The Vault

by Karen Long

  The autopsy took three-and-a-half hours to complete and left Eleanor with a dull thumping pain in her upper back and stabbing pains in her thigh. Her expression must have reflected this, despite her best efforts to the contrary, as both Dr Hounslow and Laurence insisted that she have a coffee and something to eat in D’Angelo’s, the ‘go to’ eatery across from the morgue. Eleanor sat at a corner table and watched Laurence select and purchase pastries and coffee, surreptitiously dry swallowing two painkillers and hoping the coffee would arrive sooner rather than later.

  “Ok, you up for a run through?” he asked in a concerned tone.

  Eleanor waved her hand dismissively, as she gulped her coffee. “I’ve just had a text from Susan Cheung. They’ve identified material from, what appears to be, silicone implants.”

  “Which means that we have the remains of a transgendered female. Should make it easier to identify as a missing person,” Laurence suggested.

  “Mmm, but we’ve no idea when the victim was murdered.”

  “We even sure that she was murdered?” Laurence mused.

  “I’d say that the non-burial and tampering with a human body constitutes a major crime right there. So until we can establish the means of the victim’s death, then we proceed as if a homicide took place.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Laurence devouring a second pastry.

  “Without an ID we’ve got nothing. We don’t know whether our victim died a lawful death, was embalmed and stolen before burial or if he was murdered and embalmed by the perp. Once Susan Cheung has run a chem analysis, we can hopefully ascertain whether, or how he was embalmed.”

  “We’re not referring to our victim as ‘she’ then?” said Laurence playfully.

  “Not yet,” Eleanor replied thoughtfully.

  Laurence raised his eyebrows.

  “That pipe was placed inside our victim post mortem. Couldn’t the implants have been too?” said Eleanor quietly.

  Laurence stopped chewing, “Jeez.”

  “What have you got?” asked Laurence pulling his chair over to Eleanor’s desk and peering at her laptop screen.

  “Thirty-eight real possibilities over the past five years.”

  “Thirty-eight trannies went AWOL over the past…”

  “No,” she cut in. “Thirty-eight men, between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five, who fall into the right height and racial category and reported as missing in a hundred mile radius. Of those thirty-eight, five were considered to be either living as women or were transgendered.”

  “Is that all?” he replied, surprised. “Thought there’d been hundreds.”

  “There were. Just trying to narrow it down a little.”

  “Using what criteria?”

  “Circumstantial mostly. Look, Ronnie Bennett aged twenty-four,” she tapped the screen with her pen. “Missing after heading off for a late night fishing expedition on the Lake. Judged by friends to have been, ‘under the influence’. Neither he, nor his boat, was seen again. Not on our list. David Waterston, right age, right height but obese to the tune of two hundred pounds. Not on our list.”

  Laurence nodded, “What about the thirty-eight?”

  Eleanor pointed over to the photocopier. “Want to prioritise them?”

  “You betcha,” he responded, shoving back his chair and reaching for the pile. “Oh, good news is that Professor Locke is interested in our ‘corpus delicti’ and is going to give us a 2D reconstruction of the victim’s head and face, presenting both as male and female. He’s got the original Polaroid, ok?”

  Eleanor nodded, “Excellent. What’s the turn-round likely to be?”

  “He said twenty-four to forty-eight.”

  Eleanor looked up as the door to their office opened. “Get outta my chair!” snarled Mo to Laurence, who smiled and stood to attention. “Hey Ellie,” Mo said warmly, opening his arms and moving towards her. “Which bits am I allowed to hug?”

  “All of them,” she whispered in his ear, as she embraced her ex-partner, Mo.

  “Can any human being be that skinny and still suck air?” he said, looking at her critically.

  “Apparently,” she replied lightly. “Where have they got you working?” she asked, pulling her own chair over for Mo.

  “This week it’s mornings only, and I just… I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing actually. Bound to be a pile of paperwork that Timms shoved in a back drawer.” He smiled and lowered himself onto the proffered chair.

