by Ritu Sethi
“The killer didn’t need to be there. They could be fairly confident about timing the death. John Doe’s tissues were frozen, and cold can speed up the onset of an arrhythmia in someone predisposed to it. First comes sinus bradycardia, then slow atrial fibrillation followed by the terminal rhythm, ventricular fibrillation or asystole.” Seymour went on for a while and then whistled. “All your alibis are useless, Gray.”
“Utterly useless. But would Holly have that kind of medical knowledge? Would she know about Norman’s heart meds? Would any of them?”
“Norman’s wife would.”
“Knowing Norman had a heart condition and knowing how to kill him with it reliably are two separate things. Meaning –”
“Your murderer had medical knowledge. Maybe even expertise. A doctor, perhaps one of Norman’s colleagues who knew him at the hospital?”
Alarm bells rang in Gray’s mind. He slapped his wet, denimed thigh. Facts linked together with sharp, distinct snaps, leading to one inescapable conclusion. Yet the last piece didn’t fit. None of his suspects fit the profile. So where did that leave him? He recalled what Étienne had said during their first meeting, his desperate pleas to leave the Institute. Remembered Doug’s findings from the hospital charts. Then, Vivienne’s report on the early PAS antibiotics. But no, that didn’t make sense. Or did it?
“What about the blood and acid found at HealSo?” Seymour said. “We found Norman’s blood in that server room. The test came back positive. So, it has to be where Norman was tortured. Are you saying he was killed elsewhere?”
“Someone left blood and acid at the startup for us to find, John, to implicate the company. That isn’t where Norman died; that isn’t a crime scene at all.”
“Clearing Holly Bradley, no? She cleaned up the blood, tried to protect the startup. Look for someplace cold as your crime scene.”
“Our murderer is resourceful and intelligent. If the startup isn’t the crime scene, the case opens up.”
He heard the pattering of rain on water and ground; the thumping of his heart in his ears. Gray swung around, his eyes whiplashing to the nearby slide and then the swings.
One swing lay tangled in the other as the chains rattled with the wind and the metal seat banged against a supporting pole.
“A father and son died,” Gray said, “Under PAS. The father was a doctor, and Étienne told me he’s been waiting for his former doctor for a year – a doctor who was going to help him get transferred out of the Institute.”
“That explains the puncture in the groin, Gray – a femoral stab for blood. The killer needed that blood to leave at the startup.”
“Again, requiring medical expertise.”
“My God. Do you think Norman’s alive, and the body you found on the beach is someone else after all? That changes everything, every assumption you’ve made.”
Rain dribbled into his eyes. His arms and legs moved on their own like cold and numb mechanical limbs programmed to take him home. The multitude of clues and suspects sprang upwards in his mind, swirled, fell into allotted slots forming a pattern. Someplace cold enough to freeze skin – that was easy. A father who had once been a doctor – the symbolic hanging by a child’s playground.
Over the line, Seymour was still talking. “If Norman’s alive, where would he go –”
Gray had momentarily forgotten he was holding his phone. He had to be alone to think. Mumbling a reply, he pushed the end button, and Seymour’s voice abruptly stopped, but the rain now pounded louder, beat in rhythmic force onto his head and neck. The soaked jeans tugged on his leg hair with each purposeful step.
His mind went down one avenue. No, that wasn’t right. It can’t be.
He breathed in damp, thick air, trying to snag that last thin thread – too thin – he kept gripping and missing it at the edge of his imagination until he found himself crossing the beach road and heading up a residential street, his boots splashing black puddles and stumbling over uneven paving stones.
“She’s Always a Woman” played on his mobile phone. Damn. Not now. Not when he hovered on the brink of identifying the killer.
“Céline.”
“Where are you? It’s the middle of the night, and you’re not home.”
Home? Whose home? Was she at his house? “I’m on my way back. What’s the matter?”
“I need you. Séverin is going crazy. He won’t leave me alone, and I’m not safe in my apartment, so I came here.” Her voice broke. “When are you getting home?”
