The Boy Must Die (36 page)

“Yianni Pappas!” she cried. Then she lowered her hands. Her eyes held steady on Billy’s face, her mouth contorted into a thin, angry grin. “I hope you castrate that filthy shit.”

Dodie cleared her throat and bent down to clean up the spilled drink with a cloth she had hurriedly brought in from the bathroom.

“Leave it, for Christ’s sake, Dodie.”

Dodie blushed.

Billy crossed his legs.

“What was the arrangement between Justin and Pappas?” he asked.

Patsy straightened. “Justin borrowed cash. Yianni collects huge interest. Justin hadn’t paid. Yianni was calling in the loan. Payment in kind, even. Which can mean sex, or worse, in Yianni’s case.”

“How well do you know Yianni Pappas, Patsy?”

“What kind of question is that, Inspector?”

“Just answer him,” Butch said in a low voice.

“I borrowed from him once. And, yes, I gave him a blowjob as part of the interest.”

“Patsy!” exclaimed Dodie.

“Shut up, Dodie.”

Dodie fell into a stunned silence.

“Dodie,” asked Butch, “you are sure of the time of Patsy’s first call to you earlier this morning? You said it was around. . . .”

“I was watching a video. It finished about 1:00, or maybe a bit earlier, because I remember turning on the romance channel from Seattle, the American late-night sex channel, really, and it wasn’t on yet. They start their soft-porn program at 1:00.”

“God, Dodie,” Patsy snarled. “Get a life.”

“Where can we find Yianni, Patsy?”

“Do you mean to tell me, Chief, you don’t know about this jerk?” Butch managed a light blush, which surprised Billy. “I’m afraid not,” Butch said.

“I give him credit for staying clean on the surface at least. He owns the sports store down on Dowell. He’s been dealing dope out of there for twenty years — private-stock marijuana, mostly — and bankrolling loans for quite a few desperate people about town. Including Justin Moore. I am surprised you boys have never run into him before.”

“Sadly, Patsy. I am unaware of the man.”

“Well, now, you’re in for a delight. I saw Yianni on the street two days ago, so he’s probably still around. If I were you, I’d head downtown for a chat as soon as you can. He’s not known for being a nice guy. He burned a man once, so the rumour goes, with a blowtorch. The guy owed him something like five hundred dollars. So be careful.”

Billy and Butch stood at the same time. They moved away from the bed, and Billy thanked Patsy. She watched as they walked from the room. Through the house, all was silent.

In the front hall, Dodie came running after them. “Thank you for coming,” she said in a fumbling manner. “Patsy’s taking the Justin thing a little hard right now.”

“How do you mean?” asked Billy, who had been perplexed at Patsy’s initial callous reaction.

“Oh, I think she was crazy about him. And afraid he’d reject her. She’s in her bathroom right now crying her eyes out. I was amazed to see how long she held it in before you two decided to leave. . . .”

Billy fished a card from his pocket and handed it to Dodie. “If you can think of anything else that happened here in the last twenty-four hours, please don’t hesitate to call me at this number.” Billy and Butch walked out the front door and across the lawn to the cruiser.

“I need to call Dodd, Butch.”

Billy pulled out the com and dialled dispatch, who immediately connected him to Dodd.

“What did you find out at Mucklowe’s, Dodd?”

“He’s still up in the mountains according to Sheree. She doesn’t expect him back until later today. He has cleanup and some logs to write, she said.”

“Get an
APB
out on him — local and
RCMP
. Explain we need him for preliminary questioning as a potential witness. What else did you find out from her?”

“I told her about the body. She looked like she was going to croak. I asked her about her whereabouts and if she had received any call during the night or morning, as she had with the Riegert boy. She said she’d been alone and that no one had phoned. She didn’t really feel like talking much, Billy. Two of Mucklowe’s neighbours verified they saw lights on in the place and heard music, and one saw her take garbage to the communal chute around midnight. He said Sheree Lynn was in her housecoat.”

“And the other alibi checks?”

“I located the girlfriend, Karen Kreutz. She and her mother had been at the hospital. Karen’s dad, Henry Kreutz, had a stroke early Friday morning and has been in intensive care. Karen said she hadn’t seen Justin for a week. She and her mom were real upset to hear about Justin’s death. Karen said she didn’t have a clue about who would want
to kill him, although she said Justin was afraid of a man called Pappas. He’d lent Justin money.”

“You know Yianni Pappas?”

“He runs a sports store downtown. Why?”

