by Ritu Sethi
Gray bet he did.
Simon’s long and dirty fingernails now tapped the desktop. The man clearly believed he controlled the interaction, which didn’t bother Gray at all – at least, not for the minute, after which his patience would boil down to nothing, and he’d need to resist slamming this jerk against a wall.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Simon said. “Norman’s disappearance, I mean? So far, you’re just sitting here staring at me, wasting valuable staff time. We have nothing to do with this.”
“PAS is revolutionary, I understand.”
“PAS? Of course it is. That’s not what I asked you.”
“You’re ahead of your time in inventing it, I understand.”
This seemed to further bolster the other man’s cooperation. Simon puffed out his chest as though he were some exotic bird and spoke pacing the seven words: “I am a Messiah to the infected.”
“I see. Your system makes custom antibiotics for each patient. Sounds profitable.”
Simon waved a dismissive hand. “That’s all Holly. Yes, she wants to sell the company. I’ll tell you one thing: it’s not going to happen; not on my watch. I didn’t work this hard to sell out my public.”
Discord amongst the ranks? That amounted to a major crisis at any company, but here, with hundreds of millions at stake, it spelled catastrophe. What buyer would invest in a team so divided? For that matter, what buyer would purchase a company tainted by the rumours of a possible violent murder?
Where an executive was found faceless from torture.
Gray leaned forward. “Did Norman invest a lot of money in the company?”
“More than I wanted, I can tell you. He and Holly carved up his portion. God only knows where he got that kind of money.”
Gray kept his voice casual. “A silent investor?”
“Hah. Whoever he is, he won’t tell me what to do.”
“What happens if you don’t or can’t sell?”
“We grow the product ourselves, and I save millions of lives. There’s an offer on the table, you know.” The Founder lifted his chin and stroked his beard, a wallop of drool hanging at the edge of his mouth; he slurped it back up. “I’m not allowed to divulge details, so let’s just say it's not up to the standard Holly promised the Board.”
Gray doubted the Board would appreciate even this amount of candor.
“What was your name before you changed it to Everett?” Gray asked.
“Arnault,” Simon said proudly. “Georges Simon Arnault. But Norman forced me to change it even though we don’t do that in Quebec, change a kid or wife’s name after marriage. Hell, we don’t usually get married. But that was Control-Freak Norman for you. Typical English.”
Gray’s head throbbed; the painkillers were wearing off. Worse yet, the man before him picked up the half-mangled burrito and resumed eating, alternately dipping the bitten end into two sauce sections of the tripartite styrofoam container. The sound of his chewing bounced off the glass walls and lacquered cement floors and vibrated within Gray’s skull.
“I've been invited to Davos.” Simon paused for dramatic effect before continuing. “You know? In fuckin' Switzerland. They're asking if I have room in my schedule. Can you believe that?”
Gray understood more than the other man imagined. “And will your CEO allow you to go to, as you put it, ‘fuckin’ Switzerland?”
“Let’s see her try and stop me. She’d rather settle for a few hundred million than risk trying to grow the company ourselves without outside help.” Simon licked his sticky fingers. “And I’ll tell you something else: Bloody Norman – he agrees with her.”
The silence stretched.
Murder, the body on the beach, still hadn’t entered the Founder’s mind, or else, he was a consummate actor. Gray had met many of those in his time. No one could act forever.
Leaning in, he said, “Where were you all of last night?”
“What? Me? What’s this got to do with me? You’re here to find Norman.”
“Didn’t your mother speak to you after I called her?”
“Mom said you popped by the house and asked a few questions. That’s all.”
Gray rushed forward with his attack; he had Simon exactly where he wanted him. “We’ve found a faceless corpse by the river.”
Simon spluttered. “What the hell?”
“It could belong to your step-father.”
The Founder pushed his chair back with a screech and jumped up. “Faceless? Holly mentioned seeing you on TV, that you’re investigating some kind of murder, which has nothing to do with us. Right? Nothing.”
