The Calling (18 page)

'If you told them something that wasn't entirely
untrue, I think they might go away and write something
less damaging than what was in today's
Record
. That's all I'm thinking.'

'Well, thank you, Eileen. I'll take your views into
consideration.'

PC Bail seemed to bow slightly and then she
walked backward to the door and left. Hazel looked
down at her notes again. She counted nine
exclamation points and there were six words
underlined. With a grunt of disgust, she swept the
papers off the desk and into the garbage can.

* * *

At nine o'clock, she stood at the front of the conference
room. They'd taken away all but the table
she stood behind for the purpose of meeting the
press. About thirty people had piled into the room.
She saw most of her staff, including the officers
seconded from Mayfair, as well as a number of faces
she didn't recognize, which she presumed were
members of the Westmuir County's fifth estate, if
not beyond. She scanned the room for Gord
Sunderland's face, but he had not yet arrived.
Coward.

She nodded to Eileen to close the door at the
back of the room, and then Hazel brought up that
morning's edition of the
Westmuir Record
and held
the front page up for all to see. Eileen locked eyes
with her, and then Hazel put the paper down on
the podium in front of her. 'Good morning, everyone,'
she said. 'I'm sorry it's taken this long to have
a proper Q&A, but judging from this morning's
paper, the time would seem right to correct some
misperceptions. First off, we don't know what the
person who perpetrated these two crimes wants. It's
not drugs, however. He left a bathroom full of
sedatives and painkillers in Michael Ulmer's house.
I'll tell you a few things we
do
know.' Several of the
reporters opened their notebooks. 'The victims are
not related in any way. We don't know why the
killer chose either of them. And we don't know
where the killer is or where he or she is headed.'

A reporter from the Hoxley monthly raised his
hand. She thought his name was Aaron. 'Excuse
me, Inspector, but is there anything you do know?
I mean, was the cause of death the same in both
murders?' There was a low murmur from the rest of
the room and Hazel shot a glance at Eileen.

'Well, Aaron—'

'Actually, it's Geoffrey. The
Hoxley News
.'

'I apologize. Michael Ulmer was attacked with a
hammer, but the killer cut Delia Chandler's throat.
So in both cases, the victims were violently
assaulted, but not the same way.'

'Were the injuries the victims sustained from
these assaults the cause of death in both cases?'

'We're still investigating these matters, Geoffrey.
I can't comment any further about that.'

'Well,' continued the reporter, 'is it true that
both victims admitted the killer, and that there was
no sign of a struggle at either scene?'

They'd done at least some of their homework,
she thought. It was impossible to tell what this one
already knew and what was based on hearsay. She
cleared her throat. 'As you all know, crime scenes
are complex. We collect a lot of information, not
all of which is pertinent, and it can take time to
figure out what happened. It may seem as if there
wasn't a struggle in a crime scene, for instance, but
then you have to consider did the perpetrator clean
up after himself? Did he attack the victim too
quickly for a struggle to take place? Was the victim
restrained in some way? At this stage, we still can't
say what happened in these two houses.' She saw
Bail nodding imperceptibly.

Patricia Warren put her hand up. 'Is it true that
Delia Chandler was sexually assaulted?'

Hazel's attention snapped back to the room.
'What? Who told you that? That isn't true.' She
watched the young woman writing. 'Miss Warren?'

'Yes?'

'I don't want to see in the
Beaton Examiner
that
DI Micallef denied the victim had been sexually
assaulted.
'

'Of course not,' said the young woman.

'Who told you that Delia Chandler had been
sexually assaulted?'

'No one. I wanted to see what you would say.'

Hazel laid her hands on the podium. 'This press
conference is over, ladies and gentlemen. Thank
you for coming.' More hands shot up, but Bail and
Jamieson began to herd the dozen or so reporters
out of the room. As the crowd was filing out, Hazel
noticed Gord Sunderland trying to get into the
room. 'Let him in,' she said. 'He can stay.'

In a moment, the room was empty and
Sunderland turned to watch Bail close the door
silently behind him.

'I missed the festivities.'

'Just some of your future scriveners airing their
brilliant theories.'

'I have a couple of my own.'

