Memory Lane

by Laurence Gough

  But Shannon had segued into her Zellers salesperson mode, forgotten all about him in the blink of an eye.

  Chapter 8

  The water as it rushed out of the tap looked like nothing anyone in his right mind would consider drinking. Willows half-filled a glass and held it up to the drab early-morning light that filtered in through the kitchen window. Was that silt, or sediment? He lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed gingerly. Annie came skipping into the kitchen. She said, “It’s okay to drink. I heard it on the radio just a few minutes ago. It’s… drinkable.”

  Drinkable. Now there was a word that utterly failed to whip up the least little bit of enthusiasm. Willows bent and opened a bottom cupboard door. He’d thought there was still some bottled water left, but the plastic jug was empty.

  “It’s because of all the rain we’ve had the past few days,” said Annie on her way to the fridge. She swung open the door and critically evaluated the contents. “There’ve been some mudslides.” She gave Willows a perky, sardonic, slightly goofy grin. “It’s nothing to worry about. Turbidity is the proper terminology. They’ve dumped a bunch more chlorine into the system, so there shouldn’t be a problem.” She thumped a four-litre jug of milk down on the kitchen table, organized cereal, a bowl and spoon and sat down.

  Willows poured water into the coffee machine. He turned the machine on. Hopefully the paper filter would screen out most of the larger chunks of debris.

  Annie said, “Where’s Claire?”

  “Upstairs, in the shower” One by one, Willows dropped four slices of sourdough bread into the toaster.

  Cereal crackled into the bowl. Annie sloshed in some milk. She picked up her spoon and began to eat.

  Willows studied the flow of coffee into the pot. He checked the toaster to make sure the little levers hadn’t been knocked into burn. All his life, he’d had a tendency to start the toast prematurely, but this morning he was going to try very hard to get it right. He watched the thin stream of coffee fall into the pot.

  The telephone rang. He got the toast started and then crossed to the far end of the counter and picked up.

  Inspector Homer Bradley said, “Jack?”

  “Morning, Inspector.”

  “You had breakfast?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bradley said, “Eleven-twenty Bute. Apartment one-one-seven. I’ll send out for coffee and Danish, so nobody starves to death.” Willows sensed movement at the far end of the hallway. He turned, and looked behind him. Parker was in the front hall, sitting on the bottom step, lacing up her sensible black shoes.

  Bradley said, “Use the siren, Jack. No dawdling, hear?”

  Three slices of toast popped. Willows had cut the fourth slice too thick, and it had jammed. The toaster buzzed harshly. A plume of black smoke rose towards the ceiling.

  Bradley said, “What the hell is that?”

  “Me,” said Willows. He winked at Annie. “It’s the sound I make when I’m hungry.”

  *

  Eleven-twenty Bute was a concrete seventies-era high rise with ungainly clam-shaped balconies. Apartment 117 was a ground-level bachelor situated on the east side of the building.

  Willows parked in the alley. He and Parker got out of the car and started across a narrow strip of grass. A yellow crime-scene ribbon fluttered in the wind. Willows stepped over it, but Parker had to take the low road, because of her skirt. Willows stepped onto the apartment’s patio, a scalloped half-circle of concrete. A potted plant stood off to one side, beside a cheap white plastic chair. A mauve glass ashtray had been placed in the exact centre of a matching plastic table. The apartment’s sliding glass door was wide open. The apartment was stuffed full of uniformed and plainclothes cops. Willows bulled his way inside with Parker right behind.

  Mel Dutton, the police photographer, sat on a black leather couch, beneath a poster-size black-and-white photograph of a nude black male riding a dazzling white stallion along a sandy shoreline.

  Dutton was inserting a fresh roll of film into one of his Nikons. He seemed oblivious to the drama above his gleaming bald head. Parker eyed the photograph. Dutton said, “Somebody you know?”

  “Could be,” said Parker offhandedly.

  Willows gave Dutton a friendly wave. “How’s it going, Mel?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” said Dutton, uncharacteristically. He snapped the back of the camera shut, wound the film counter-clockwise until it was tight, and then shot two quick frames to advance the film. “I ever tell you about that coffee-table book I was working on, Dead Bodies?”

