by J C Paulson
“That also explains why Martin was murdered. But he wasn’t much of a threat, was he? Do you know yet how sick he was?”
“Very sick. PTSD, psychosis, depression, all of it. But the hospital records also said he was improving. Even if the killer didn’t know that, he couldn’t take the chance Martin wouldn’t talk if the police or the military came to interview him.”
Adam shook his head. “Either way. The child was found, and somewhere on Earth, someone, somehow has reported that fact. That’s why I need a favour from you. I need to know if it’s been in the media. Can you attack the Internet, and see what you can find? It’s going to come out in Canada, but when? Can you find out if it has been publicly reported in Africa?”
“I don’t know. I can certainly give it a go. Can you not just contact the authorities in Somalia?”
“I can, and I will. But I’d like to keep this quiet until I have as much information as possible. I would assume the Somalis have contacted the military, but they still have to prove that our peacekeepers killed the boy. Either way, though, I’d like to know if it’s been in the media, and if so, when it came out and what’s been said. I need to know how much time I have. When this hits the news, those responsible will be seriously ducking for cover.”
“There may be a bit of a language barrier, unless Reuters has been on it. I can’t see that, though. Our papers would have picked that up.”
“Unless the news agencies haven’t connected his death to the Airborne yet.”
“True. Okay. Let’s have dinner, and I’ll get at it, see if there’s a paper publishing in a language other than Somali or Arabic.”
“How many languages can you speak, Grace?” Adam asked, amazed.
She laughed. “Two and a half. But I can muddle through reading a few others, for the gist, anyway. Pray for German, French or Italian.”
After dinner, Grace plunked herself in front of her computer and began searching for Somali newspapers. Never having done so before, as a local reporter, she was stunned to find several online news outlets. Canadian papers had been online for some time, but Grace didn’t expect the same coverage in Africa, and castigated herself for being unaware of that and making assumptions that Somalia was a much more backward country than it was.
Searching, however, proved somewhat frustrating. Not all papers published in languages other than Somali or Arabic; but some, indeed, carried content in Italian and even English. Somalia had a significant Italian population and influence, especially in the south; and English was clearly taking over the world in terms of news dispersal.
And there it was.
“Adam!” she called. “I think this is it.”
He flew to her side and looked over her shoulder. Grace pointed to a tiny story on an Italian site.
“As far as I can tell, it says a youth’s remains have been found partly uncovered in a sandy grave, several miles outside Belet Huen,” she told Adam. “I can put some of this through a translation site, to be sure.”
“Not fluent in Italian, then?”
“Nope. Not hardly.”
“When was it published?” Adam asked, peering at the screen.
“Twelve days ago. This won’t stay quiet for long, Adam. I wonder if Reuters has seen this, and has a reporter working on it.”
“If so, can you find out who?”
“I can try. Reuters isn’t just sitting around waiting for my call. But then, if I can get them to talk to me, I could offer some information in return. Quid pro quo. If you let me. It’s your information. Well, most of it is.”
Adam nodded slightly, thinking.
“Someone is watching the Somali papers, then,” he said. “Or they have someone on the ground. And they knew, or assumed, it was Abukar Dualeh, based on the location of his remains. His name isn’t in the piece, is it?”
“No. Twelve days is probably not enough time to establish a definite identity. Or would it be? Could they identify him by dental records or DNA that quickly?”
“I have no idea how fast that might happen in Somalia. It’d depend on what kind of records they had on the child, and I suspect they wouldn’t be comprehensive. What kind of access to dentists would they have had fourteen years ago, in the middle of a civil war? I just don’t know. I can’t even speculate.”
“I can try calling Reuters tomorrow. It’s unlikely I’d reach someone at this hour; it would be something like four in the morning in London. And I’d have to call head office. I have no idea how I’d reach someone in Somalia, even if I knew the reporter’s name. I’ll also try Agence France-Presse in Paris.”
