Читать книгу Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 7

Boone called the detachment the next morning. “Daso’s got the autopsy scheduled for nine thirty. Just got around to checking my answering machine. Late night at the legion.” Holly washed down the thistle scratching her throat with bitter coffee. Chipper had arrived first, and apparently he liked his brew strong enough to trot a deer. “I’d like to be there. Do you think that—”

“Hell, we can still make most of it. Traffic’s light now. Pick me up fifteen minutes ago.”

He was standing in front of his doublewide behind the Kemp Lake store at the Olympic View Park when Holly drove up minutes later. The ocean-view spot catered to retirees, who owned well-kept modern units with elaborate porches or sheds, even a small plot of land. A white cat twirled around his feet like a fluffy fog. “Cassandra’s deaf,” he said, stroking its head. “Many white cats are. She doesn’t wander far. Knows she’d make a nice snack for a cougar.”

“Apparently there’s a wounded one at large in the John Muir area. Nearly took out a chihuahua.”

“Keep your voice down,” he said with a mock-worried look. “The old gal lipreads.”

At the first stoplight, they turned left and cozied in behind a strip mall. Nestled there was the latest Sooke coffeehouse, the Stick-in-the-Mud. Run by trained barista Dave Evans, a neighbour of Holly’s, it sold the best java in town, not a bitter bean in a carload.

The regulars were lining up, while others were in leather armchairs reading the Times Colonist or the free Monday tabloid with its radical Seventies flavor. Laptop computer keys clicked. While Boone went to the washroom (“prostrate,” he said with a chuckle). Holly ordered an Americano for herself, and a daily special, Kenya, for him, doctoring them at the depot. Then a raucous voice took her back to the past with the zing of a bungee cord.

“Holly! Holly-O. Damn! And check that uniform. You look maaaaaavelous.” Valerie Novince kissed her manicured fingers and planted her hands on her broad hips. Her dark brown hair was now platinum blonde and teased. The dimples in her merry face cheered any room.

Holly gave her a warm hug, flattered that Valerie remembered the “O” for Oldham, a family name dating back to their ancestral home in Devonshire. “Hello, friend. This is a wonderful surprise. What have you been up to?”

Valerie explained that she had spent two years in the army, then returned for real estate training at Camosun College. A curvaceous eyebrow spoke pages. “I was a baaaad girl, but the army gave me discipline. Remember when I got expelled from ND for smoking?”

Holly laughed. “Twice, wasn’t it? I was glad to see the back of that place, too. But how did the army survive your invasions?”

“Hey, I made master sergeant on my riflery alone. Every time I went to the range, I had that ugly old gang of skanks in my sights.” She raised her arms in a shooting gesture, attracting some attention from a white-haired lady carrying a Pomeranian. “Pow, pow.”

“Uh, Val, I think—”

Valerie gave a thumbs-up. “Slim as ever, you. And I’ve gained the last ten pounds since I stopped smoking. Hey, do you still rescue banana slugs? Damn, that was funny.”

Despite the stares surrounding them, Holly couldn’t help smiling. “To serve and protect has always been my motto.”

“So it has, and you figured it out. We’ve got to get together.”

Valerie padded wicked coral nails on her shiny lips. “Say, do you need a house? Meet Sooke’s top seller.”

“You’re out of luck. I’m living with my father on Otter Point Place.”

“Woo, woo. High rent district.” Valeria plucked a card from her elephantine purse. “If you ever want a place for yourself, short term, easy-sell, consider a mobile, uh, manufactured home. It’s an investment. I have one for only $79,000 in Wells o’ Weary. Right on the ocean. Lapping waves will sing you to sleep.”

“And when the big wave comes?” Tsunami warning signs along the coastal road had made realtors furious and alarmed local businesses so much that they were removed within a few months. Now tourists could travel the road at their own blissful risk.

Valerie elbowed her way into the lineup. “You’ll be the first one to know, so call my cell!”

Back in the car, they passed the Log, a grassy meeting place, which anchored the town. A fifty-foot Douglas fir post displayed two carved loggers, one balanced with an axe on a springboard perch aiming at a cut above the thick butt and the other climbing to the top using a strap and cleats.

The forty-five minutes into Victoria went quickly. Delayed only for a moment behind one of the signature red double-decker buses, they took Sooke Road, Route 14, through Milne’s Landing, skirting Metchosin and entering Langford, then merging with the Island Highway in View Royal.

