The Poisoned Pawn (6 page)

Pike nodded. To the Anishnabe, accepting a gift brought with it a corresponding obligation. The old man was right to be cautious.

“Then how about if you tell me a story,
mishomis
?” The word meant “grandfather.” Pike used it as a term of respect.

And so the old man told Charlie Pike about Nanabush, or Nanabozho, as he called him. About the legend of how the first spring began.

The old man held the hot container of soup in both hands, blowing through his missing teeth to cool the surface before he took small sips. There were jail tattoos on his fingers.

He spoke quietly. Pike strained to hear the soft words of his own, unused language.

“Nanabozho was the oldest boy of four brothers. Chipiapoos was the next. After him came Wabosbo and Chakekenapok. Nanabozho was responsible for living things, Chipiapoos for the dead. Chakekenapok was supposed to look after winter. But when Chakekenapok was born, their mother died. Nanabozho blamed Chakekenapok. He chased him and tore him into pieces. Where his body fell, the drops of blood turned into smooth rocks.

“After Chakekenapok died, Nanabozho ordered Chipiapoos not to leave the lodge. But Chipiapoos was a little boy; he wanted to play. He ran outside to slide on the frozen lake and fell through the ice. Nanabozho searched everywhere until he realized Chipiapoos was dead. He was angry and bitter that the
manitous
took his little brother. He shaved off all his hair to show his grief. And every day after that was winter.”

“And then what happened,
mishomis
?”

The old man breathed lightly. He shook his head. “I am sorry. I am too tired to keep talking. I get weak after I put this poison in my arm. But it helps with the pain. That and telling these old stories. The soup went down good,
miigwetch
. I will tell you next time I see you, if you still want to hear it.” He pulled himself up, gathering his blankets. “It was good to speak in my language.
Giminadan gagiginonshiwan.
”

Pike nodded. “
Gigawabamin menawah.
” See you again.

Pike looked out his office window every day after that, looking for the old man. Their routine was now well-established.

After he shot up, the old man would tell Pike a story in exchange for coffee, soup, or a sandwich. As the old man came to trust him, he gave Pike a little more information. Pike felt sometimes as if he was ice-fishing on a frozen lake. Letting out the line slowly, gradually. Waiting for the fish to come to him.

“I’m dying,” the old man said during one of their visits. There was no sadness in his voice. He presented it as a fact. “I don’t have much time left. I have hepatitis.” From drugs or from the water on his reserve, Pike wondered. But he didn’t pry.

They sat together in the cold on a bench, on the thick, faded blankets the old man had collected. He refused to go to a shelter.

“I want to hear the wind blow at night and the birds sing in the morning. I want to see the sun when she comes up. I grew up in the woods, you know, before they took me away to that school. The forest, up till then, that was my church.”

Pike liked the old man, his humour, his gentleness. “If you feel well enough today, maybe you can tell me the rest of the story about spring.”

The old man nodded and pulled his woollen blankets around him. His breath rose like puffs of smoke.

“Many moons passed with only winter. The
manitous
were afraid Nanabozho’s grief would destroy him and everything else. They decided to hold a feast to honour him. They filled a pipe with tobacco and gave Nanabozho a beautiful otter-skin bag. Nanabozho’s pain and loneliness began to ease when he saw these things, and realized how much they cared. As the cold in his heart melted,
ziigwan
, spring, finally came.”

“What is your name, grandfather?” asked Pike. “Is there someone I can call for you? Do you have any family?”

“I have no name,” the old man said. He looked away, his eyes tearing up. “They took me from my family. And then they took away my name.”

TEN

“How very interesting, Ricardo,” Hector Apiro exclaimed. He was standing on his stepladder, leaning over the old cigar lady’s remains. There was no sign of the spectre in the autopsy room, but then Ramirez’s ghosts tended to avoid the morgue. Perhaps they felt that being killed once was enough.

“I’ve only seen North American Indians in movies. They are always portrayed as large half-naked men carrying tiny axes and wearing face paint and feathers. They grunt instead of speaking and are usually the last of a dying breed. Their horses jump on their hind legs quite frequently. And they whinny a lot.”

“I hope you mean it’s the horses that whinny,” Ramirez chuckled.