'Oh, I know,' she said, coming out from behind
the podium with the paper in her hand. She gave it
to him. 'If you suffer from pain,' she said, 'lock your
doors. Bar them, too. Depression? Anxiety? Board
up your windows: there's a killer on the loose. Are
you an elderly person suffering from arthritis? Keep
your phone handy to call for help. And if you have
cancer? Maybe a brain tumour? If you're dying and
already in fear? Arm yourself. If you hear someone
at your door, shoot first and ask questions later. He
might be after your Vicodin.'

'It's nice to talk at last,' said Sunderland.

'Where do you get the balls to call yourself a
newsman, Gord? You're just an old lady talking
over a fence.'

Sunderland folded his paper in half and tucked it
under his arm. 'Let's see now. Delia Chandler was
killed in the morning or afternoon of 12 November.
Michael Ulmer two days later. It is now 18
November. In the intervening week – probably the
most terrifying week in living memory for the
citizens of this county – not only have you failed to
address the public once, but you have conducted
an investigation that falls well outside of your jurisdiction
entirely on your own, and in secret. It's not
me you're going to have to answer to, Inspector, it's
the East Central OPS and probably the RCMP, but
I'll get to write about it. I'm not worried about the
future of my institution.'

She walked out around the front of the table. 'If
you publish a word on Monday that isn't about pieeating
contests or the best way to deep-fry a turkey,
I'm going to have you charged with interfering
with police business. Anyway, shouldn't you people
be hard at work on your annual Christmas story?
Everything you published in today's paper was
wrong except for my bloody phone number.'

'Have you checked your messages yet?'

'There's a switchboard here. People know how to
reach me if they need to.'

'If you
want
to be reached, you mean.' She stared
daggers at him. 'You don't get to tell me what I can
publish, Hazel.'

She took a step toward him. 'Let me fill in some
of the numerous blanks for you, Gordon. He's a
serial killer. Port Dundas and Chamberlain were
just two stops on the tour. He's killed at least
sixteen people from British Columbia to Quebec,
and he's smart. He's put space between his
bodies, and he's chosen his victims carefully. Or I
should say, they've chosen him.' She reached out
and snatched his notebook out of his hand. 'He
doesn't give a shit about their drugs, Gordon.
He has all the drugs he wants. He's after something
much harder to get.'

'What?' said Sunderland quietly.

'I'm not telling you that.' He flicked a look at his
notebook, and she tossed it over her shoulder. It
flapped like brief applause and hit the ground
behind the table. 'There's no one to warn. He's
issued some kind of invitation and they've
accepted it. The only person who's going to benefit
from your shots in the dark is
him
. All it's going to
take is one red flag, and this guy goes to ground. Do
you want to be responsible for that?'

'You can't run this thing alone, Hazel. Not from
a frigging station house in the middle of nowhere.'

'We're getting help.'

'From where?'

She dug her cellphone out of her vest pocket and
turned it on. It sang its hello and then went into a
cacophony of alarms. She had fifty-eight messages.
She dialled a number. 'Can you come to the
conference room, please,' she said and put
the phone away, then limped behind the desk and
retrieved Sunderland's notebook. Sevigny entered
the room. 'Here's some of my help,' she said. She
handed Sevigny the notebook and watched the
reporter take in all two hundred and ninety pounds
of the newest member of her temporary force.
'Doesn't "adjutor" mean "judge", Detective?'

'Yes,' said Sevigny.

'I was just giving Mr Sunderland an exclusive.
And I wanted a witness to hear me say that if he
publishes a word of it, he can expect to hear
your
rebuttal.'

Sunderland's eyes were shuttling back and forth
between the two cops. 'You can't threaten me,
Hazel.'

'I'm not threatening you, Gord. Publish whatever
you want. Detective Sevigny, show Mr
Sunderland out, please.'

Sevigny held the door open and Sunderland left,
casting a look over his shoulder.

When Hazel was sure Sevigny had frogmarched
Sunderland out of the station house, she went back
down the hall toward her office. Wingate was waiting
at her door. 'Jane Buck is real.'

'You're kidding me.'

'No.'

'Come in.'

He closed the door behind him and consulted a
couple of sheets of paper in his hand. 'She's a
housecleaner. She lives in Port Hardy, but she's on
a local route. Which means she gets her mail
delivered to her house. This postal box is nearly ten
kilometres from where she lives.'