  “Yeah, I think you might’ve mentioned it.”

  “About a million times,” added Parker. Where was the body? Not in the living room or kitchen.

  Dutton said, “Well, I finally got an agent. Just last week. A woman in New York. Emily Heneghan. Is the name familiar?”

  “Why? Did she murder somebody?”

  “No, but she claims she was Norman Mailer’s agent, back in the days before he was famous.”

  “How could anyone possibly be that old?” said Parker.

  Dutton wasn’t smiling. “She phoned last night. Thinks she might have a publisher lined up.”

  “That’s great, Mel.” Parker looked up from Dutton’s cherubic face as Willows brushed past her. Bradley was standing in the doorway to the right of the kitchen. He waved Parker towards him, then turned and vanished down the hall.

  There were dozens of photographs hung on the walls on both sides of the hallway. There was a nude male perched on a big Harley-Davidson motorcycle. There was a cold, shrivelled, skiing nude on a chairlift. Another on a snowboard. There were nude males on water skis and in powerboats, standing on a diving board at an indoor pool. There were three solemn nudes in an elevator, two more waiting at a downtown bus stop. There was an action photograph of a nude leaping for a slam dunk.

  Every single photograph had been autographed, more often than not with a few bawdy words as well as the signatures. The second common denominator was a complete lack of modesty.

  There was an open doorway on Willows’ left. The bedroom. Mirrored tiles had been fastened to the ceiling over the king-size waterbed. There were lots more photographs, but no change in theme.

  Willows continued down the hall to the bathroom. Bradley waited by the open door. He wore a three-piece pinstripe suit in dove grey. His shirt was a dazzling white, and both collars had been buttoned. The knot on his silk tie was exactly right. His black lace-ups gleamed. His thinning hair had been neatly arranged. Up close, he smelled of Old Spice cologne, and Willows noticed that the cigar in his mouth had hardly been chewed at all.

  “Morning, Jack. Claire.”

  Willows glanced around the glossy little room.

  Parker said, “Who is he?”

  Bradley shrugged. “Donald E. Mooney. The name ring a bell?”

  Willows said, “He’s a cop, was involved in that armoured-car robbery, about five years ago. The shootout. Those two killer kids, Billy and Garret…”

  Parker said, “Who called it in?”

  “Mr. Anonymous. The switchboard logged the call at three minutes to eight this morning. It was made from a downtown payphone.”

  Mooney was in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven, and his black hair was clipped short. He lay curled up in the bathtub, naked. His right ankle had been manacled to his left wrist. His right hand cupped his genitals and was securely held in place by many overlapping layers of silvery duct-tape. More tape had been repeatedly wound around his neck and mouth. His nostrils had been shut with a heavy metal spring clip. The shower head had been removed. A clear plastic tube about an inch in diameter ran from the water pipe down into Mooney’s mouth, and was held in place by more tape. Willows moved closer. A slow trickle of water leaked from Mooney’s nostril, tinkled softly as it ran down the drain.

  A hand fell heavily on Willows’ shoulder. He turned. Bobby Dundas’ cheerful face was so close he could hardly get it in focus. Behind Dundas, Eddy Orwell, weightlifter, health-foo
d junkie, and fellow homicide cop, loitered by the door.

  Bobby said, “Morning, Claire. How’s it hangin’, Jack?”

  “What’re you doing here, Bobby?”

  “Investigating a murder. All that shiny tape, guy looks like the leftovers from a Coors commercial. Mr. Silver Bullet.” Bobby’s fingers tightened on Willows’ shoulder. Willows tensed. Bobby relaxed his grip. His hand slipped away.

  Bradley chewed complacently on the cud of his cigar.

  Parker knelt by the corpse. Mooney’s eyes were pale green decked with tiny nuggets of gold. His skin was cold. The way the blood had pooled in his legs, it looked almost as if he were wearing burgundy-coloured socks. There was blood in his close-cropped hair, a dark smear of dried blood on the tiles.