“Run a check on him in the city files. See if there’ve been any traffic violations, speeding tickets, anything. Butch and I are heading over to his place now, so I’ll call in later.”

“You suspect him of being connected to this Justin Moore incident?”

“I won’t know until I meet him.”

At 1:30, Butch and Billy entered the sports store of Yianni Pappas. The cold brush of the air conditioning brought Billy a memory from earlier that day, an image of the body of Justin Moore, his head slumped forward and his genitals coated in black paint. His hiking boots had looked oddly heavy and out of place in that dark room of sordid death.

“He’s out of town,” answered the young clerk when Butch asked for Pappas. The clerk walked the two men to Yianni’s office at the back of the store and flipped on the overhead light. “Yianni said he’d be at his brother Pete’s. He stays with him when he’s up in Calgary doing business. You can try him there if you want.”

“What kind of business does he do in Calgary?” Billy asked.

“What kind?” The clerk seemed lost for a second. “I think he buys sports clothes, equipment, that kind of thing.”

“You known Yianni for long?”

“Me?” He hesitated for a moment and looked out towards the front of the store. “Not long, I guess. Listen, I can’t talk to you guys right now. I’m the only one here on sales on the weekend.” The clerk was eighteen, had short spiky hair, two rings piercing his left nostril, and a thin flat boyish body.

“Get the number of his brother.” The clerk hesitated. Billy moved to Yianni’s desk and began rummaging through the papers, tossing pencils and ledgers onto the floor.

“It’s in the top-right drawer,” said the clerk.

The clerk left the office, and Billy lifted a leather-bound notebook from the drawer. He flipped through the pages to P, found a Peter Pappas and a Calgary phone number. He handed the book to Butch, who sat at the desk and dialled. He waited, then hung up. “Answering machine,” he growled, snatching a piece of paper and jotting down the number.

Billy searched Yianni’s piles of invoices and open shelves. He picked up a brass letter opener, and when he turned it around, he saw it was actually in the shape of a penis. A green ledger book sat open on the filing cabinet. Billy drew his eyes over the page. There were a few names, a few telephone numbers. One listing was for J. Moore. Beside the name was a word scrawled in pencil. “Butch, can you make this out?” Butch was holding the receiver in his hand again and dialling information for the city of Calgary. “See, J. Moore, here in the ledger book. Coincidence?”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s a note to himself, buddy. I can’t make out the pencil scrawl.” Butch raised his hand. “You got a listing for a Peter Pappas? Yes, okay.” Butch waited, and then he grabbed the pen, started to write, but stopped. “Thanks.” He hung up. “Same number.” Butch pushed himself up from the chair, hiked his pants, and walked to a door leading into a large back storeroom. Billy followed him, and they toured the area, the workbench with the tools, the boxes piled to the ceiling. “Seems legit,” said Butch. By the door, a calendar hung on a tack. The picture above the month showed a naked young man staring provocatively at the camera. Butch stopped and looked at the calendar and sniffed.

“Must be a favourite,” said Billy. The month under the picture was December of 1991.

Back in the office, Billy found the white pages and looked up Yianni Pappas’s residence, Lakeside Estates. “Let’s go for a drive, Butch. See if anyone is at home at number 15.”

The superintendent of the five-storey building on Lakeside Estates was a short man who wore black-rimmed glasses.

“He pays on time. Leaves me a cheque first of the month. I don’t reckon I’ve seen him more than twice in my life. He in trouble?”

“Routine check,” mumbled Butch. “Mr. Pappas have a parking stall in the building?”

“Number six, first floor down.”

The stairwell was dusty and brightly lit by sconces of wire mesh surrounding hundred-watt bulbs. In the parking garage, Butch’s and Billy’s footsteps echoed off the concrete walls and the low grime-covered concrete ceiling. Number six was empty.

“If you were Pappas,” Butch said, “and were angry with Justin Moore and wanted to hurt him, would you go to the immense trouble of snuffing him out and then taking him all the way to Satan House to hang him in the basement and paint his dick? I can’t see it.”

“You’re not a psychopath. Passion leads men down strange paths, believe me. Sounds like the work of a vicious person. Could be a statement of some kind. It’s possible Yianni has nothing to do with this, but there’s got to be a link.”