Hazel thought about it for a moment. 'Well, that
would fit. Whatever these people are shipping to
her, she doesn't want her neighbours seeing it.'

'But who is she, then?'

'That's the million-dollar question.' Sevigny
knocked at the door. 'Come,' she said. 'Did you
take our friend back to his offices?'

'He is not scared of you,' said Sevigny.

'How about you?'

'He is scared of me very much.' He smiled,
faintly. Sometimes complex threats didn't work at
all. She was liking this Sevigny more and more
every minute. 'Can I just say,
Chef
, of your press
conference—'

'No, you may not,' she said. 'Jane Buck is real.
Let's focus on her.'

'She exists?'

'Fancy that: a real clue,' said Hazel.

James repeated to Sevigny what he'd told her.
Sevigny nodded, listening. 'Then we have to go out
there,' he said.

'How fast do you walk, Detective?'

'I will fly,' he said.

'I have no budget.'

'Thank God,' said Wingate.

Sevigny was holding up his hand to show he would
brook no debate. 'My mother goes to Fort Lauderdale
every winter for the past twenty years,' he said. 'She
gives me the flight points every Christmas. I have
two hundred and ninety thousand air miles.'

Hazel whistled. 'It sounds like she could use
them.'

'She flies Boxing Day every year. They accept
only cash or credit on Boxing Day. I will use the
points. I will fly to British Columbia.'

Hazel was shaking her head in wonder. 'You're
far from home, son. This is a hell of a thing to offer
another jurisdiction, you know.'

'I am in no hurry to return to my hometown of
Sudbury.'

She traded a look with Wingate. 'Well, thank
God for blackout periods, then,' said Hazel, and she
rose to shake his hand. 'How quickly can you set
this up?'

'I'm going back to my hotel to pack now. I'll call
you from Vancouver Island.'

They watched him turn on his heel and leave
the room smartly. Wingate was still watching
when the door clicked shut.

'
He's
not afraid of flying,' she said to him.

'He's not afraid of anything,' said Wingate.

Hazel lowered herself carefully into her chair.
'We're about to turn the corner on this thing,
James. I can feel it.'

There were thirteen crime-scene pictures. Dead
faces set in grimaces and shouts. Faces howling,
whistling, moaning, crying, hissing. They pinned
them to the wall and stood back. It was a silent
opera of ghosts.

'Let's start talking about these faces,' Hazel said
to the room. Her assembled forces stood before her,
looking from one terrible image to the next. 'What
is happening in these pictures?'

One of the officers from Mayfair raised her hand.
'They just seem scared to me. Rigor mortis sets in
faster when people are frightened at the time of
death.'

'Jack Deacon says these people didn't die with
their mouths like this. The killer did it after the
fact.'

'Is it possible the perp has put something in their
mouths?' said PC Forbes. He shrugged after he said
it, worried about being wrong. 'I mean, to hold
their mouths in these positions?'

'It's possible,' said Hazel, 'but I'm not sure the
method is as important as the meaning of his
actions. These mouth shapes are the only thing
that links these killings, except for the fact that
everyone he killed was terminally ill. And we know
these people
invited
him to their homes.'

'How?' said the same man.

'We don't know that yet, but—' Wingate had
entered the room. She returned her attention to
the force. 'James Wingate went to a reserve near
Dryden and got confirmation that the victim knew
the Belladonna somehow, but until we know how
the killer communicated with his victims, all we
have are these pictures.'

'Communicating,' said Ray Greene. He was
standing behind her, beside the pictures.
'Whatever is happening in these pictures, it's
obvious these people are making a sound.'

'If they are, then most of them are making
different sounds,' said Hazel. She went over and
pointed to the victim from Fort St John in British
Columbia. His mouth was in a loose, open O.
'This is Gary Dewar, discovered by his son on
11 October. He was hanging from a chandelier
with a plastic bag over his head. Look at him. Then
look at this woman' – she pointed at the victim
from Wells, B.C., named Adrienne Grunwald –
'her mouth is puckered, like she's blowing a kiss.
These two were killed four days apart. And then,
this man, Morton Halfe, he was killed on the
twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth of October in
Eston, Saskatchewan, and his mouth is identical to
Dewar's. Why? What do these two victims have in
common?
Do
they have anything in common? Is
this a code? Come on, people, think out loud!'