Apiro laughed as he struggled to pull the knife from the woman’s chest. He had a staccato laugh that always reminded Ramirez of a night gull. It was impossible for Ramirez to hear the small man cackle without starting to laugh too. The knife popped as it came out. It made the sound of a toilet plunger. It was a large knife, Ramirez noted, the type used by fishermen for gutting fish.

“Hmmm,” said Apiro. “That was deeply embedded in the rib cage, almost all the way to the spine.”

“Someone must have been very angry at her.”

Apiro shook his large head. “I’m not sure. Usually, when that’s the case, we find multiple stab wounds.”

“I have a feeling she might have been difficult to get along with.”

“Did you know her?” asked Apiro, surprised.

Not when she was alive, thought Ramirez. Although I’m certainly getting to know her now. “Well, she has that kind of face, don’t you think?”

“Now, Ricardo, you must be careful about stereotypes. Some people can appear as sweet as sugar cane and yet be vicious. Like one of those little dogs on the street that wags its tail when you offer it food and then bites you on the hand. Appearances can be deceiving. Ask any of the patients whose noses I’ve shortened or whose breasts I’ve enlarged.”

Ramirez nodded. If anyone knew how misleading appearances could be, it was Hector Apiro.

Apiro had been placed in an orphanage at the age of four by parents he believed were ashamed of his deformities. He was old enough then to know he had parents, just not who they were. He was a highly intelligent little boy, often hurt by the bullying of other children. He made up for it by excelling at his studies.

His misshapenness was the reason Apiro had decided to become a plastic surgeon. He took great pride in making others look more normal, since he could do so little for himself. He enjoyed operating on the dead. Occasionally, he was known to alter their flaws, improving what he referred to as their “final appearance.”

Ramirez was frequently awed by Apiro’s brilliance. The small doctor had mastered many disciplines besides medicine and
chess. He was an avid historian and philosopher, and spoke several languages. Ramirez enjoyed the banter they carried on in the morgue, despite the difficult crimes they investigated together. Or perhaps because of them.

Apiro stepped down from the stepladder holding the knife delicately in his gloved fingers. He reached for a plastic bottle of Luminol and sprayed the handle with a single sweep. “Hold your breath, Ricardo. I don’t have any face masks at the moment. This substance can be toxic.”

Apiro placed the knife under an ultraviolet lamp. The handle glowed iridescent blue for a moment.

“Ah, here we go. See? A small smudge. Luminol is wonderful at picking up blood residue. Perhaps we will be lucky and find DNA from the person who killed her. Even luckier if I have enough supplies to find out.”

Since October, the American trade embargo had been enforced more rigorously. The United States government wanted to take advantage of Fidel Castro’s failing health. But bullying makes us stubborn, thought Ramirez. It’s like World War II, when Churchill called British citizens to arms by urging them to collect rubber bands. So, too, we Cubans. Except we save everything.

“Interesting that Canada has an indigenous population,” Apiro said as he clambered back up his stepladder. “That’s impressive. Here, of course, it was quite different.” He shook his large head sadly. “Thousands of Taino villagers welcomed the conquistadores with gifts of tobacco and fish. Imagine their confusion, their disbelief, when they were butchered, their chiefs burned alive. All of this was a violation of international law, of course. The Spaniards were not supposed to conquer any ‘discovered’ people willing to trade with them. But then, as now, the Pope could invent any law he wished. There are only a few traces of the Tainos left, a word here and there, although I find Taino
DNA in the blood of
mestizos
sometimes. Not much to show for what was once a generous and civilized society. It’s another reason I am such a devout atheist. Well, that,” Apiro smiled, “and my Jesuit upbringing.”

I should check the
bodegas
, Ramirez thought.
Jaba
was a Taino word for a bag made of woven palm fronds. Cubans called their shopping bags
jabas
. Under the Plan Jaba, the elderly were permitted to jump the queue when getting rations. The old woman was the type to push her way to the front of the
cola
. Someone would have noticed.

“Why
are
you an atheist, Hector?” he asked.

“I’ve always found the Catholic God to be a paradox.” Apiro paused. He turned to look at Ramirez, holding his scalpel thoughtfully. “Vengeful and punitive; turning women into salt for simply looking backwards. And yet seemingly incapable of taking any steps to stop evil. A timely and well-placed bullet in Hitler’s skull would have saved millions. Prayers did nothing. Words are rarely stronger than swords or bullets, however much they may hurt.”