The Victoria Metropolitan area consisted of twelve municipalities with a total of 335,000 people. Long a retirement mecca, it also attracted tourists with its “More English than the English” atmosphere, or lately a controversial campaign promising better orgasms. Sadly, urban crime had made serious inroads in the small core of 74,000. The spectres of substance abuse and homelessness were more evident in the balmy climate than at the frigid corners of Portage and Main in Winnipeg. Low-cost housing had been a promise for decades, but only million-dollar condos were shooting their floors skyward.

Then they followed narrow Bay Street east all the way to the venerable Royal Jubilee Hospital, serving the city since 1890, when the old Queen reigned. Leaving the car in the lot, they entered the front lobby and took an elevator to the basement to the morgue and autopsy rooms. “I left a message with Daso’s secretary. He’ll be expecting us,” Boone said.

Holly had to remind herself that this was real, not a staged event. Anyone with a sense of humanity was never fully prepared. They pushed through into the office and were given green gowns, paper hats and shoe protectors by a young technician. Through a glass portal, a white-coated man waved.

The room was large but low-ceilinged, a typical old basement. At least ten tables waited. Two held bodies, each covered with a large white sheet. Immaculate if claustrophobic, the room was cool. Fluorescent light banks lit the room, along with spots on angled arms at each site. She heard something frisky. Salsa music?

As if preparing for an exam, she scanned the instruments on a side table and tried to recall their names and purposes. Scissors, but beginning with E? Enterotome, used for opening the intestines, the blunt bulb at the end to prevent perforation of the gut. Scalpels, rib cutters, toothed forceps, skull chisel, and the famous vibrating Stryker saw, which had revolutionized autopsies. Those tools on a white cloth were clean, those on the next rolling table bore the inevitable effluvium of the body. A third shelf held surgeon’s needles, Hagedorn by name, and heavy twine, coarser than ordinary suture threads, for the workmanlike closing. Realizing with embarrassment that she was moving her lips, she looked down and noticed that the floor was flecked with blood. She presumed that the organs had already been removed in some Russian-sounding method that escaped her. Once, a neighbour had gutted a deer that had crossed their path in untimely fashion. To her astonishment, once connections were cut, everything lifted out in a neat package.

Boone introduced Holly, who stuck out her hand in reflex until Vic held up a soiled latex glove and shook his head with a smile. Her breathing was shallow, but she noticed a strange peppermint smell. Vic cocked a thumb at an air-freshener device seen on television, puffing out occasional drafts. A white-sheeted form, blotted with a few stains, lay on the steel table. “Virgin?” he asked her.

Her face reddening, and tempted to bluff, Holly conceded.

“Yes and no. I’ve seen the procedure on...interactive videos.”

“Those little cartoons where you move the mouse and pick up the organs? Modern version of that game where you had to pull out body parts with an electric tweezer without touching the sides of the opening. Got that for my seventh birthday.”

Boone cleared his throat. Holly felt a pressure in her chest, as if she were under the massive boulder called Sir on Muir Beach.

She was not going to faint. Concentration was all. Focus.

“About time you got here. I was just going to put Angie back,” he said. “All done.”

“Anything conclusive?” She noted with approval his use of the name. Before much longer, nothing tangible would remain of the girl. She was already gone, the carapace merely a rebuke to her attendants. Like an efficient waiter, Vic’s chubby assistant was already packing up the instruments for the autoclave in the corner. She remembered the historic word for the examiner’s helper, diener, translated from the German as servant. Not an inapplicable term, but no longer PC.

He gave her a skeptical look. Vic was in his late forties, fuzzy brown hair in an Afro. He had a small, precise mouth and the ears of an elf. A cleft in his chin added a winsome touch. “Mr. Conclusive is a creature we seldom meet, a birthday present wrapped with a shiny ribbon. Life down here in the crypt isn’t like that.”

Left feeling like a television script writer in a cancelled series, Holly shuffled her feet. “Sorry, I...”

Leaving Angie’s head covered, he pulled back the sheet to breast level. “No need to compromise her dignity. We’ll use the relevant areas.”

Holly pulled up her own gown to dig notebook and pen from a pocket. “Shoot. I mean go.”

“It’s all on tape if you want a copy,” he said, pointing at the dangling microphone. “But as for highlights, she presents as a well-nourished and muscular female of seventeen. You can see the strong development in the upper arms and shoulders. In the neck, too.”

Holly added, “She was a swimmer. That’s what makes this acc—”

“All the organs are in top shape. Last meal some sort of chili. Also chocolate, marshmallows, crackers. What do you call that campfire stuff?”