  Eleanor looked him over. He’d lost at least four stones in weight after his heart attack a year ago and although unlikely ever to return to active duty, he still liked to potter around homicide dabbling in cases and generally offering the expertise acquired after thirty years of service.

  “You interested in looking at this?” she asked, holding her hand out for the papers. She saw Laurence’s jaw tighten and his lip twitch, as he held out the sheets to Mo. No-one moved or spoke for the next couple of seconds.

  “Going to get a coffee, interested in your thoughts Mo,” said Laurence quickly, placing the photocopies in front of him.

  “How’s that diplomacy course going then?” asked Mo, waiting for the door to close after Laurence.

  Eleanor sighed and studied her hands.

  Mo threw up his hands in despair then leaned towards her, letting his voice drop to a hiss. “Six months ago you were hanging from a goddamned meat hook, with this much life left in you.” He pinched his index finger to his thumb to emphasise. “When Whitefoot kicked his way into that room he had no idea whether Hughes was armed or even if he had back-up. He put his life on the line to save yours. So, some recognition that he’s here for more than just tea duties might not go amiss.”

  Mo looked at her intently, willing her to respond. When she remained silent, he leaned closer still. “Is this still about the invasion of your privacy? Your sex life is your own business; not mine, not Whitefoot’s. But your safety is. Your partner did everything in his power to respect that, but you were gone and we were willing to do anything to get you back. We couldn’t have this conversation if Whitefoot hadn’t investigated in the way you taught him to. Leave no stone unturned, remember? What you keep under that stone has been respected by both him, me and Timms.”

  Eleanor opened her mouth but Mo held up a finger. “You didn’t listen to him when he came to explain to you in hospital who had turned you over to Hughes. I heard you ask, ‘Was it you?’. Who can’t you forgive Ellie? Whitefoot…or yourself.” Mo sat back in his seat, took a deep sigh and massaged his tightening chest. He looked at her expectantly.

  Eleanor felt the airless room choking her. “He’s applied for a transfer.”

  Mo processed this and sighed deeply.

  She stood up more quickly than she’d intended, making her head cloud. “Coffee?” she asked, her voice sounding distant to her.

  “Love one,” he said, turning his attention to the photocopies.

  Laurence hadn’t quite made it to the coffee station and was taking a call and peering out of the window at the well-stocked bird feeder that the department had installed. Eleanor busied herself with the coffee-making ritual, rummaging through the cupboard for a recognisable coffee mug. The politics of mug ownership and usage in homicide ran dangerously deep. She found her old tin mug lying on its side at the back. Mo’s ‘Best Dad in the World’ mug was on the surface but she had no idea which one belonged to Laurence. Another diplomatic coup she thought wryly. Then she saw a large white mug with a printed image of the head of a black and tan German Shepherd, its tongue lolling to one side and its eyes half closed. The legend below read ‘Monster’. Surprised that Laurence would have been inclined to celebrate the ownership of a dog he had clearly loathed, she wondered if perhaps Timms had had it made up for him, as an ironic statement. She poured coffee into the three mugs, clicked several sweeteners into Mo’s and shovelled three generous spoons into Laurence’s.

  “Crystelle Blair,” said Mo, waving a photocopied sheet in front of her. �
�This is where you start.” Eleanor stared at the photograph. “I’m not seeing any physical likeness to Mackenzie’s Polaroid.”

  “But Crystelle worked at the ‘Good Times’ and that’s a good place to start.”

  Eleanor nodded, picked up her partner’s coffee and headed over to the window.

  The ‘Good Times’ bar was tucked innocuously into a narrow, ill-lit street off Dundas. With little to indicate its existence, its clientele tended to be those ‘in the know’. Laurence pressed the call button, which was answered after a couple of moments by a chirpy, “Who’s knocking at this little pig’s door?”

  “This is Detectives Whitefoot and Raven.”

  “Ooh, sounds like a stage act,” said the voice, giggling theatrically. “Down in a mo!”

  The door was opened by an impressively tall man, sporting a beard complete with twirling handlebar moustache and a pink frothy beehive hair-do. His clothing was less visually challenging: sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

  “Lovely, come in darlings,” he said, standing back and ushering them in. “Now how can I help you two officers?” he asked as he headed up the stairs that lead to the bar.

