Butterfly Girl

by Wayne Purdy

  “Has she ever been violent?” I remembered what Tiff said, threatening to cut a man’s balls off.

  “Not violent, but tough. She’s had to be.”

  “Did she know Sandra?”

  “According to Mrs. Abernathy, they were close. They had a mother-daughter relationship.”

  “That’s good work, Hazel,” I said. “Did you speak to her Katherine Chosuk?”

  “She wasn’t in the office. Apparently, that’s not unusual. Katherine speaks to a lot of schools, corporations, church groups and the like. She also has a full client list. Pays a lot of social visits to people’s homes, tries to help them understand what’s happening to their child.”

  “Mrs. Abernathy didn’t tell you where she is today?”

  “She wouldn’t give out any personal information, especially after what happened to Sandra. She isn’t taking any chances with safety. I left your cell number. She’ll call you when she has the time.”

  “We should go see Jarrod Hunter in the meantime. Where are you at?” There was a loud knock on the door and Puppy barked in return.

  “I’m at your door,” Hazel said, giggling into the receiver.

  ◆◆◆

  According to Tiff, Jarrod Hunter lived in Cabbagetown. Cabbagetown got its name from the Irish immigrants who moved into the area in the late 1840s. Local yore has it that they were so poor that they grew cabbages in their front yards. For the longest time, it was a slum. It was gentrified in the 70s, and now was an affluent neighbourhood. Jarrod Hunter lived in the basement of a well-kept Victorian rowhouse. I parked along the curb and we headed towards the side entrance, passing buy the large blue waste bins stored against the brick wall.

  “What do you think?” Hazel asked. I could hear a tremor in her voice. I should call Zaki, but I pushed that thought aside. I didn’t have any hard evidence against Jarrod Hunter. Until I knew more, he was a witness, not a suspect. That being said, I wanted to do this safely.

  “Stay behind me. “At least until we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “I’m scared,” she whispered. Her eyes were like saucers.

  “Just stay behind me.”

  We approached his door. There was a lot of noise inside. It sounded like music. Death metal. A nameplate beside a doorbell read: J. HUNTER. I pressed the button. There was no answer. I knocked and was met with no response again. I knocked louder. Nothing. Finally, I reached out and turned the doorknob. It wasn’t locked.

  The door swung open. The music was blaring. “Jarrod Hunter? I’d like to ask you a few questions.” My voice was lost over the din of the music.

  “Watch your back,” a male voice called from deep inside the apartment. “Don’t worry, I killed him. I shot him in the face.”

  There was genuine fear on Hazel’s face. I felt it too. I reached for my sidearm even though it had been years since I was last strapped.

  “That fucker put up a bit of a fight,” the man’s voice said. Every muscle in my body twitched. I motioned for Hazel to stay put and I crept into the living room. I almost burst out laughing when I got there.

  On a ratty couch, surrounded by takeout boxes and pop cans sat a pudgy, young man wearing a tee shirt and a pair of tighty-whiteys. He had a virtual reality headset strapped to his face and held a pair of controllers in each hand. The music was so loud he couldn’t hear me. There was a smart speaker sitting on the TV stand.

  “Alexa turn off the music.” A blue ring cycled around the speaker and killed the music. The pudgy man turned towards me, still wearing the VR headset.

  “Is someone there?”

  “Jarrod Hunter?”

  He screamed a high pitch whine, and got up to run, but couldn’t see where he was going. He tripped over the coffee table and fell face first onto the hard wood flooring. The clatter brought Hazel rushing in. She had found a kitchen knife and wielded it with menace.

  “It sounded like you needed some help.” She said.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Jarrod Hunter yelled in a nasally voice. He had torn off the headset. On the television screen, his character in a multi-player videogame exploded, ending the session. “Fuck,” he said.

  I put my hands out in a calming gesture. “We aren’t going to hurt you. We just want to ask some questions about Sandra Mack.” His face turned ashen. He flinched at the mention of her name.

  “I don’t know anything about what happened to her.”

  “Are you Jarrod Hunter?”

  “Yeah,” he answered. Who are you?”

  “We aren’t police,” Hazel said. Jarrod noticed her for the first time. His eyes fell on the knife she was still brandishing, and he squealed. Hazel quickly dropped it onto a side table.

  “I swear I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything.” Maybe Jarrod didn’t kill her and was afraid that we had. That we were here to kill any witnesses.

  “I know, Jarrod. We are just trying to find out who did so the police can arrest them,” I said.

  He closed his eyes and processed the information. “I loved her. I really did.”