They were interrupted by Adam’s cellphone ringing.
“Sergeant Davis,” he answered, recognizing the number.
“Sarge,” said the staff sergeant, “I have a package here, addressed to Tom Allbright. You want to be here when we open it?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The box weighed next to nothing and measured a few inches square. Wrapped in brown paper, it bore no postmark or other indicator of its source. Only Tom Allbright’s name decorated the top.
“How was it delivered?” Adam asked, turning it over in his hands.
“One of those small independent couriers,” said Lorne Fisher, who was still in the office searching for a woman who had gone missing that day. Fisher divided his time between serving on the detective squad and as the new missing persons’ co-ordinator. “The guy dashed in, according to Karpinski, dropped it on the counter and left. We’re looking for him now.”
“Someone paid him a bundle to do that.”
“Yeah. Not exactly protocol.”
Sergeant Joan Karpinski, in charge that night, popped her head into Adam’s office.
“Hey, Joan. Did you see the delivery guy?” Adam asked.
“I came into the lobby just as he walked out. Very quickly. Five-foot-ten, dark jeans and hoodie. The van was idling outside; white, with a logo reading FD. Fast Delivery, maybe? He floored it when he took off, but he managed to avoid squealing the tires.”
“Okay. Has this been tested yet?”
“No electronics in there. No idea if there’s poison, of course. There is none on the outside. We were thinking anthrax, though, possibly.”
“I’ll go get suited up. Want to join me?”
“Yup,” said Lorne and Joan together.
They decamped to a small room equipped with a ventilator and various other safety gear, tugged on coveralls, gloves and masks, and bent over the tiny box. Adam carefully tore open the brown paper, which revealed an equally nondescript gift box, its lid taped down.
Cutting the tape, he gently wiggled up the lid and paused before lifting it. No cloud of white powder puffed out, but a stink wafted into the room.
“Ewww,” Joan sniffed. “It’s going to be dead, whatever it is. Or at least rotten.”
Adam slowly removed the lid to reveal a fairly large, very dead, somewhat decomposed mouse.
“He, whoever he is, couldn’t find a rat?” Lorne suggested.
“That would be my guess,” Adam agreed, closing the box. “Not a lot of rats in Saskatoon, unless you’re doing medical research. Mice squeal, too, though.”
“We’ll have to tell Allbright, I assume,” Joan said.
“Let me think about that. He’s jumpy enough, and this might shut him up. We’ll decide tomorrow. Meanwhile, keep someone on him. I mean right on top of him. And on Simpson.”
“Will do, Sarge,” Joan said.
Adam removed his safety apparel, swearing silently. Obviously, the RCMP in Meadow Lake knew where Al Simpson and Tom Allbright were, but he had hoped no one else did; or, that no one else on a Saskatchewan police force was involved in this mess. Which was it?
Who the hell was Charles Best?
Whoever he was, he sure as hell was in Saskatoon.
Adam returned home to catch a few hours’ sleep and found Grace with her eyes glued to her computer screen.
“That’s not good for the brain before bed, you know.”
“Hi, love. What happened?”
“We received a decomposed mouse packed in a box and addressed to Tom.”
“Ew, yuck. A threat, then. Any idea who sent it?”
“No, although I assume it’s our killer. What are you up to?”
“I thought I’d do a little searching, so I’d be ready to go first thing tomorrow. I’ve found the news agency numbers, and I’ve been looking at some maps of Somalia, trying to understand where Abukar Dualeh was buried.”
“As I said, not relaxing before sleep. I have a better idea.”
“Do you? What?”
“Give me a minute.”
Exactly one minute later, Grace could hear water running; then the fridge door opening and closing, and the clink of glasses being set on the counter. Adam reappeared, naked, and pulled her to her feet.
“Am I getting a bath, then?” Grace asked, a bit breathlessly.
“You know it. Plus, a little wine. Come on, beautiful. Let me work those neck muscles. And a few others.”