He sighed and kept walking. “I’m on my way.” Gray remembered he hadn’t bothered to lock the door on his way out. She must have found it unlocked and let herself in. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He received no reply and subsequently heard a harrowing shriek, followed by a click.
Fat raindrops bounced off the sidewalk like countless ping pong balls. He swallowed, trying to get words out of his parched mouth.
“Céline? What’s going on?” The line disconnected. He dialed, and her recorded voice said: “Okay, you have me. Now, what are you going to do with me? Tell me after the beep.”
He shoved the cell in his pocket and ran, houses reeling by to his right, his legs and feet pounding the pavement. Séverin was jealous, but this? Gray hadn’t expected this.
Finally, Leeson Avenue came into view. A quick turn to the right brought him before his house – the lawn, the porch – yet no lights shone from within.
And he’d left one on, he was certain. An elastic band snapped within his chest. Imagined screams filled his ears, but they weren’t real, and he saw what he’d expected and most feared.
The front door stood open.
CHAPTER 23
April 4, 10 pm
ETIENNE LAY IN BED and clutched the old spy novel in his sweaty fingers. Reading it, he imagined the hero looked like the Inspector – except the Inspector didn’t carry a Beretta 418, or have jolie girls hanging off his arms. Or maybe, he did?
Reality descended with a sinking of the stomach. The book shook in his trembling grasp and the page blurred. He didn’t live in any glamorous penthouse; he lived here: under a cracked ceiling and between old plaster walls, smelling the stink of the black river outside his window. They’d sent him back to his old room at the Institute.
Director LeBlanc had come to his hospital room and explained that these things took time, that a convicted murderer, even one twelve years old, couldn’t expect a quick transfer. Étienne was grateful the Committee was willing to transfer him to a hospital psychiatric ward, and he knew he had the Inspector to thank. Space would open up soon; in the meantime, he’d remain at the Institute.
The return had been a nightmare. His first day back, so far he’d gotten away from Carl trying to corner him in the yard, but after nightfall, it was every boy for himself. And they mainly came at night.
Overhead, a buzzer sounded, indicating bedtime. He pulled the comforter up to his chin, inhaling the bad fabric softener smell. They’d trimmed down his meds at the main hospital, and he could think again, like before his arrest, before the psychiatrist forced all those pills down his throat – although thinking clearly made him more frightened of what might happen.
He moved the dresser to block the door.
The floor was cold under his bare feet; he ran to his secret place in the alcove – the one he’d shown the Inspector. Prying open the three-foot high door, he got on all fours and crawled inside, huddling under the musty blanket. Dust scratched his eyes, and he blinked. The tiny space smelled like mice and mold; he didn’t care. It was better than what waited outside.
He pulled the object hanging from his neck out from his flannel shirt and clutched it in his hand – the alarm the Inspector had given him – hidden from the nurses at the Institute so they couldn’t take it away.
In the small space, his raspy breathing bounced off the walls, and the air grew hot and thick from his sweat. Wiping it with the scratchy blanket, he fought off panic. Only a little air came in from the
gray rectangular crack under the door, and Étienne huddled into a ball, and softly sang a Quebecois lullaby, Fais do do, meaning Beddy bye, which he’d often sang to Claire when she was a baby: Fais do do, mon petit, Claire. Maman est en haut, Elle fait des gâteaux; Papa est en bas, Il fait du chocolat. Fais do do, mon petit, Claire.
A noise awoke him a while later. There were voices echoing down the hall, calling his name. Sitting up, he hit his head on the overhead beam.
They banged on his door. No neighboring boys would dare intervene. Now, a deep screech like nails on a blackboard sounded.
“Keep pushing,” Carl said.
Étienne sat riveted before the gray strip of light under the crawl-space door. The screeching stopped. He pictured them squeezing through the opening. The gray strip suddenly lit up with the sound of the lights being clicked on. He blinked and scurried further back until the wall pressed into his back. The blanket scratched his face, and his whole body shook.
