Giles Blunt: Crime Machine

“And have you lent the house to anyone recently? Or rented it out?”

“No, we don’t rent it out,” Mr. Schumacher said. “No one even goes out there unless…”

“Unless we’re there,” Mrs. Schumacher said. She completed her husband’s sentences almost as if it were an act they had rehearsed together.

“Well, people went out there,” Delorme said. “We’re not sure when exactly, but within the past two days at least three people were in your house. Two of them ended up dead.”

The Schumachers looked at each other. They looked back at Delorme. Finally Mr. Schumacher said, “You’re telling us people were murdered out in our lake house?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Schumachers turned to each other again.

“I don’t know what to say,” the man said. “We’ve-this is-we lead ordinary lives. There’s never been any…”

“Discord,” the woman said. “No discord.”

“But you have to tell us,” Mr. Schumacher said. “Who are these…”

“People. Victims.”

“We don’t know,” Delorme said. “We were hoping you might be able to help.”

“But we need something to go on. We need to know what they…” Mr. Schumacher looked at his wife.

“Look like,” she said.

“The man’s in his late sixties. The woman’s in her mid-thirties. They were both dressed in expensive fur coats.”

“We don’t know anybody like that,” Mrs. Schumacher said. “Nobody who owns furs. You said the man was wearing a fur too?”

“Yes, ma’am, the man too.”

“We don’t know anybody like that. Not that I can think of.”

“But your place is for sale, no? You have a sign up. Carnwright Realty?”

“That’s right,” Mr. Schumacher said. “Carnwright’s son-in-law’s looking after it for us. Randall…”

“Randall Wishart,” Mrs. Schumacher said. “That’s right, we did give Randall a key. To be honest, we’re asking too much for the house-on purpose to discourage actual buyers. Mr. Wishart doesn’t know that, of course. We’re actually trying to prod Michael-that’s our son-to move back here and decide to buy it. He lives in the States, but he keeps saying he’s going to move back.”

“Aside from Mr. Wishart and your son, who else knows the house is empty?” Delorme said.

“Well, anybody who goes by on a snowmobile, of course,” Mrs. Schumacher said.

It was too early in the winter for snowmobiles. The ice on the lake wasn’t nearly thick enough.

–

The Violent Crime Linkage and Analysis System, ViCLAS for short, revolves around a national database that categorizes crimes, both solved and unsolved, according to MO. Most murderers not thinking to leave bits of nursery rhymes or other riddles at the scene, investigators have to rely on things like choice of weapon, victim, location and a host of other variables. But before the investigator can glean any information from the system, he or she is first required to fill out a form demanding answers to a great many questions about the current case.

When Cardinal got fed up with trying to answer them, he headed over to Carnwright Real Estate. The Carnwright family had been a force in Algonquin Bay’s housing market for three generations. Lawrence Carnwright, the current avatar, was a highly active public figure, constantly turning up on committees and associations, a handsome white-haired gent who would appear on the news when an opinion was wanted on the economic future of the city. Lately his daughter seemed to be following in his footsteps.

The office was located in an exquisitely maintained corner house on Woodrow at Sumner, with a wraparound porch and casement windows and a well-tended lawn. It looked like a set from a TV series about a happy family; all it needed was a swing set on the side lawn. Cardinal had been here several times, when Larry Carnwright had handled the sale of his house.

The receptionist informed him that Randall Wishart was representing the Schumacher property. Wishart came out and shook hands with him and led him back to an office decorated with flattering photographs of Algonquin Bay houses that the Carnwright firm had sold. This being a high-end outfit, there was also a fair bit of art around the place. A small, squat Inuit sculpture of a polar bear sat on top of a bookcase full of binders, and a large, colourful painting or print-Cardinal was never quite sure of the difference-had one wall to itself. There were also plenty of pictures of a sharp-eyed blond woman-in a skiing outfit, in a poolside lounge chair, and a professional portrait in a blue pinstripe suit. She had the startling blue eyes of the Carnwright family.

“Have a seat,” Wishart said, indicating a chair. He was handsome in a conventional way, late twenties or so, with something of the look of a politician. Not a hair out of place. “Are you here on police business or about a house?”

“Both. I have some questions about the Schumacher place out on Island Road.”

“Don’t tell me they’ve had a break-in.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Happens all the time with lake properties-well, I’m sure you know. Was there a break-in?”

“You didn’t hear the news on the radio this morning?”

“What news?”

“You’re the Schumachers’ agent, correct?”

“I guess so.”

“You’re not sure?”

Wishart smiled. “Well, this is confidential, but the Schumachers are not serious about selling. I knew that right off. I wanted to take a video of the place-it’s standard for the online listings-but they wouldn’t let me. They’re asking way above market, and I think it’s really just a ploy to get their kids to move back to Algonquin Bay. Kind of an empty-nest thing. I took them on for goodwill-if they ever really decide to sell that place, I’d love to handle it.”

“Have you been out there recently?”

Wishart pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not recently. Not for a few weeks, anyway. I’m gonna go out there and take that sign down. It’s just an invitation to trouble, obviously.”

The key was not a crucial matter-the back door of the house had been jimmied, after all-but Cardinal asked anyway.

“Yes, I have a key. I should probably return it. They’re a nice old couple, the Schumachers, but believe it or not, we do actually like to sell houses, not just put up signs.” Wishart sat forward and opened a desk drawer. He rattled around and pulled out a key and put it on his desk. “That’ll remind me to get it back to them.”

“Have you shown the house to anyone?”

“Not a soul. Had a lot of inquiries, though.”

“Phone calls? Or did you actually meet with anyone?”

“Lots of calls. The asking price put ’em off pretty quick. And a few people looked at the picture out on the veranda and came in to ask about it. That stopped soon as I added the price to the posting, though.”

“Did any of the inquiries strike you as suspicious?”

“Suspicious in what way? People are always inquiring about houses they can’t come close to affording.”

“Perhaps someone just trying to determine if the house was unoccupied at the moment? Asking after the owners’ whereabouts or habits, for example?”

“No one like that. Just people who like the idea of owning a house out on Trout Lake. No shortage of those.”

“All right. Is there anything else you can think of to tell me?”

“Well, no. I mean, it could be anybody, right? We’re talking about a break-in.”

“Actually, two people were murdered and had their heads cut off.”

Wishart went very still and blinked a few times but didn’t look away. When he spoke again, his voice was solemn. “Did I hear you right?”

“You did.”

“My God. You said they were… decapitated?”