In the steady green light of the autopsy suite, Hawkes appeared ghostly in his white coat. His hands were encased in beige rubber; the tape recorder’s mic lead looped down from his right lapel. The body of Justin Moore lay prone beneath his hands, its limbs purple-spotted, cold, and naked. Hawkes flipped open his forensic report, adjusted the eight-by-ten photo stapled to the corner of the chart, then double-checked the tag tied to the right wrist of the cadaver. “Moore, Justin. Male, nineteen, Caucasian, one hundred and fifty-eight pounds, seventy-two kilos, no cuts or weapon wounds on body, post-mortem lividity, post-mortem, et cetera, et cetera.” Hawkes signed his name at the top of the sheet and placed the report on the front end of the metal gurney close to the bowl where his cutting instruments were arranged. Dodd and Billy were in aprons and masks and rubber gloves. Dodd was sweating and looking pallid.

“Time of death was around one in the morning,” Hawkes announced. “We’ve run blood tests, and I’ve checked for molestation. No drugs or sexual molestation, no other foreign body fluids, and no
anal bruising. The hematoma and cut on the lower lip are pre-mortem, the result of a blow by a soft instrument. Most likely a fist.”

Hawkes cleared his throat. He was wearing a butter yellow bow tie. His brogues were brightly polished, and his white hair had been oiled and combed into a close precise shape that hugged the top of his balding head. “Gentlemen, I have perused the crime scene photos. And I’ve listened to your description, particularly the bit about the loose noose. Your medic was on the ball. This chap did not die that way. His wrists were tied up like the last cadaver’s, the Riegert boy’s, at that odd angle. Post-mortem I’d venture to say.” Turning back to the body, Hawkes lifted Justin’s neck and bent his head at a slight right angle. He slid the upper lip open; the clenched teeth were faintly stained a maroon colour. “Blood was found in the mouth, and the tongue had been bitten and was protruding just here, see, between these upper molars. Lips were slightly swollen from the asphyxiation. But there is no external bruising or marks on the epidermis.”

Dodd drew back. He was beginning to rub his forehead with the back of his hand. His face had grown paler.

“You need some air, Dodd?” Billy asked.

“No, sir. I think I can stick it out.”

Through all his years on homicide, Billy rarely had gone through a post-mortem examination without at least one of his officers becoming squeamish and jelly-kneed. He recalled that even Harry Stone, his ex-partner, had once fainted during the autopsy of a raped child. It’s the odour, thought Billy. One needs the mask not just for pathogens and occasional splatter but also for the dank stink of death. Billy reminded himself how he’d trained his own sensitive nose: stand with the stench for a minute or more and your nose goes numb. You can’t smell death or decay anymore.

For the next eight minutes, Hawkes took up his cutting instruments. Beginning with the muscle and skin around the neck, he began explaining the various layers of dermis and epidermis he’d be dissecting.

“Dodd, if you need a break,” scolded Hawkes, “go out now before I start.”

Dodd was holding his hand over his nose and mouth.

“Listen, for God’s sake, take your hand down, man! Let yourself get used to it for a minute. It won’t bite for long.”

Billy watched Dodd blush above his paper mask. He lowered his hand and stood at attention, mindful of Hawkes’s sharp voice. The coroner went on to explain the lack of a distinct ligature trace on the neck. He held up his scalpel as he talked.

“So, sir,” attempted Dodd, “can we dismiss this as a suicide?” Dodd’s voice was brave but hurried, nervous.

“Perhaps,” answered Hawkes. The scalpel cut into the white of Justin Moore’s neck. Pulling the blade towards himself, Hawkes cut a perfect line under the cricoid, the cartilage of the larynx, and then began section-cutting the creases of the epidermis.

Billy always found the autopsy intriguing, the layering of the skin, the measuring of body organs, and the precise analysis of symptoms of murder found in the smallest of punctures or the most blasted areas of bone and skin. Looking up, however, Billy saw Dodd turn ashen. Just as he was about to keel over, Billy moved. Catching Dodd under the left arm, he held the man as his eyes rolled back. Billy laid him gently on the floor and heard Hawkes march to the door of the morgue. “Bolling!” Billy loosened Dodd’s collar and took his pulse. Hawkes came back to Billy’s side. “He hurt himself?”

“He’ll be fine,” Billy answered.

Flicking open his eyes, Dodd panted. The sweat on his forehead started to bead. Bolling entered the morgue. He was carrying a glass of water. He knelt down, lifted Dodd’s head, gave him a sip, and then helped him stand and walk into the hall, where he placed him on a chair, his head between his knees. “When he’s steadier,” Billy said to Bolling, “bring him back in. This is routine stuff, and he needs to get used to it.”