Carl called out to him. Another boy did the same, their sneakers shuffling against the floor.
“Where is he?” the second boy said.
“He has to be here,” Carl replied. “Come out, freak. We won’t hurt you.”
Étienne’s teeth chattered; they must hear that. How could they not hear that?
Carl’s grainy voice grew louder. “Now, runt. Get out here, or else.”
Footsteps approached the crawl space, and a shadow hovered over the light under the door. Étienne’s heart jumped into his throat.
“There’s something here, Carl,” the other boy said. “It’s a door, and it ain’t sealed like the one in my room.
A tapping against the wood. They were trying to pry it open.
He’d waited too long to call for help, and now it might be too late.
***
Gray stood on the sidewalk before his house, listening, rain slamming his face. No one hovered behind the bushes or hid behind parked cars. Looking overhead, the windows of his house were dark. No shadows lurked; no curtains shifted.
Water streamed into the collar and down his back. Someone watched – he could feel it – but from where?
Putting one foot before the other, he approached the low iron gate, opened it, and pulled it closed behind him, feeling the vibration of the latch lock. Covering the ten-foot walkway, he quickly climbed the porch and stepped inside the shrouded threshold.
Wafts of Céline’s favorite perfume lingered in the foyer, and all was silent save the slashing of the rain outside and his boots squeaking against the pine floor. The long hall, living room, and stairs were empty. He left trails of dripping water in his wake and headed to the kitchen.
Nothing. A quick glance out the window revealed no one in the back yard or by his car. The curved maid’s stairs to the right lay shrouded. He’d take this way up.
Somewhere outside, a dog barked. Gray took the spiral steps leading up to the second floor – no banister to grip here – only the steady squeak of hundred-year-old planks, worn down by generations of subservient maids and butlers carrying meals to the employers.
The pounding of his heart was almost painful. He didn’t call out Céline’s name, portending the worst, reviewing what she’s said before her cry: that she had to get away from Séverin, that she feared for her life.
A cold wind howled up from the front door, obliterating her scent. But on the second floor, her presence enveloped Gray, and the air smelled stale and sour.
Instinct made him bypass the rooms on this floor. He crossed the hall and looked up the narrow central stairwell to his third-floor master. Gray walked up, the air more still here, laced with another stench he recognized all too well.
Gray shot up into the waiting darkness, fists up, muscles ready to dodge an incoming punch or bullet, and reaching the threshold of his bedroom, he screeched to a halt.
Light streamed in from the nearby street lamp. Nothing could prepare him for Céline lying on her back, draped at the edge of his bed with one arm over her head, the other tucked under her body. Her neck fell over the side of the mattress, backward, eyes accusatory.
No amount of professionalism could save him from this. He’d been inside this woman in this very room only a few nights ago. Bile came up from his stomach. He swallowed it, knowing he mustn't contaminate the scene any further.
A droplet of blood from her mouth trailed down her cheek and forehead and into her hairline. The long, amber strands hung upside down and brushed the pine planks. His attention had shot instinctively to her face, but now, the crimson-stained sheets registered, all soaked and tangled around her. A large patch of blood continued to expand on the white cotton, still streaming. Was she still alive?
He shot beside her and felt for a pulse; there was none. The urge to hold and comfort her overwhelmed him. She’d done nothing to deserve this, except wanting him, and that had led to this.
Gray fell to his knees and leaned his head in his hands. Did death follow him everywhere? Would he be a curse to everyone who tried to get close? He lifted his head and tried to connect with her eyes. They stared ahead coated with the film of death, making his heart pound louder than the smashing rain outside. A lightning flash momentarily blinded him. Instinctively, he held up a hand against the reflection and saw it.
He saw the familiar Japanese kitchen knife; it had an engraved picture of a dragon on the layered stainless steel blade – a Hagane blade made using sword-making techniques – sharp, efficient, ruthless. Once a wedding present, now something foreign and obscene lying on the floor of his bedroom. The dragon was streaked with viscous red.
