Giles Blunt: Crime Machine

“Who called it in?”

“Couple of boys out for a hike along the shore. They swear they didn’t break the lock or the window, and I believe them.”

“A hike in the pitch dark?” Delorme said.

“I know. They’re like thirteen, parents away for the weekend, and I’d guess the older brother is the world’s worst babysitter.” She said their names and that they lived on Water Road, which was on the far shore, back toward town. “I put ’em in the squad car.”

Delorme stepped up to the front window of the house, holding her flashlight to the glass.

“Take a deep breath before you look,” Gifford said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Delorme stepped back from the window, and turned away.

Cardinal went next, also holding his flashlight to the glass. The bodies were toward the back of the house, little more than silhouettes at this distance. “Jesus,” he said, and stepped back.

He started toward the back of the house, Delorme following.

“We probably should have left the car back at the road,” Gifford said. “But far as we knew, it could’ve been anything from a prank call to a hostage situation. I tried not to run over those, though.” She pointed to the tire tracks between the house and the squad car. “Those were already here.”

“Two vehicles,” Cardinal said. “Clear tracks, too.”

“Should I come with you inside?”

“We need you to stay here and make sure no one steps on that porch,” Cardinal said.

–

Sandy and Doug were thirteen and fourteen years old. Best friends. A lot of people might have expected them to be traumatized by what they’d seen, but Cardinal knew they’d be bright-eyed with excitement. He and Delorme took separate statements from them, the only difficulty being trying to slow them down. They had been walking along the south side of the peninsula, not on the ice but on the shore. They weren’t up to any mischief, just out for a hike around the shore. But curiosity got the better of them and they decided to take a peek in the windows of this house on the tip of the peninsula.

As soon as the boys had looked in the back window and “like finished puking our guts out,” they had called the police. Constables Gifford and Rankin had arrived, checked out the window and made them wait in the car.

Cardinal pointed his flashlight at the tracks leading from the lake to the house, the tracks leading back. “Were any of those tracks here before you went up to the house?”

The boys looked at each other and shook their heads.

“The back door lock has been jimmied and there’s a broken window,” Cardinal said. “Would you know anything about that?”

Again they shook their heads.

After a few more questions Cardinal gave them his card. “Did you tell anybody about this yet?”

“Nope,” the younger boy said.

“Good. Don’t tell anyone until tomorrow-we don’t want the bad guys to hear anything until it hits the news. You did the right thing calling it in. Wait in the car and we’ll have someone drive you home.”

The boys looked disappointed. “We’d kind of like to stay and watch the CSI guys, if that’s okay,” the older one said.

“Sorry. Can’t allow any unnecessary personnel on the scene.”

“First on the scene,” the younger one said. “We’re material witnesses!”

“Right you are, Inspector-if there’s a trial. But for now, you have to vamoose.”

As he and Delorme turned toward the back of the house, Cardinal said, “Let’s get someone to tape off the back perimeter. We don’t want any more CSI fans poking around.”

–

Ident arrived, and all of them-the two ident guys, Cardinal and Delorme-struggled into paper suits with rubber feet that would keep their influence on the scene to a minimum. Bunny suits, they called them.

“We’re lucky in one thing already,” Cardinal said. “We’ve got good footprints that haven’t been snowed on. Before we go in, we’re going to get photos and videos of all the tracks at the front door, the sides of the house and at the back. When we look back on this, we want to be a hundred percent sure what was here and what wasn’t.”

Paul Arsenault, the senior ident man, was switching on his video camera as he spoke, and his partner Bob Collingwood had the two young witnesses come out of the squad car and make fresh footprints, which he photographed under bright light. The boys co-operated in a state of solemn excitement.

When they had photographed everything up to the back door, Cardinal went in, followed by Delorme and the coroner.

“The heat’s off,” Cardinal said. “Owners would turn it down, not off-first big freeze, the pipes are going to burst.”

The dead, two of them, were seated at the dining room table, on opposite sides, fixed in the moonlight as if in conversation. Cardinal felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir. He turned on the lights and moved closer to the bodies, looking at one then the other. One male, one female, both hideously foreshortened, both dressed in beautiful fur coats, one sable, one mink.

“First thing,” Cardinal said, “we have a holdback.” He pointed to the knife handle sticking out of the dead man’s back. “Let’s keep the knife to ourselves for the moment.”

Various grunts of agreement from around the room. Collingwood took a few shots close up. Arsenault had remained outside to continue recording exterior evidence.

Cardinal checked the man’s pockets for ID, Delorme checked the woman’s. Nothing.

“Nobody’s pockets are that empty,” Cardinal said. “No keys, no change, no receipts.” He knelt to pull leather gloves from all four of the victims’ hands. The skin had the same hue as that of a frozen turkey. He didn’t want to look above the shoulder line on either of them, where their faces should have been. “Who are they?” Cardinal asked of the room at large. “Anybody know?”

“Ruth and Joseph Schumacher.” It was Neil Dunbar who spoke. He was coming in through the kitchen, plump in his paper hood and coveralls. “I looked them up in the reverse directory before I hopped in the car. They’ve owned the place for twenty years.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s them,” Cardinal said. Dunbar was new on the CID squad, young, and what their detective sergeant liked to call self-motivated.

Cardinal moved toward a country pine buffet with framed photographs all over it. There was a picture of a couple standing in front of the house in summer.

“The woman in the picture is wearing a simple wedding band, same with the man. These two,” Cardinal said, pointing at the four dead hands, “are a little more flashy, wouldn’t you say?”

Dunbar moved forward and peered at the hands. “That doesn’t mean it’s not them.”

“Also, her skin. This person is a lot younger than the woman in the picture.” He pointed at their feet. “The man’s wearing shoes. Why isn’t she?”

“Took ’em off at the front door,” Delorme said. “Expensive pair of leather boots for her, galoshes for him. I’d say these are not the people who broke in the back door.”

“What do you think his wingtips cost? Three hundred? More? Not a cop, obviously.”

The coroner, Dr. Beasley, was done in ten minutes. He scribbled on a form, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Cardinal. “Preliminary finding of foul play. You’re going to need everything Toronto has to offer.”

“That’s it?”

“All I can give you on time of death is more than eight hours, less than forty-eight. You’re going to have to get ’em on the table in Toronto to narrow it down. The knife in the back was post-mortem, as was the trauma to the neck.”

“That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen a coroner leave,” Delorme said when he was gone.