  “It must be hard knowing that you were the last to see her alive.”

  “Besides the killer,” he said. There was defiance in his voice, and he jutted his chin as he spoke.

  “Besides the killer.” That seemed to placate him.

  “Why don’t you tell us about your date?” Hazel asked.

  Jarrod looked at her scornfully. “Like you care.”

  “I do,” Hazel said.

  “Yeah right. I met her every Friday night at nine. She would come here. I liked that. It gave me a reason for cleaning up. You know, because a lady was coming over. Usually, we’d order take-out, she liked the Chinese place down the street, and then we’d make love. She wasn’t just a prostitute. She was so much more. She was a therapist; I could tell her all my problems and she’d make everything better. She always said self-care was important, and she went out of her way to motivate me. She even had me doing some exercising, trying to eat better. That sort of thing.”

  “And she came every week? You had an appointment every week?” Hazel asked.

  “It wasn’t an appointment,” he snapped. “It was a date. I told you. I loved her and she, well she cared for me too. I bet you find it hard to believe a beautiful woman could care for me.”

  “I don’t find that hard to believe,” Hazel said.

  “Women have never found me desirable. I used to visit woman hookers, not trans girls, you know, but I found that it wasn’t enough. One day, on a lark, I went to the alternative category on a dating app. I’m not gay, but I was feeling desperate. It felt like I couldn’t find a woman that was interested in me. The ads were a total sausage party. Nothing but gay men looking for random hookups. That wasn’t what I was looking for. I wanted a relationship. If I just wanted sex, I’d get a hooker.”

  “Have you ever gotten a hooker?” I asked him.

  His face turned red and he looked down at the stained carpet. “Sometimes. Sandra wasn’t always available. She was seeing other men too. Not just me.”

  “What about Tiff? Did you ever date her?”

  “Tiff?” His eyes narrowed. “Is that how you found me?”

  I didn’t answer him. I was using the question to gauge his honesty. If he lied, then I would have to regard everything he said with scepticism, if he answered truthfully, I would be more inclined to believe him.

  “Tiff isn’t my girlfriend,” Jarrod said when the silence grew too heavy. “She’s a hooker. I visit her sometimes when Sandra is busy. Sandra knew about her. We were open about everything.”

  “Tiff and Sandra are both trans women. Is that what you’re into now?” Jarrod opened his mouth, ready to protest, but I cut him off. “I’m not judging,” I said. “I’m just trying to get a clear picture. You went on a dating app and met Sandra through that. Is that what started your preference in trans girls?”

  What can I say? It excited me. I met her in a motel that first time, and after that I was hooked
. I doubt I could ever be with a regular woman again,” he said, then pointing at Hazel, added, “even one that looked like you.”

  “So, Tiff was a hooker, but Sandra wasn’t?” Hazel asked.

  The muscle in his neck tensed. “Sandra wasn’t a pro. She was interested in me. She said I made her laugh.”

  “How long have you been seeing Sandra?” I asked.

  “It’s been a couple years. Maybe two and a half?”

  “Did she know how you felt about her?”

  “I told her every time I saw her.”

  “Did she seem okay after your last date? Was she scared or upset?”

  “She was fine. I knew she had other dates besides me. I didn’t like to talk about it. I knew she was going to meet someone after she left here.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because she showered and changed into a fresh outfit. She only did that if she was going on a date.”

  “Did she have a lot of dates?” Hazel asked.

  He glared at her. “She was a healthy young woman. She went on dates.”

  “Jarrod, do you know if she was dating anyone in the military? The army?”

  “I told you, I didn’t like to talk about her other dates.”

  “But you had other dates?” I asked him. thinking about what Tiff had said.

  He shifted from one foot to the other. “Sandra couldn’t commit to just me, and I have needs too. Yeah, I saw other girls. Sandra was my favourite. I know its silly, but I always hoped that one day we could be together. I would have been good to her.”

  “So, you don’t know if she was seeing anyone else? Someone in the army?” I asked.

  “Look, I know that she had other lovers, I just don’t want to know it, get my meaning?”

  “I understand.”

  “No one wants to be sloppy seconds.”

  Hazel frowned and Jarrod noticed. “What? You think a man like me can’t afford to be choosy? Like I should just settle for whatever I can get?”

  “Not at all. I think everyone deserves to be happy. One more question. You said that every Friday you and Sandra would eat Chinese then make love?”

  Jarrod’s face reddened at the personal question. “Yeah.”