  Two cardboard cylinders — empty duct-tape roles — lay on the bottom of the tub. The remains of a third roll hung from the body.

  Parker shone her penlight down the drain. A drop of water sparkled bright as a diamond. Bobby crouched beside her. He was a smorgasbord of masculine odours — mouthwash, deodorant, aftershave, mousse. He rested his forearm on her thigh. “Find any clues, Claire?”

  Parker stood up. Shone the flashlight into Bobby’s eye. His pupil contracted. He shrank away.

  From the doorway, Orwell said, “Yeah, in there.”

  Popeye Rowland pushed into the room. The M.E. nodded to the assembled cops, let his monocle drop from his eye into the palm of his hand. He glanced at the trio of black-and-white nude studies hanging from the wall behind the toilet. “So many lovely pictures, and they’re all so nicely hung.” He smiled at Parker. “Morning, Claire. If you need a suspect, give Mel Dutton a shake.”

  “Got a motive?” said Orwell.

  “Professional jealousy, Eddy.” Rowland peered at the corpse. “The perp sure knew how to handle duct-tape. It isn’t easy to wind it around like that and get so few wrinkles. Remember that old James Bond movie Goldfinger? Maybe he’s got a kid brother. Silverfinger.” He touched the cold flesh not an inch from where Parker’s fingers had grazed. “Brrrr!” He tugged lightly at a stiff index finger, then knelt and opened his ancient Gladstone bag, withdrew a digital thermometer in a plastic sheath. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, lubricated the thermometer and eased it into place.

  Bobby said, “That’s always my favourite part.”

  Bradley gave him a mildly reproving look. Bobby said, “I bet it’s Popeye’s favourite part too. Isn’t it, Popeye?”

  Rowland glanced at his watch. He studied the freckles on the backs of his hands for what might have been an eternity, then withdrew the thermometer and wiped it clean.

  Bradley said, “How long, Popeye?”

  “Hard to say, exactly. Quite a while, though. Since somewhere between eleven o’clock last night and two o’clock this morning. I’ll be able to fine-tune it after the autopsy. Midnight’s probably pretty close. Why? Does Mel need an alibi?”

  “Not yet,” said Bradley. “But he might, if somebody tells him what you’ve been saying about him.”

  Rowland sheathed his thermometer and put it away.

  “He drown?” said Bobby.

  “How should I know?” Rowland waved at the tubing, the duct-tape. “It sure as hell looks as if the poor bastard drowned. But I won’t know for sure until he’s been autopsied.” He glanced incuriously around, at the splashes of fingerprint powder on the bathroom walls and the glass shower door. Slips of paper from Dutton’s Polaroids littered the floor. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them in a corner. “You going to cut him down now?”

  Bobby said, “Be my guest. I got everything I need.”

  Willows turned to Bradley. “I missed my breakfast, Homer. Why’d you call me, if Bobby’s on the case?” Was he whining? He hoped not.

  “I’m putting two teams on it, Jack. You and Claire, Bobby and Orwell. You’ll work independently, and report to me. I’ll monitor the investigation and make the assignments. Written reports daily, from both teams. To start, Bobby and Eddy will canvass the neighbours, find out what they can about Mooney’s lifestyle, friends and acquaintances. Jack, you and Claire can conduct your own investigation as you see fit, for now. Nobody talks to the media. Questions?”

  Nobody had any questions. Willows said something about getting a cup of coffee, and turned and left the room.

  Bradley spat a shred of tobacco accurately into the toilet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Got around to Mooney’s closet, Claire?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He was heavily into leather, rubber goods. He’s got a stack of photo albums that’d make your pretty little head spin.”

  Parker bridled. Pretty little head? She said, “I doubt that, Inspector.”

  Bradley waved off her protest, using his cigar to advantage. He pointed the cigar towards the corpse’s tape-wrapped testicles. “What d’you think. Does this look like a sex crime to you?”

  “Well, yes. That’s certainly what it looks like. But it’s too early in the investigation to jump to that kind of conclusion, Inspector.” Parker hesitated, and then added, “As I’m sure you know.”

