath and opened another envelope. It contained the reports of interviews of people around the Deighton house on the 16th. A silver-gray Mercedes had been parked in the laneway between the house and the church that afternoon. Its license had been traced to none other than Fong Hue Chin.
Welkom stretched back in his chair. So Mr. Chin was at the Deighton place that afternoon. Rose petals were carved on the Michaels woman and the two young paralegals who lived in Chin’s house. Chin must be the Florist. All the pieces were adding up nicely, he thought. He was not troubled by the other murders. Pretty soon he’d have enough to nail the bastard.
Unsteadily, Harry started for his car, overcome with visions of precise carvings on young, unblemished flesh. Fog hung low over the playing field and obscured the other buildings. Street lamps, smudged by the mist, dotted the crescent.
Welkom’s words chilled him. With pain flashing up his side, he hurried, head down, into the deepening fog. He stopped under a street lamp to catch his breath. He could not erase the memory of such malevolent artistry. It was one thing to read about these grisly murders in the press, but to see it was more than he could bear.
He sought to make sense of the quagmire. The rose petal was the killer’s trademark, linking the murders of Rosie, Deirdre, and Linda Lee, and maybe four other women—but, thank God, not Marjorie. Nothing made sense. There might be no connection whatsoever to the Florist murders. Why would the Florist poison Marjorie?
Rosie had interrupted Marjorie’s killer, who then turned on her in a brutal rage. Welkom suspected Chin for two reasons. First, he stupidly thought the murder weapon looked the same as the knife that had been stabbed through Chin’s offers. Anyone could have broken into his office and impaled the offers to his desk—and why would Chin attack his own paperwork?
Chin was also suspect because he was buying up the properties around Marjorie’s. It didn’t make sense to murder for a land deal, no matter what was riding on it. Besides, Chin solved problems with money, and Harry thought Chin’s delicate physique disqualified him from the role of a rapacious murderer.
Harry was betting that Marjorie’s killer was close to home. The nonsense over the wills certainly suggested Frank Sasso. There was no known connection between Frank, the paralegals, or the Chin deals, much less the other women. It was a dead end.
With smirking insinuations, Welkom had drawn an odious portrait of him at the center of a maelstrom of murder and fraud. Abdul Mudhali, the assistant manager, was only the beginning of his dishonor. Despite minimal involvement in the Chin deals, he had been paid an exorbitant amount. His complicity in murder and fraud had been purchased with that money. Only greed could explain his abysmal lack of judgment.
Harry had reached the other side of the crescent, and he saw his car parked beside the turreted University College. A light rain fell. Why was it always about money? Laura had forced him into the invisible cocoon of her wealth, where money was the only yardstick.
He stopped. What the hell? Those were not his words. He stared at a row of industrial trash cans in a huge and haunting doorway, and then he remembered. The guitar player with the black top hat and wheelchair had said in his seductive, insistent voice, “Do not fear to reach out from the invisible cocoon you are forced to inhabit.” Standing alone on the darkened sidewalk, Harry knew his time for escape had come.
Strolling toward his car, he thought of his father, who had simply ignored convention. He had spoken to whomever he wished in whatever way he wished. That is, until Anna had died, and then he had spoken to almost no one, not even his wife and son. Meeting Chin, Harry had seen only the money. In his lust for wealth, he had turned a blind eye to danger. Throwing aside his usual caution, he had become a dupe. No wonder Welkom was suspicious. Dad would not have been blinded by Chin’s wealth.
Look where faithfulness to his wife had gotten him. Despite years of strict adherence to the canons of his profession, one misjudgement had landed him in a mess. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Jesus! I must still be waiting for my Sunday-school prize.”
Suddenly, he grinned. Natasha! Her loveliness made him yearn to break free. With car tires hissing by him on the crescent, he imagined her touch, her smile. Fantasy could become reality. With life in his step, he rehearsed the lines he would use to call her to invite her to dinner. He knew he could make it happen.
When he turned the ignition of his car, the headlights did not come on. After fiddling with the switches, he remained sitting in the dark. He got out and checked the front of the car. Both headlights had been smashed in with a crowbar, which lay on the sidewalk.
He looked about. In a row of ten cars, only his had been touched.
Getting back inside, he suddenly saw an envelope neatly placed on the passenger seat. For long moments, he stared at it. Finally, he carefully slit it open and read: We are very disappointed in your refusal. We trust you will reconsider. —The Conglomerate.