*****
Bad start to the morning, Adam thought the next day, when the first person he encountered was Inspector Terry Pearson leaning against his office door.
“Terry,” Adam said briefly, unlocking it.
“Adam,” said his direct superior. “Long time no see. I understand you’ve been meddling in an RCMP file and haven’t been around much.”
“Have you actually read that file?”
“I thought you could bring me up to speed.”
Adam powerfully wanted to roll his eyes. Was the man illiterate? No. Just bone lazy.
“The case up at Meadow Lake is intimately connected with the recent murder in Saskatoon,” Adam told him. “And there are at least two witnesses, also suspects, who need protection. Ergo, meddling.”
Had Terry been away? This was weird, even for him. Granted, Adam had been avoiding him, but he also hadn’t been in Saskatoon much lately. He assumed the chief would have briefed Pearson.
“And you’re also taking Lorne Fisher away from his missing persons’ duties, as I understand it. Which strikes me as odd, considering it’s your precious new co-ordinator’s role.”
Adam had indeed fought hard to create the position, after the events of the summer when the killer he sought had been responsible for the deaths of women gone missing. Adam felt strongly that the man would have been caught earlier had files been shared with other police forces and more closely investigated. The force hadn’t had a constable focused on missing people until late that summer.
“Lorne,” Adam said evenly, “was working overtime on the case of a missing woman last night when we received a suspicious package. You know he crosses over with the detective squad. And one of the murdered men was, in a sense, missing.”
“You should be checking in with me when you leave town, Davis. Not to mention spending police funds on renting vehicles.”
“I was on holidays when all this started, Terry. I was on the ground. You know it.” Defending himself made Adam feel vaguely sick and distinctly angry. “And I did check in with the chief. You were nowhere to be found.”
As usual, Adam added to himself.
“Meanwhile,” Pearson continued breezily, “you were using up an awful lot of manpower on that twenty-four-hour watch on the two prisoners. I cancelled that.”
“You what?”
“It’s not necessary in cells. No one is going to get in there.”
“You don’t know that, Terry. Those two men are in serious danger, and we don’t know from whom. What if they get a visitor? Someone who looks legit, but isn’t?”
It had already happened, with Martin Best. Despite best efforts, if a police officer wasn’t closely watching everyone who made contact with Allbright and Simpson, it could happen again.
“Well, it’s my call. And I think it’s ridiculous to have twenty-four-hour cover on a couple of perps.”
“They’re also witnesses, Terry, for God’s sake. One of whom got a threatening message last night.”
“Too bad so sad.”
Adam thought his head was going to explode. He pushed past Pearson, still standing nonchalantly in his doorway, and headed straight for cells.
“I’m not done with you Davis. Get the fuck back here.”
“Maybe not,” Adam snarled over his shoulder, “but I’m done with you.”
He ran down the hallway yelling for James, flew down three flights of stairs and pushed through the door leading to the holding area, his constable already on his heels. Christ, thought Adam for the thousandth time, that guy can move.
“What’s going on, Adam?” James asked, in complete control of his breath.
“Terry pulled the guard on Simpson and Allbright,” he said. “Let’s go. It’s going to take more than a few minutes to reinstate.”
“Fucking asshole,” James muttered.
“We should be looking for George Best right now, not pulling guard duty.”
“Look, I’ll go in there; you call Char, and then you can go and find the chief. Okay?”
“No, I’ll come with you until Charlotte can get down here.”
They buzzed at the door and waited until the constable in cells answered their call.
“Is everything all right in here, Duncan?” Adam asked immediately. “Simpson and Allbright?”
“Right as rain, Sarge,” Duncan said. “Want to take a look?”
“Yes. Now.”
The constable led the way to Tom Allbright’s cell and opened the metal door to expose the by-now healthier-looking witness, sitting upright on his bed.