“Your missing person’s report brought me here. Your company is slated to sell for hundreds of millions, and people have killed for far less. I’ll ask you again, where were you last night?”
Simon’s mouth opened and closed like a guppy’s. His eyes widened, probably recounting his indiscretions during this interview.
He spluttered. “Do you know what this kind of malicious rumor could do to my company?”
“Didn’t do your Medical Advisor much good either.”
“You don’t know it’s him,” Simon snapped. “You’re not looking for Norman. You want to pin this murder on someone – anyone. Well, it won’t be me. I don’t have to answer your questions.”
Gray rose and spoke quietly. “Yes, you do. Either here or at the station. Legal representation is your right, of course. Although delaying my investigation may cause more negative publicity for HealSo. Especially, when the press links the corpse at the beach to this startup.”
“They...you wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
After a few labored breaths, Simon slumped back onto his chair. The air seemed to have gone out of him.
“I went out with some of the gang here for poutine and beer. I got home at nine, and my girlfriend and I watched a movie. We went to bed at midnight.”
He was lying, Gray was sure of it. Everyone lied but not always for reasons that were important. “Are you certain? We can check with your girlfriend, and believe me, we will.”
“Okay, okay. My girlfriend didn’t come home. I don’t expect you to understand since you’re from a different generation that’s stuck up and uptight –”
Different generation?
“– but Phoebe and I have an open relationship. You understand? She loves me and lets me sleep with whomever I want. I give her the same courtesy.”
Gray, who couldn’t care less if she slept with the entire Montreal Canadiens hockey team, told Simon to get to the point. Either he had an alibi, or he didn’t.
“Technically, I spent the night alone. Phoebe didn’t arrive home until morning. I got in at nine and watched TV until two.”
A moment of silence stretched. A somewhat enjoyable moment.
“Don’t just stand there judging,” Simon shouted, rushing to the door and grabbing the handle.
“So, you have no alibi.”
Simon stormed out, and Gray let him go. For now.
CHAPTER 6
April 1, 6 pm
GRAY SAT IN his office and rolled the bottle of Pradaxa in his hand.
Voices drifted from down the hall. The Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal offices never rested, and outside his window, the city traffic throbbed and moved like corpuscles through an artery. Pulling on his jacket, he awaited the expected knock and creaking of the door.
“Roll out the red carpet; that man is here.” Forensic Pathologist, Dr. John Seymour entered unsmiling but exuding professionally suppressed excitement – like a man who truly enjoyed his work, but given its morbid nature, had the good sense to hide it.
His unique scent followed him – a combination of oranges, cigar smoke, and the inevitable formaldehyde. No wonder Seymour arrived dateless to every departmental banquet or holiday event – much like Gray – but for entirely different reasons. They often ended up seated at a corner table, verbally sparring over single-malt scotch.
Seymour carried a b
lue folder, and without waiting for a response, plopped himself onto the leather chair opposite Gray and placed one long leg across the other.
“I could have come to your office for the preliminary report.”
Seymour lifted and lowered his blond eyebrows. “I was in the building seeing Deputy Director Séverin anyway. No problem coming down a couple of flights. Shady man, your boss. The kind to beat your teeth out, and then kick you in the gut for mumbling.”
“Philip Marlowe?”
“I only quote the best.” A conspiratorial smile formed on his lips. “Find out who bombed your car, yet?”
The trundling of a passing truck sounded from the open window, growing louder and louder and bounding off the walls. Gray knew that anyone present at the crime scene this morning could have planted that bomb, but the dents in Seymour’s Mercedes likely ruled the doctor out – since it was common knowledge he adored his vintage 450SL.
No one with hidden knowledge of the attack would have parked that close to Gray’s ill-fated Audi. And no way did Gray believe that Seymour would want him dead – if only because the doctor loved ingratiating himself into Gray’s more complicated investigations.