  “Are you the owner of this establishment?” asked Laurence.

  “I am for my sins. Madame Angela, aka Phillip Hendry,” he giggled holding out his hand.

  “Two years ago an employee named Crystelle Blair, was reported as missing,” said Eleanor.

  “Two years ago is before my time,” he replied, putting a thoughtful finger to his lip. “Hang on. Cover your ears.” He turned his face away and bellowed in the direction of the bar. “Honey! Honey, I need you for a tiny mo.” He turned back to Laurence and Eleanor, ushering them over to a small round table covered in paperwork, receipts and a calculator. “I wasn’t here then but Honey was. She might remember. Please ignore the awful mess.”

  A door opened in the rear of the bar and Honey’s head popped through. “What?” came less than honied tones.

  “Darling, we have police company and they need your help,” cooed Madame Angela.

  What sounded like a muttered, ‘For fuck’s sake’, accompanied the arrival of Honey. That and a vicious slapping sound, as she stomped over in pink diamanté flip-flops and hovered over them. Honey was at least sixty plus, with an expression that registered the last fifty years of bad nutrition, nicotine addiction and poor choices in sexual partners.

  “What d’ya want?” she hissed.

  Madame Angela looked poised to leap in with some mollifying statements, so Eleanor cut in, “Crystelle Blair.”

  There was a pause as Honey’s eyes narrowed and her body language changed. “Uh-huh?”

  Eleanor stared at her for several moments and then stood up. “You know where she is,” she said.

  “That a question?” asked Honey nervously.

  “It’s a statement. I want to know where she is and why you didn’t report your knowledge.” “I don’t…”

  “…You ‘don’t’, is likely to get you arrested on an obstruction of justice charge.”

  Honey let out a huge sigh and sank into a chair. “Well I guess I better tell all then,” she snapped. “Crystelle Blair isn’t dead or missing.”

  Madame Angela let out a theatrical gasp and placed his chin on his hands, “Oooh, you old gossip.”

  “Shut up Phil,” Honey spat.

  In response her partner made a zipping gesture across his lips, his eyes twinkling.

  “You know who reported Crystelle as missing, don’t you?” said Honey in a defeated tone.

  Laurence checked his notes, “Elizabeth Slade.”

  “That’s her daughter. Crystelle had another life, as Roger Slade, and was married with a daughter. She used to come in here before she had the op. Turned out real nice she has. Here you have to live as a woman for about a century before they’ll give you surgery. Well she had her tits done and was booked in for the hack and slash but…”

  “The what?” asked Laurence, mystified. Honey rolled her eyes.

  “You know,” said Madame Angela, making several informative gestures around the genital region.

  Laurence nodded.

  “But turns out she couldn’t afford it, especially as the divorce wasn’t going well. So, to cut a long story short, she met a guy who would pay for the op, if she came and lived with him as his wife. All very ‘happy ever after’ shit but Crystelle’s ex-wife wants her to stay out of Elizabeth’s life. If she would just go walk out of their lives, she’d not claim maintenance. Everyone got what they wanted. No nasty tranny turning up at family Christmases and scaring grandma and Crystelle able to pretend she was born and raised a girl. So everyone gets happy….”

  “Except for Elizabeth,” said Eleanor.

  “Exactly. Kept looking for her dad, thinking he’d been murdered or some shit and me having to lie to her, saying I’d not seen him. Knowing that her dad was living it up with some Mexican down in Puerto Rico and didn’t give a shit that he’d hurt his little girl. I ain’t got no address or contact details but that’s what I know.”

  “Do you know anyone who does have contact with her, or could corroborate your story?” asked Laurence.

  Honey sighed and shook her head. “Dunno. Guess you could open up worm cans and ask the ex-wife.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Anyway why the interest after all this time? You just running through the back catalogue of unsolved?”

  “We’ve found the remains of a male body with what could be silicone implants. It’s difficult to ascertain when he was killed.”

  Honey and Madame Angela exchanged glances.