“Hi Tom,” Adam said, as calmly as possible. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. How are you? Something up?”
“No, everything’s fine. Just wanted to check on you. We’ll talk again later.”
Adam nodded to the cells officer, who locked up on Tom and gave Adam a questioning look.
“Okay. Now Al.”
He moved to the cell two down from Tom’s, and unlocked it for Adam, who swung the door open. Al was still asleep.
“Hey, Al,” he said. “Wake up, man. It’s morning. Almost time for breakfast.”
“Oh, he’s had breakfast,” Duncan told him. “I guess he dozed off again.”
Adam’s head snapped around to look at the officer. “How long ago?”
“’Bout half an hour, I guess.”
Adam lurched toward Al, yelling his name and shaking him, but there was no response.
“Holy hell,” Adam breathed. “James, get an ER doctor right now. Duncan, call nine-one-one. Now!” he yelled at a frozen Duncan, who seemed glued to the cement floor.
Turning back to Al Simpson, Adam took his pulse, which was weak and thready, but at least it was still there. His skin was clammy, and a thin white substance scummed his lips. At first, Adam wondered if he’d been poisoned with sarin; but then, leaning in, he realized the stuff was icing. He’d ingested something sweet — pastry?
Al’s body, already clamped tightly, suddenly began to shudder and spasm.
Strychnine.
Rat poison.
Adam could do nothing for him beyond CPR. He reached for his cellphone and called Charlotte.
“Char, find the chief,” he said, with no greeting. “Now. He had a morning meeting; I don’t know where. Just find him. And then find whoever served Al Simpson breakfast. Hurry.”
“Adam, what the hell? Where are you?”
“In cells. He’s been poisoned, I’m pretty sure. The doctor and ambulance are on their way.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I locate the chief.”
The three subsequent minutes it took for the paramedics and the doctor to arrive seemed like two hours. Al’s rigours became more pronounced, and Adam felt as impotent as he ever had in his life. He kept talking to his witness.
“Stay with me, Al. Help is coming.”
When it finally did, chaos came with it. Dr. Brian Ashern, one of the best emergency doctors Adam had eve
r seen in action, pushed him aside without a word and dove at the patient. The paramedics were right behind him, squishing into the tiny holding cell, and Al was on a stretcher and out the door in a moment, headed for the hospital.
“What the fuck happened, Adam?” Ashern asked, as they strode together behind the patient.
“I don’t know. I’m sure as hell going to find out. Strychnine, I thought.”
“Yeah, judging by the rigours, it looks like it.”
“Keep me posted. And I’ll be sending an officer along the minute I can find one, to keep an eye on him.”
“Not a suicide attempt, then.”
“No. Where would he have found the poison? No. Someone wants him dead.”
“How would someone get in here?”
“I have no idea.”
“Okay. Gotta go. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Brian. Appreciate it.”
By now in the lobby, the two men parted, and Adam turned to find Charlotte churning toward him.
“I’ve just checked the cafeteria,” she said. “Al and Tom had the usual breakfast, same as all the other food served this morning. They’re taking away the garbage the plates were scraped into, to test it. But Adam, unless one of our people poisoned him and only him — and I can’t see it — well, it wasn’t in the cafeteria food. And everyone else is okay, so it wasn’t a big dump of . . . of what? What was it?”
“Ashern and I think it’s rat poison. Strychnine.”
“Ohhhh,” Charlotte said. “I get it. How did he get it? And why not Tom?”
“I don’t know how he got it, yet, but I think Tom didn’t get a visit because he would have recognized the guy. He’s seen him, although always with a hat on. Al hasn’t. So, the killer sent him a little message last night, instead. Except, of course, we intercepted it.” Adam paused. The killer must have known the police would examine the package. “I think it was meant for us as much as for Tom.”
“The dead mouse.”
“Yes.” Adam thought for another moment. “Where’s Duncan?”
“He’s back down in cells. He’s pretty shaken up.”