“I agree with you that some men are so inherently evil that the only reasonable thing to do is to remove them from society,” Ramirez said. “But even Voltaire said if there was no God, it would be necessary to invent one.”

“And I believe we did,” Apiro grinned. “But then, Voltaire also said that a clever saying proves nothing.”

Ramirez chuckled. “So what are your thoughts about this woman’s murder, Hector? It seems straightforward this time, no?” The inspector gestured toward the knife, which still rested on the counter. The blue iridescence had disappeared from its handle like magic.

“Ah, now, Ricardo, one would naturally assume that a fish knife plunged into someone’s heart would cause their death. But look here,” Apiro pointed his gloved finger at the woman’s
chest. “There is almost no blood around the wound. Or on her clothing. She was stabbed, yes, but that’s not what killed her.”

“Then what did?” asked Ramirez, puzzled.

“I am not sure yet, but I can tell you this. By the time that knife was hammered into her chest, she was already dead.”

ELEVEN

“By the way,” said Inspector Ramirez. “I spoke to Señora Jones this morning. Michael Ellis’s wife died last week. She became ill on the flight back to Canada. The Canadian medical authorities think it may have been food poisoning. What do you think?”

“Hmmm,” said Apiro. He lit his pipe. “The timing is a little suspicious, isn’t it?” He lowered his large head and puffed until the embers in the bowl of his pipe glowed red.

Ramirez was grateful that the refrigeration unit that stored the bodies in the morgue was working again. It had been out of service for more than a week. The smell of decaying flesh permeated the space. Cigar smoke, like pipe smoke, helped to mask it. The petroleum jelly product they once put under their noses to block the smell of decomposition was no longer available.

He reached for a cigar in his pocket and cupped his hand around Apiro’s match, drawing deeply until it lit.

They sat comfortably together in the haze, smoking. Apiro was seated on the second rung of his wooden stepladder. Ramirez sat beside him on a round wooden stool. This arrangement allowed them to discuss matters face-to-face despite the difference in their size. Ramirez often thought these moments in the morgue,
even with dead bodies resting in the drawers and on the gurneys, were among his happiest.

For one thing, there were no distractions—his ghosts always stayed on the other side of the metal doors. And for another, he always felt completely at ease with Apiro, to whom abnormalities were normal, to whom life itself was the anomaly. Maybe Francesca was right. Maybe he
was
having an affair with Hector Apiro.

“Well, you know what they say, Ricardo. Once one eliminates the impossible, whatever is left, however unlikely, is usually the truth. Do you know anything about her symptoms?”

“High blood pressure, deep-pink skin. She fell into a coma on the airplane.”

“I suppose it could be food poisoning,” said the surgeon. “There have been issues with flight kitchens before. Insufficient disinfection; food not cooked long enough. Although that is more often associated with rather unpleasant gastrointestinal disorders. But there are some very dangerous chemicals that turn up occasionally in the food chain that can turn skin that colour. Cyanide, for example.” Apiro drew on his pipe. “Do you remember the early 1990s, when tens of thousands of Cubans suddenly went blind? They stumbled around the streets of Havana like something from a horror movie.”

“I remember it well. I was a young police officer at the time, working foot patrol. It was complete chaos. The
houngans
claimed they were zombies.”

Thirty-four thousand Cubans were afflicted. There was near panic in the city until the epidemic passed. Most recovered, although some never regained their sight.

“I had forgotten all about that, Ricardo,” Apiro chuckled, shaking his head. “The voodoo doctors spout such nonsense. The foreign epidemiologists thought it was a virus. But no tourists
became sick, which made that unlikely. Personally, I always suspected cyanide.”

Ramirez formed a circle with his lips as he exhaled. His smoke ring floated to the stained ceiling and hung below the flickering fluorescent lights. An entire day without a power outage. Water running again. Maybe it would be a Happy New Year after all.

“Cyanide? What from?”

“Bootleg rum, probably. I said as much to Castro. He attended all the medical briefings. If our folate levels are normal, most people can handle a little cyanide without serious physical harm. But we’ve been affected by rationing. The fact that tobacco often contains traces of cyanide could well have pushed the victims’ overall exposure to toxic levels. To his credit, Castro assured me he would act.”