“A colleague is investigating and getting the debris analyzed,” Gray said. “Thank you, for saving my life.”
“All in a day’s work.”
“Except my day nearly came to an abrupt end. But enough about that. What’s in the report?”
The other man clicked his tongue. “The victim died of a heart attack.”
“What? With his face eaten off, he died of a coronary?”
Seymour smiled his annoying smile, and Gray knew how much he craved explaining his findings to an audience, preferably in scientific terms he thought no one could understand.
“It’s all cause and effect. Torture a guy enough, and he could suffer a myocardial infarction, provided he’s got the atherosclerotic propensity. Even the young have plaque formation in their arteries.” Seymour uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “First autopsy I ever saw – when I was a neon green first-year med student – involved this twenty-year-old young bicycle rider with unshaven legs –”
Gray suddenly heard nothing but a primal beat shearing through his ears, blocking out all else spewing out of Seymour’s mouth. A heart attack?
“– not even the bikini line, can you believe it?” Seymour said. “Nor the underarms. And I thought to myself –”
This was it, Gray thought. A connection, and so remarkably early in the case. He reached for the handle of the top drawer on his desk, pulled out the small bottle Gabi Everett had given him only this morning (the bottle containing her husband’s heart medicine), and rolled the small cylindrical object in his hand. The tiny pills rattled inside.
Norman and the faceless corpse shared two characteristics: a gap between the front teeth, problems with their heart. Or was Gray jumping the gun?
“– and it was pierced!” Seymour said, triumphantly. “I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it. And I’ve been to Thailand.”
Awaiting an appropriate response to his tale, he threw an expectant look across the desk.
Gray shook himself to the present, now wishing he’d been listening all along. Instead he pursued the purposive line of inquiry.
“Let me get this straight, Doctor. John Doe died of a heart attack? What if he had a pre-existing heart condition?”
A sign escaped Seymour’s lips. “I suppose if I had your success with women, I’d be similarly nonchalant with respect to female body piercings.”
“Doctor.”
“All right, all right. If the victim already had heart disease, he’d die faster. Wouldn’t we all? Better for the murderer, I suppose.”
Gray wasn’t so certain he agreed.
“You found chips etched off on the facial bones.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said before.” He waved dismissively. “Maybe, the guy had a heart attack during the torture. I don’t know. I’m not carrying around a crystal ball, you know, Gray. I report the facts. Just the facts.”
Those facts currently caused Gray’s thoughts to race. His mind whisked down to the street below: Rue St. Urbain, then down the tight road curving around the city’s central park – past the cemetery and around Mt. Royal, and over to Gabi Everett’s Westmount home – five kilometers away.
A corpse who died of a heart attack; a missing doctor with heart problems.
What else had Gabi said to him earlier that morning? My husband packed a bag, Chief Inspector; it’s gone, along with some of his things – he’s run away, like my first husband.
She had lied. Her husband was dead, and she knew it.
Across the desk, Seymour glared and arched one caterpillar-like eyebrow.
“You listening to anything I say? Honestly, Gray. How do you find your way home at night, let alone solve murders? Have you identified the dead man yet?”
Gray handed him the now-warmed bottle of pills. “I may be going senile, but I believe I have ID’d the unfortunate victim.”
“Well, well. Who do these belong to?” Seymour read the pharmacy label and tossed the bottle in the air.
“A consultant at Westborough Hospital. The widow has yet to identify him. She says her husband had an irregular heartbeat.”
“Yes....yes.” Seymour rolled the bottle in his palms as though he were caressing a breast. Gray pushed down the urge to grab the container.
“Tie a guy down and poke needles into his face,” Seymour said, “especially if he suffered from Atrial Fibrillation – which this poor bastard likely did – and you’ve got yourself an effective method of murder, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” Gray rose and moved to the window. His organized his thoughts while Seymour’s eyes burned into his back.