  Bradley tilted his head in acknowledgement of the rebuke. He spat a little more tobacco into the toilet. “The dead crib player, Beinhart. You follow up on the dentist?”

  “He’s on holiday. Costa Rica, with the wife and kids,” said Willows. “They left a couple of hours ago.”

  “They have reservations?”

  Willows said, “No, it was apparently one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions.”

  “Stay on it, Jack.” Bradley turned and left the room.

  Parker examined the way the hollow plastic line had been fitted into the shower head’s metal pipe. She sat on the edge of the tub and took a good long look at the corpse, then began a hands-on examination. Mooney’s scalp above his right ear was swollen, the skin split and bloody. It was a superficial wound, but the blow had probably been sufficient to briefly stun him. Had his killer struck him or had he lost his footing in the tub, and banged his head against the tiles? Parker looked deep into Mooney’s beautiful green, gold-flecked eyes. The pupils were no longer symmetrical, and differed in size. She checked his throat for bruising or other signs of strangulation. His skin was smooth. He had a small mole on his left shoulder. There was a thick mat of hair on his chest. His nipples were chocolatey brown, his stomach muscles well defined. Parker made a note. Did he belong to a health club?

  The way the layers of tape bound his right hand to his testicles seemed like a hideously perverted display of modesty. Parker noted a hint of gold, peeled away a bit of tape. Mooney was wearing a watch, an expensive gold Tissot.

  Even so, she still wasn’t quite ready to eliminate robbery as a motive. She continued to examine the corpse. There were several small cuts and contusions on Mooney’s knees. Had he been overpowered somewhere else in the apartment, and then dragged into the bathroom?

  She touched the cold stainless steel of the police-issue handcuffs that encircled Mooney’s left wrist and right leg.

  She looked into his beautiful, ruined eyes. He was somebody’s child, somebody’s friend, somebody’s lover. The life he had led, his sexual preferences and comic perversions, was of no consequence to Parker other than as it related to the investigation.

  She hadn’t known him then. She only knew him now.

  Time slipped past. She became aware that there was someone else in the room with her.

  Willows said, “The coffee’s all gone. There’s no tea. But I saved you a strawberry Danish…”

  Chapter 9

  A hamburger joint. A muffin joint. A fried-chicken joint. There was even a made-fresh-while-you-watch submarine-sandwich joint. But there were line-ups everywhere, and as the day slowly wore on the crowds thickened, became even worse. Noise. People. Time. There was far too much of everything. Ross was overloaded, distraught, getting a headache.

  He decided to take a walk. It had stopped raining, but the sky was the colour of ashes, and the air was
cold and damp. He walked for fifteen minutes or so and came across a park. He walked into the park, down a winding road that led him past small ponds, stands of trees, open grassy areas. A man sitting on a bench by a pond asked him for spare change. Ross gave him two quarters and a dime. The man took the coins into his mouth, gnawed at them and then spat them into his hand and tossed them over his shoulder, into the water. A brace of ducks paddled over and milled hopefully around. The man smiled at Ross and asked him if he had any spare change.

  Ross came out of the park a couple of blocks further down Cambie. He crossed Twenty-fifth Avenue and kept walking. It had been years since he had walked such a long way, in a straight line.

  He came upon a jewellery store, made blinders of his hands and peered through the plate-glass window. The store was a treasure chest of wealth. The glass display cases shimmered. An elderly Chinese woman stood behind a counter, polishing the face-sized face of an antique clock. Another, much younger woman stood idly by the cash register. Ross stepped away from the window. He studied the reflected streetscape in the glass. A transparent taxicab cruised slowly past, transparent driver hunched over the wheel. A transparent bus disgorged two or three transparent passengers. A transparent police car drove by, travelling in the opposite direction.

  Ross turned away from the window. He lit a cigarette and watched the police car as it dwindled down the street. The car was more than three blocks away when he finally lost sight of it.

  He walked into the jewellery store. Both women looked up. Neither of them smiled. Crossing the threshold, he noticed a security camera mounted high up on the wall behind the older woman. He glanced around, as if getting his bearings. There was another camera over the door and a third camera in a distant corner. Everybody was a film star, nowadays.