The idea of eating repulsed her, but Holly answered, “S’mores. Nothing unusual there.”

Boone sucked on his empty pipe, this time a Meerschaum model. As a smoking deterrent, she supposed it wasn’t far removed from those plastic cigarettes. “Tox scan?”

“Some alcohol. About .03. Well under the breathalyser. Couple of beers, I’d say. We’re still waiting on the drug reports.

They’ll go to Vancouver to the lab.”

“So she couldn’t have been drunk and fallen into the water.”

He levelled dark little chameleon eyes at her, black, then brown as the light shifted. “You don’t have to be drunk to fall.

Broke my damn ribs in the tub one night. Pathetic.”

She bit her lip, feeling shorter than a garden gnome. “I guess not. And the head injuries?”

“Ready? One rookie fainted and split open his scalp only last week. When you see the face, it gets more personal...at least in the beginning.”

She blinked and nodded, locking eyes with Boone for a moment. His gaze sent her a blessing.

Gently, Vic pulled back the sheet from Angie’s head. Holly wondered why it had been necessary to examine the brain in a drowning. Could they determine some type of seizure? Strokes were rare in young people, but they did happen without warning. On closer inspection, she noticed no signs of cutting. Angie’s eyes were tactfully shut, and if anything, she looked peaceful though pale.

“So you don’t do a full autopsy? Take out the...brain?” she asked. Boone had a wisp of a smile on his face. She felt like a source of entertainment, then chastised herself for self-focus.

“Funny, that’s the first thing people think of. After the Y incision, it’s so classic. Bet neither of you knows when the first autopsy in North America....amend that...the first autopsy over here by Europeans, took place.”

They both shook their heads. “That’s why I love you, Vic.

I always learn something new,” said Boone.

“Winter of 1604-5. St. Croix Island down in Maine near the New Brunswick border. At a settlement of Champlain’s, nearly half of the seventy-nine settlers died over a harsh winter. Panic set in.”

Holly wondered, “How did anyone discover this?”

“Champlain’s memoirs a few years later described how he ordered his surgeon to ‘open’ some of the men. Excavations by the National Park Service in 2003 found skulls cut just like they are today. Neat as can be. Turned out it was scurvy. No need to look at the brain for that.” He gave them a grin. “Should have followed the native diet. Perfectly balanced. Now ours is killing aboriginals.”

Holly wanted a better answer. “So why not examine the brain?”

“How many tax dollars do you want to spend for little payback? It’s not that simple, either. First off, the brain fresh out of the skull is very hard to work with. It needs to firm up in formalin for week or two.”

The image brought a sudden queasiness that tugged at her gorge. “That long? So then the family can’t...” Her voice trailed off.

“That’s a tough decision. Funeral, burial, cremation might be delayed. For a useless formality, do you think they want their loved one sent to heaven without a brain?”

The floppy scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz danced across her memory. “I see. It’s a very emotional issue.” The terminology was returning. The calvarium, the vaulted part of the skull that protects the brain. A lyrical word, from the Latin calvaria, skull. A Catholic education scores again. Her father would enjoy that piece of trivia. She realized that she was babbling behind her own curtain and gave herself a mental slap “upside the head.”

“Anyway, in this case X-rays revealed no skull fracture. Drowning was clearly the cause of death.”

The skin on the girl’s face was untouched, but to the side, a section had been probed to examine the wound. “What did you find around the bruise on the temple?”

“Rock debris. Small marine pieces. Algae. The usual beach suspects. I put them under the microscope and later did a scan.” Cautious, Holly searched for another option. “Could she have been hit with a rock?”

“Are we talking meteors? Anything’s possible, but is it probable?” Vic shook his head. “You can knock yourself senseless from a fall. Hell, I lost consciousness for five minutes banging my head on a snowpack when I bombed out running moguls.”

“What else makes you think it was an accident?” Why was she pursuing this? Was it Ben Rogers who had told her that mindless but useful saying about “assuming” making an ass of you and me?

“Hard to say. Whether the stone hits the pitcher or the pitcher hits the stone—”

Holly gave a knowing sigh. “Man of La Mancha. My father’s favourite musical. ‘It’s going to be bad for the pitcher’.”

Walking on uneven ground in coves in the dark could have sent Angie off balance, given those few beers. Holly tried to remember if there had been a moon that night. “The beach has some very rough spots. She could have taken a tumble. And at that time of night, the tide would still have been high.” “Seems to fit. She was still breathing when she went into the water. Her lungs are full of sea water.”

“Of course.” She folded her arms. Let Occam’s razor settle the case.