  “Do you recognise this person?” asked Eleanor handing over an enlarged photocopy of the Polaroid, MacKenzie having been cropped from the picture.

  Honey put on a pair of glasses that had been dangling around her throat on a chain. After careful deliberation, she shrugged her shoulders and handed it over to her partner. “Can’t be sure. You got any better photos?”

  Eleanor and Laurence moved forward on their chairs simultaneously. “Who do you think this might be?” asked Eleanor.

  “I don’t know either,” said Madame Angela. “You thinking this might be Giselle?” he asked Honey.

  Honey shook her head. “It doesn’t look like her.”

  “Who’s Giselle?” asked Laurence.

  “Giselle used to come in here for drinks and to ‘collect company’,” said Madame Angela meaningfully. “About a year-and-a-half ago, maybe less.”

  “Why do you think this might be her?” asked Eleanor.

  “She disappeared, and weirdly so.”

  “Weirdly?”

  “She left a couple of hundred bucks here and never came back for them. Shared a flat with a student from that catering college. She’d pop in here occasionally for a drink or to meet Giselle. Anyway, about a week after we last saw Giselle, the flatmate… Parminder something wasn’t it?”

  Honey shrugged and checked her nails. “If you say so.”

  “Mmm, Parminder I think. Indian girl, so I guess kinda odd that she’d be sharing a pad with a tranny like…”

  “Get to the fucking point!” shrieked Honey.

  “Ooh, so grumpy. Well Parminder comes in and asks whether we’ve seen Giselle because her snake looks hungry and she isn’t going to feed it. I don’t think she liked the snake.”

  Honey rolled her eyes and sighed loudly.

  “So I recommended that she call up the zoo because some of those snakes can be really nasty.”

  “Do you know what sort of snake it was?” asked Laurence.

  Honey and Madame Angela stared at him in disbelief.

  “How the fuck should we know? One that bites ok?” snapped Honey.

  Laurence opened his hands in a gesture of defeat.

  Eleanor smiled. “Was the snake collected by the zoo?”

  “Dunno. Never saw either of ’em again,” said Honey decisively.

  “Is there any possibility that you would have kept a photograph of Giselle? Maybe one
was taken during one of your special events?” Eleanor asked pointing to a large poster advertising ‘Heroines of the Silver Screen’. Pinned next to it were numerous flyers, business cards and photographs with cell numbers attached.

  “Oh you must come along this Friday. I can so see you as Marlene!” Madame Angela cooed, stroking Eleanor’s face. “Oh, cheekbones to die for!”

  “That’s what we need to make the night a complete fucking success. Two detectives asking all and sundry whether they know any dead trannies!” shrieked Honey, who stood up and flumped noisily off in the direction she had come from.

  “Thank you Madame Angela. I may just take you up on that offer,” said Eleanor warmly, as she selected a couple of the flyers and stood up.

  “We’ll both be there!” said Laurence, emphatically.

  Eleanor stared at him, puzzled for a moment.

  “Can you remember where Giselle lived or what her original name was?” said Laurence.

  “No sweetheart, I really can’t. But I can say that although that photo doesn’t look like her, it doesn’t look unlike her. If you get what I mean.”

  Eleanor nodded and handed her a card. “You’ll call if you think of anything?”

  “Well I won’t have to darlings because you will be here on Friday to add that touch of glamour that the lovely Honey no longer does. But seriously I will.”

  He began to walk them in the direction of the exit. “Giselle occasionally did a little pole dancing here. Nothing too racy… or skilled for that matter,” he giggled. “She’d had the tits done but none of the plumbing and had no intention from what I gathered. There’s a good living to be made out of indecision, if you get what I mean.” He closed the door behind him, giving them a little wave.

  Eleanor waited until they were in the car. “What was that all about?”

  “What?” asked Laurence, unconvincingly.

  “I don’t need either your permission or presence to investigate in my own time.”

  Laurence’s jaw was working. “The cards,” he spat out. “I saw you looking at the cards with that sign on it.” His jaw was set and his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the road ahead.

  “Which cards and what sign?” she asked, confused.