Events shot through Gray’s head like from a cannon: Céline in danger; someone following her here; the fatal stab, the intention to frame Gray.
Why kill your enemy when you could frame him instead? But who had killed Céline? Séverin or an accomplice? And would either stick around to watch Gray discover the body or stay nearby to make the arrest?
Gray looked left, then right. No one. He checked the bathroom next door and the closet. No one there either. He mustn’t disturb the scene further, and already his dripping boots had left evidence everywhere, possibly at the expense of destroying other prints. It occurred to him that a greater danger existed than being arrested for Céline’s death.
Gray ran to the window and scanned the front garden. The blue-gray night looked soaked with death. No shadows lurked in the downpour, and nothing moved under the misty haze, but his front gate now stood open.
He’d closed it behind him when he’d arrived and made certain it latched. Whoever passed after him hadn’t latched it.
Every cell in his body wanted to bolt, but that would be suicide. Better to ring the police and then Cousineau. Tell them about Céline’s terrified phone call and the attempt to frame Gray for her murder. If his adversaries had expected him to panic, they’d underestimated him. He wouldn’t be gunned down on the street like a fleeing criminal.
Pulling out his cell, he dialed 911. The line connected and Gray spoke to the dispatcher.
“This is Chief Inspector Gray James of the SPVM. I’ve just returned home and found a woman stabbed in my bed. I know her. I’ve checked for signs of life, but she’s dead.”
Several questions were asked and answered. Gray felt lightheaded, from the stench, from breathing in the heavy wet air. He moved to the third-floor landing.
“Stay in the house, Chief Inspector. Don’t touch anything and don’t leave.”
“I think the killer is waiting outside. I have no intention of leaving the crime scene.”
“We’ll send a squad car and an ambulance right away,” the operator said before hanging up.
Only a few minutes to go. The sound of his heavy breathing filled the small landing. Mud and water from his boots dirtied the floor beneath him. Gray had stupidly obliterated all evidence of the killer’s footsteps in his haste to find Céline. He had three minutes, possibly four before he’d hear the police siren or the wail of an ambulance. His hands hovered over the cell, r
eady to call Vivienne and give her instructions on what he’d figured out speaking to Seymour.
A ringing startled him – the programmed ringtone on his cell from Étienne’s alarm shrilled across the enclosed space.
No. Not now. He switched it off and gripped the handrail. The boy was back at the Institute, in trouble. He wouldn’t have sounded the alarm otherwise.
To run from a crime scene would make Gray a marked man in more than one way. He glanced out the window to the road outside, leading toward the Institute. His muscles flexed; he shot down the stairs. All hope of surprise was lost after that ear-piercing ring. Down one flight. Then the other.
Gray steeled himself for an assault which could come from anywhere: the bottom of the steps; outside the front door; the middle of the street.
He made it across in living room like a shot. A creaking of the old floor sounded from ten feet back, and he turned to catch a dark form in his peripheral vision, hovering, then whisking toward him.
Gray stormed out the front door. Jumping the four porch steps, cutting through the garden and swinging gate, he risked another look backward.
The familiar face of Detective Doug Green snarled, and fists and legs pumped towards him. But Gray was quick, too. As fast as this assailant who had installed the car bomb at the beach park, who had murdered Céline, who planned to frame and kill Gray.
Rain stabbed at his face and eyes, making it hard to see. The wet pavement silvered under each passing streetlight, then blackened and bubbled like thick tar in the dark patches. His thighs cried out with each leap as he ran.
Not to escape Doug – who Gray would gladly face and kick in the ass – but to get to Étienne on time. To get to Westborough Psychiatric Institute before the unthinkable happened.
A shard of lightning lit the sky bringing the Institute into view. The nine-storey addition seemed to melt in the rain, with its brown rectangular lines blurring and bending into a moribund abstract painting. He covered the deserted road, getting closer and closer and half expecting a shot before he got there.