Vic gave a soft snort. “Not really. There is such a thing as a dry drowning.”

“Our coroner told me about that,” she added with a nod to her companion.

Boone replied, “It’s one in a million to fall a few feet and kill yourself. Better odds at winning the lottery. Still, people fall off ladders cleaning moss from their gutters. It’s the where, not why and how. The water was waiting. Without that factor...”

“Fill me in a bit more on the scene. Nobody saw anything? I understand her school was camping near there. Why was she off alone?” Vic asked. With an unexpected sigh, he replaced the sheet as if to trouble her as little as possible. Then he clasped his hands as if in silent prayer.

Holly searched her memory and took a deep breath. She wanted to help this man as much as he wanted to help her. “A good question. The campsite was a long hike from the beach, but we think that she used a bike, and she was an athlete. Fifteen minutes, twenty. Maybe she just wanted to get away by herself. As for the others, it was dark except for the campfires and an occasional flashlight. No one started to look for her until the next morning.”

“Why so sure that she was alone?” Vic asked quietly.

“We interviewed everyone involved. Are you suggesting... sexual activity?” Holly wondered about the logistics. “But if she’d been in the water—”

Vic clicked his teeth together twice. “The vagina’s plenty tight when it wants to be. Sealed like a clam.”

Was Boone smiling, or was it her imagination? Holly felt her face flush.

“We did the usual swabs. No sign of sperm, though she’s not technically a virgin. Hymens are tricky, especially in active women. It’s not usually a topic of dinner conversation, but a freakish blow to the vaginal area, gym equipment such as monkey bars, even bikes can have the same result.”

Ouch. Holly recalled the condom wrapper by the site. It could have belonged to anyone, and it might have been there for days. Still, she was glad that she’d had Chipper comb the area before the winds rose.

Boone checked his watch. “Anything else, Vic? I’ve got some surveillance to run later this afternoon. Old fart pensioners like me have to earn a living.”

Vic glanced over to where one of his assistants was pointing at the wall clock. “Guess we’d better wrap this up.” He shifted the sheet and lifted each arm and leg. Rigor had released its grip. Holly winced again at the tissue shredding on the arm. “The abrasions are consistent with exposure to rocks...and to crustacean nibblers. Every animal’s an opportunist. Can’t blame them.”

“So are some people. At least she didn’t die hard,” Holly said, remembering the tragic beating and drowning death of a teen in Victoria by a mob of students.

All the way back through the shadowy, winding hills, the silence was palpable. “Looks like we’re going to call this one an accident, inasmuch as no one saw what happened, and the body hasn’t told us different.” Boone said. “Still got those tox scans, though.”

The CBC was accumulating static the farther they drove towards Sooke. Holly grimaced and reached out a hand.

“Allow me.” Boone tuned in a Bach cantata, an excellent choice for the mood. “NPR from Washington State has better reception. Just don’t look for country and western unless the weather is clear.”

“I grew up here, but I’ve been gone since I left for university.” Holly shook her head as a transport passed them with a roar at the Humpback Road just before the four-lane ended. Before she could decide whether to delay them by pursuing him for speeding, she realized she was ten kilometres under the limit. Too much thinking and rote movement.

She took advantage of their final minutes together to confess her doubts about handling the interviews. Boone was easy to talk to, on the gruff side but non-judgmental. “Maybe I didn’t ask the right questions. It’s my first time heading up an investigation. Being a foot soldier was easy. Do what you’re told. I’m wondering if I’m too—”

He mock-punched her arm. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Why, I remember...” He launched off into a time machine of the Seventies and Eighties, culminating when he gave evidence that helped put Clifford Olson behind bars. In 1982 the confessed serial killer and child kidnapper had pleaded guilty to eleven counts of murder and was sentenced to eleven concurrent terms. He’d been up for parole several times but would never be free. The public outrage at his negotiating a payment of $100,000 for his wife in exchange for revealing the whereabouts of the bodies, deep in the British Columbia wilderness, had never cooled. There was a price for closure, Holly, thought, mindful of her mother. What would she pay to find her, dead or alive? Could Boone, with his connections and investigative skills, help? Should she suggest to her father that they hire him? What did the costs matter? Norman had pots of money tucked away in mutual funds.

She let Boone off at his trailer, then proceeded to the detachment. Chipper was talking to a pair of tourists in bright floral shirts and Tilley hats. The woman carried a camera and the man a fancy carved walking stick. A camper with Oregon plates was parked behind them, and a toy poodle barked out its brains in the rear window, flailing paws at the glass. Chipper was smiling as he pointed out places on their road map. The couple tried not to stare at his imposing figure, but it was a losing proposition. His outfit said everything the world needed to know about Canada’s commitment to multi-culturalism.