Harry stared straight ahead. A shadowy figure walked slowly past his car. Harry locked the doors and held his breath. Chin was getting desperate and dangerous. After dealing with Welkom, he had no appetite for calling the police. He would have to meet with Chin alone. When the figure started down an alley between the buildings, Harry climbed from his car.
Shivering, he pulled up his collar. It would be quicker to cut across the field, but the path now seemed desolate. Instead, he chose the lighted sidewalk down to College Street to catch the streetcar to the subway. He heard the muffled screech of the streetcar on its tracks near the corner. Traffic was light, and he easily crossed to the concrete island in the middle of the street. But he had been too slow. The doors wheezed shut, and the streetcar glided away. Harry stood alone, watching the flashing yellow light in the fog.
He decided to have his car towed to a garage to repair the headlights. Forget the insurers—they would want a police report. He could only try to reason with Chin and reach some sort of agreement.
CHAPTER 24
The elusiveness of the Florist cast a pall over the city. Although he loved the media attention, he derided the dull and unimaginative souls who debated the nature of a person who could create and destroy in one moment. For him, their small minds had no understanding of greatness.
Perhaps he should send them a drawing and a note to explain the task he had undertaken. Soon they would understand that only his artistry could redeem the souls of these women.
His responsibility was to make a moral judgment about the worthiness of an individual life. He had to guard against his passion blotting out his vastly superior reasoning power and intellect. When appetite overcame rationality, tragic consequences could result. Passion could blind his judgment.
CHAPTER 25
Cheney, Arpin was shell-shocked. Jonathan Conroy was bilious. Snatching a handful of antacids in his private washroom, he swallowed them down with a glass of water. All three morning papers were spread across his desk. Deirdre Jamieson and Linda Lee Hong had been strangled and stabbed with unimaginable brutality. Rumors were rampant that the murderer was connected to his firm. Was the mad artist, the Florist, in their midst? Jonathan Conroy, senior partner and Treasurer of the Law Society, had to chair the emergency meeting of the executive committee.
Such a catastrophe could poison the very lifeblood of the firm.
The two women were not much older than his daughter. For several months, Deirdre had worked with him on a number of real-estate deals—most recently, the Zaimir and Chin transactions. So pretty and capable. Now she was dead.
His hands shook as he gathered the newspapers and carried them into the small boardroom next to his office. Seated in the leather high-backed chair at the far end of the table, he waited for his partners.
Peter Niels entered first. White-faced and grim, he slammed his case onto the mahogany surface so hard that it skidded almost to the other side.
“This mess,” Niels began, gesturing i
n the direction of the newspapers, “could not have happened at a worse time.” As he helped himself to coffee, his cup rattled in its saucer. “Look at the papers, especially the Sun.” Niels pulled out a chair and set down his cup. Shaking his head, he continued, “You realize, Jonathan, they’re saying someone in the firm was involved.” Niels shook his head. “You have to squelch this shit right away, or else the firm will lose big time.”
Jonathan stared at Niels in profound shock. “Did you know the girls at all, Peter?”
Niels seemed surprised at the question. “No, can’t say I did. Why?”
“Peter, we usually display some sense of loss and sadness.”
Niels grimaced and waved Jonathan off. “Sure, sure. I know, but we can’t have the cops all over the firm.”
“We have to cooperate with the police investigation, Peter.” Jonathan said quietly. “I realize they might cause some inconvenience, but we have nothing to hide.”
Arnie Rosenberg marched in, followed by Bill Cawthorne. “Jesus, Jonathan!” Arnie was red-faced and breathing heavily. His glasses had slipped to the end of his nose. “The cops are going to be crawling all over us. We have to limit their investigation, or else the firm will be brought to a standstill.”
The corners of Conroy’s mouth tightened downward. “Your only concern is inconvenience, Arnie? What about these poor girls?”
Arnie waved him off. “Fine! Of course it’s awful, but I, for one, am not putting up with idiot cops asking all kinds of stupid questions. We have to set some rules.”
Cawthorne took a seat on the far side of the table and laced his fingers together. He was a quiet man, given to lengthy silences before expressing an opinion on as much as the weather.
Niels continued testily, “I’m only thinking of the firm’s reputation, Jonathan. We can’t afford to be associated with this kind of mess!” He looked about the room for support.
Conroy was shaken by his partners’ callous indifference. “Gentlemen.” Slowly he shifted his gaze from one man to the next. “The first order of procedure is to express formally our sincerest condolences to the families of these poor girls.”
Conduct in Question Page 18
