Crime Machine (6 page)

“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?”

“That’s right.”

“My God,” he said again. “But—so, are you looking for some insane individual, like a psycho of some sort?”

“Of some sort.”

“My God.”

“Just for the record, Mr. Wishart, can you tell me where you were Thursday night?”

“Thursday night? That’s easy. I was watching the game at a friend’s place. Leafs lost, of course. Troy was destroyed. He’s a serious Leafs fan. I mean
serious
. God, I can’t get over this.”

“Troy?”

“Troy Campbell. We went to high school together.”

“I’ll need his address. Home and work.”

“What? Oh, of course.”

Wishart gave him the addresses and Cardinal wrote them down. Then Wishart went with him to the front door, still a little stunned.

Cardinal asked him about the Acura parked outside.

“Pardon me?”

“The black Acura. It’s yours?”

“Oh. Yes. Speaking of things we can’t afford. God, I can’t get over this. It’s horrifying. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“You can. We need you to come down to the station to be fingerprinted.”

“Sure. Absolutely. I’ll try to get down later in the week.”

“Today, Mr. Wishart.”

—

On his way back to the office, Cardinal stopped off at the local hockey arena, which was called Memorial Gardens, although no one knew in memory of what. It was only a couple of blocks from work. Cardinal couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a game, but even though the concession stands were not open at this hour, the smells of popcorn and caramel hadn’t changed. A janitor mopping the front lobby directed him to the security office.

A lot of security people are former police officers, or people who want to be police officers. Troy Campbell was neither. A tall man with shoulders that looked like they could support a small cathedral, Campbell was a former captain of the Algonquin Bay Trappers, the local Junior A hockey team. A photograph on the cinder-block wall showed him swooping away from a goal, stick high in the air. He still had the blond hair of the photograph, but it was thinner now, unlike the rest of him.

“What can I do for you, Detective? The only time I see police is when we have to charge some drunk for throwing bottles on the ice.” Campbell had the easy confidence of a man who is used to being the biggest in the room.

“I’m investigating a major crime, and right now I’m just nailing down a few corroborating details.”

“Nothing at the Gardens, I hope.”

“No. But I need to know where you were Thursday night.”

“Where
I
was.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I don’t understand. Why do I have to tell you where
I
was?”

“You don’t have to. But it’s pertinent to our investigation, so it depends how helpful you want to be. Or not.”

Campbell laughed. “Sorry. Don’t get me wrong. I’m just mystified. I’m glad to help. Thursday night I was here. Intramural game.”

“You were here.”

“Yeah. No, wait. Thursday? Thursday I was home. Watching the Leafs on TSN. Total, blatant robbery. You see it?”

“Leafs lost, I take it.”

“It was obscene, no other word for it. There was no way Komisarek threw the first punch. Five minutes for fighting and they go from one-nothing to a three-one loss. Ref that called it was Desrosiers. Biased much? Anybody but a French Canadian could see that fight was started by Laraque. I mean, look at the tape, for God’s sake. I’m telling you, some people think refs don’t know what they’re doing, but refs know
exactly
what they’re doing. They know
exactly.”

“Anybody watch it with you?”

“Yeah, Randy Wishart. Buddy of mine. Ask him. I nearly threw my beer at the TV screen, and I’m not gonna tell you what I paid for that sucker.”

Cardinal got a few more details, and then thanked him for his help.

“Hey, any time. Let me give you some free tickets to the Trappers.”

“Thanks, but I really can’t. It makes me too crazy.”

“Crazy?” Campbell’s wide brow furrowed, and he rubbed a hand through his thinning blondness. “You mean cuz of all the fights?”

“The refs. It’s just too painful.”

“Well, yeah, but up here when they make a mistake, it’s cuz they’re old or blind. Montreal, it’s an outright conspiracy.”

W
HEN CARDINAL GOT BACK
to the station, Ident’s walls were covered with photographs. Images were tacked to the bulletin board, to the shelves, and taped to the windows, making their cramped quarters even more claustrophobic than usual. The pictures showed every conceivable angle on footprints and tire prints. And the arrangement didn’t make much sense to Cardinal until Paul Arsenault started explaining.

“The fresh snow gives us a pretty clear picture of who’s who,” he said. “We’ve got tire tracks from two vehicles.” He pointed to a photograph. “These were there first. We’re checking the databases, but for now we know that it’s a mid-size car, not too heavy. The second vehicle is smaller and lighter, pretty new treads. Its tracks are on top of the other car’s, but we can’t say anything more than that in terms of timing.

“Now, shoe prints. Again, the initial sorting is easy because we were able to take moulds from the shoes of the two victims. The woman’s boots—tiny triangular front, small square for the heel, size fives. The man’s are size twelve galoshes—note the shallow tread. Hers are Manolo Blahniks, his are Cole Haan—didn’t have to look those up, obviously, since they were still at the scene. Took some fibres off the tread of the man’s galoshes, but fibres, you know—that’s out of our league.

“Which leaves our headhunter. Same size, but a totally different kind of boot. Look at that: deep tread on heel and toe. We’re talking serious outdoor footwear here, and I’d say they’re pretty new. We should be able to get a make on those pretty quick.”

“Tell him about the master bedroom.” Collingwood spoke from his desk without looking at them.

“Well, we’ve got the broken window and the blood. And we’ve got clear prints from the sill and the chair. Blood type is different from the other room.

“Under the bed, even more interesting. Good layer of dust under there, and look at this. We lifted the bed out of the way to shoot these. You can see where someone’s hands were—not the kind of prints you might make pulling something out from under the bed.”

“No, looks more like someone slid under there to hide.”

“Handprints this end, facing out. And this way you’ve got leg and toe. Yeah, we think someone was hiding. Picked up some hairs from the top of the bed. A couple of them short, brown. Another one long, black. Now, I’ve met the Schumachers—they came in right away to give prints—so I know these hairs have nothing to do with them. We also know that some of the prints on the bedside tables are theirs and some of them are not. One set matches whoever broke out the window, the other set matches some we found on the front door but nowhere else—not on the table or the glasses.”

“Let me get this straight,” Cardinal said. “You’re saying we’re looking at
five
different people now, not just four?”

“Looks that way.”

“We’ve got all these prints but nothing that matches any criminal record?”

“Not yet. Could still happen, though. Problem for me and Bob is too much evidence, not too little. For example, we pulled a whole bunch of blue fibres off the top of the bed. No big deal, except we didn’t find any blue blankets—we photographed the linen closets and the other beds, you can see for yourself. Plus, I asked the Schumachers and they say they don’t own any blue blankets.”