Every “horseman” knew about the landmark decision in 1990 when Baltej Singh Dhillon had won his battle to wear the Sikh turban despite a petition from nearly 200,000 irate Canadians who defended their objections all the way to the Supreme Court. The five Ks were represented: the kes, kirpan, kara, kanghas and kachh. Turban and beard, steel bracelet, ceremonial dagger, hair comb and sash. All had profound meaning. Though some die-hard militarists still frowned on the adaptation of the uniform, others greeted it as a progressive nod in the British tradition of proud Gurkha regiments.

“See me in my office, Constable,” she said as she walked by. Inside, the door to the tiny lunch room stood open, and Ann sat at a table. The aroma of a spicy soup from her Thermos filled the air. On a paper plate was a slice of cornbread. She was reading a copy of Maclean’s and wearing ear buds. Her son had given her an iPod loaded with country and western stars, the Dixie Chicks in particular, Chipper had mentioned. He and Ann were friendly, some sort of maternal effect, Holly imagined. As for Ann, perhaps she’d take that early retirement sooner than she’d imagined. The bitter daily pill of working through pain, directed by a younger woman who should have been her staff, might take an added toll. Holly didn’t doubt that Ann had been a top officer, but the breaks had eluded her, and her time had passed.

The bulletin board featured posters of missing girls and women. Unlike the Vancouver prostitutes, whose disappearance had gone unquestioned for years, cases involving model citizens got higher priority. She glanced at a winsome school picture of a seventh-grade girl in Campbell River. Fifteen years ago she had gone to the convenience store for a video and never returned. Every province had its share. Except for the population strip along the U.S. border, the country was so vast that it was easy to make someone disappear. Was that what had happened to her mother? Would old bones in 2108 explain why she had left her home and family? Who would care enough by then to maintain the records? All the more reason for pursuing every thread. Yet where could she start? Should she take another look at the official reports? How much trouble would that be with a clear conflict of interest?

Chipper took a chair across from her desk. “What happened at the autopsy? Was it tough to watch?”

“You get used to it, I suppose, but I wouldn’t want to.” She explained the signal points of Vic’s preliminary analysis. Slowly he took in the information, whistling softly. “Boone thinks the death will be ruled inconclusive? That’s the term, right?”

“Unless something else turns up. The urine tox scans aren’t in.” Chipper folded his hands, lacing long, supple fingers. “You’re talking about pot, I guess, or coke. Hard to imagine them shooting dope on a Catholic school trip, twenty feet from a campfire.”

She shifted, an uneasy feeling inching down her spine. First-time jitters in an administrative job? Would a man have the same misgivings? “I wonder if I should call someone in on this. Just to be sure. All they can do is say no, right?”

His dark eyes sparkled, and his voice assumed a confident tone. “I didn’t like the ex-boyfriend. And I thought that Gable was creepy. But that’s not enough, is it?”

She leaned forward, read the innocence and insouciance on his fresh face. “Creepy? Hardly a logical approach.”

Chipper, blinking at the slight reprimand, took a sip of the tea in his mug, releasing a faint jasmine scent. “Want me to call West Shore? Don’t get your hopes up. They’ve been bitching about being several officers short. A couple more joined the Victoria force in order to get permanent postings. Where’s the loyalty?”

Holly took a deep breath and watched Chipper watch her. It was protocol. If there were the slightest suspicions of foul play, it was her duty as the head of a small post to let superiors decide if more resources should be requisitioned for a blitz. The traditional first forty-eight, a cliché on its own. But how slight was slight? Wasn’t it wiser to err on the side of caution? “I’ll do it.”

Sooke was the nearest detachment, but it had no inspectors among its fourteen constables, corporals and staff sergeant. If West Shore wanted to read her as a panicky rookie and said no, she’d bury this and return to traffic control and lost dogs. Or was nemesis looking for a bride?

Something pattered on the window, and she looked up. Rain at last, big fat healthy drops. After the long summer drought, September would see the precipitation double in each following month, then fall as precipitously in the new year. What was that verse?

If it’s sunny in Victoria, it’s cloudy in Vancouver.

If it’s cloudy in Victoria, it’s raining in Vancouver.

If it’s raining in Victoria, it’s pouring in Vancouver.

If it’s pouring in Victoria, god help Vancouver.