A cold breeze streamed in carrying the aroma of wood-oven-baked Montreal bagels, denser and chewier than the New York variety, from the bakery next door. Traffic hummed its familiar tune below. The shriek of one driver swearing at another in French drilled upward.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Seymour said. “The case is coming together way too quickly, isn’t it, Chief Inspector? It’s almost too easy.”
Gray turned. “John –”
“Now for me, it’s exciting.” Seymour rubbed his palms together. “Not only do we have a faceless, hanging corpse with a heart problem, he’s also a doctor unethically treating his own arrhythmia.”
Gray frowned.
“Look at the fine print,” Seymour said, tossing the bottle back.
Gray caught it, and lo and behold – the prescribing physician’s name was identical to the patient’s: Norman Everett. But Seymour wasn’t done.
“And I’ll bet my last dollar, which isn’t much if you know what this department pays me, that this doctor has a space between his front two teeth.”
Gray sat and brought his fingertips together. “Maybe, you should be sitting here, and I should be carving in the lab.”
“Add to that, the corpse and the consultant sharing the same coloring, build, et cetera, et cetera, and you have a very boring conclusion to what initially promised to be a thrilling case. Like I said, you must be disappointed. But stay strong, Gray. I’m certain some complication will present itself – something torrid and strange which gets the juices going and distracts from the futility of life and existential thoughts.”
“You’re a philosopher, Doctor.”
“No chance. They get paid even worse than I do.”
Gray chuckled. “Anything else?”
“Plenty.” He leaned in and wafts of the orange-formaldehyde mix returned. “The body had two puncture marks – one on his upper right arm, and a larger one above his left femoral vein. Stomach contents reveal spicy food – maybe Indian – with coffee. And something strange – we found laxative in his preliminary drug screen. I’ll have the full results by tomorrow, tissue samples included. You know the routine.”
Gray did. “The victim’s tissues – frozen before or after death? An
d likely where?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’ll look into it after lunch.”
Meanwhile, Gray slotted mental pieces of the puzzle together in his mind, trying to see what clicked. If the tissues were frozen before death, that led down one avenue. If they froze afterward, that led to another. He said to Seymour, “The vitriolage?”
“After death, thank God. I didn’t find acid in his lungs, meaning he wasn’t breathing when the stuff ate away at his face.” Seymour rubbed his jaw and yawned. Red veins, probably from lack of sleep, stood out in the whites of his eyes. “And before you ask me, time of death’s between eleven and three in the morning. Broader window than I’m used to giving, I know. Your killer’s lucky – or smart.”
“Meaning?”
“All that damage to the eyes ruins my analysis. Can’t measure the potassium – can’t narrow time of death.” He shrugged. “That’s how it goes.”
“Could the victim have died earlier, say ten pm?” Gray asked.
“Nope. It had to be after eleven, probably after midnight.”
Gray slumped into his chair. The springs squeaked under his weight. “What if the killer intended the victim alive for the acid, but the heart attack got in the way?”
“You mean John Doe died too soon?” Seymour squirmed; his normally sardonic face took a serious turn. “Leaving the murderer unsatisfied – revenge incomplete? You’re guessing, Gray.”
“You don’t take a man’s face off for nothing. There’s rage here, if nothing else. If the killer’s motive was to conceal the victim’s identity, faster to chop off the head.”
“You have a point.”
Gray was considering the very juicy motive of millions of startup dollars and a revolutionary technology for the taking. If Norman was the faceless corpse, then was the startup somehow involved?
Outside, another truck trundled by, and the sound echoed against the walls. Seymour took his leave, just as Gray’s cell played “Voulez Vous” and Vivienne’s sharp words rang out, slicing through Gray’s sore head.
“Tell me you’ve finally changed my personalized ringtone. You know, I hate that song.”
Gray opened his mouth to reply, but she jumped ahead. “I’m at Seymour’s lab, but he’s stepped out. Gabi says it’s not him.”