  “The only problem is that the autopsy didn’t show any signs of penetration…” Hazel let the sentence fade away unfinished. It was a good strategy. There wasn’t any anal tearing. A tear didn’t mean anything, because it could have happened with another partner, or there may not have been any tearing at all, but it was another way to gauge Jarrod’s truthfulness. He wouldn’t necessarily know about the findings of an autopsy report. To the layman, it all sounded legit. Jarrod glared at Hazel, his nostrils flaring.

  “I bottomed,” he told her. “It doesn’t make me less of a man just because I like to take it in the ass. Women like you can’t understand men like me. And you sure as hell can’t understand Sandra. She was the complete package.”

  “Just so we’re clear,” I said, taking his attention away from Hazel. “When you and Sandra met, she would…penetrate…you?” I tried to choose my words carefully, so as not to offend him further.

  “That’s right. We’d give each other blow jobs too. Doesn’t make me gay.”

  “No one said it does,” I said. “You do you.”

  We left Jarrod’s place disappointed. He didn’t kill her, and he didn’t get me any closer to whoever did. He was sad, maybe a little pathetic. But he was no killer. As we made our way back to my truck, I noticed a car, the same dark model Mercedes I had seen earlier. Its lights were off, but the engine was running. It peeled away when the driver realized that I was watching. I had a feeling that even though I didn’t know who the killer was, he knew who I was. It wasn’t a good feeling.

  18

  Hector

  I pulled into the University Avenue courthouse at nine. It was time to narrow my focus, and home in on Colonel James Cutler. I passed through the security gate, putting all my possessions on the conveyor belt while I went through the metal detector. A guard for directed me to the filing office and, after a couple wrong turns, I found the office. There was a bank of computers against a wall. I waited a few minutes for one to open. When it finally did, I took a seat and logged into the public view terminal. At the prompt, I typed the name James Cutler into the family court database. His name appeared, and beside it, a file number. I took out my notebook and jotted it down. Then I went to the reception desk and took a number from the automated machine.

  “Civil, family, or criminal,” the matronly woman behind the counter said.

  “What?”

  “Which court are you looking for, hon?”

  “I’m looking for divorce records.”

  The lady, a middle-aged woman with auburn hair and a moon-shaped face, indicated a seating area. “You want family. Have a seat. You’re going to be awhile.”

  I didn’t know how long awhile was going to be, but id had enough experience with bureaucracies to know that it was going to be longer than I had planned on. I was supposed to meet Hazel and interview Sandra Mack’s parents. I doubted that I’d have the time. I could push it back a day, but I didn’t really want to. The investigation was picking up steam, and I wasn’t sure that the Mackenzies could really add anything to it beyond some background information on their slain daughter. I don’t want to say that no part of an investigation is unimportant, but some parts are less important. Every lead needs to be followed though. That was the one undeniable truth. No stone unturned. I decided to call Hazel and ask if she could do the interview on her own. If she couldn’t, or if I felt she hadn’t done a thorough enough job, I could always go back and do it myself. I had faith in Hazel. She had good instincts. I gave her a call.

  After my number was finally called, I approached the wicket. The nameplate at the window read Doris. “I’d like to review a court file, number E97.” The wicket took my request and disappeared into the bowels of the office and returned with a manila folder that was several inches thick. She slid it towards me. I took it and started back to the seating area.

  “You have to read it here,” Doris said in a gruff, uncompromising voice. “That file can’t leave this office.”

  “I’ll just be over there,” I said, pointing proprietarily at the chair where I’d already spent so much of my morning.

  “You have to read it here. Where I can see it. It can’t leave the office. It’s procedure.” We locked eyes, but I looked away. She had home field advantage.

  “Fine,” I said, opening the file. The first page was a table of contents printed on yellow card stock. I ran my finger down the column. I wasn’t familiar with family court and I had no idea what I was looking for. I hoped whatever it was would be obvious. The office began to fill with impatient people waiting to look up files, but I wasn’t going to be rushed. The backlog was created by the rules of the bureaucracy. If I had to read it here, in the presence of the clerk, I was going to take my sweet ass time doing it.

  I found a claim filed by the applicant wife, Eleanor Cutler, alleging physical abuse, alcohol abuse, and adultery. This all matched up with what Nowak told me. There were some photos included in the claim, showing Mrs. Cutler’s blackened eye. This was interesting to me. Did he hit her because he is a stressed out alcoholic, or was there something more there? Maybe he was mad because she wasn’t, and could never be, his ideal woman. A woman like Sandra Mack. The respondent husband, James Cutler, wasn’t contesting the divorce. The children were all grown so support and access weren’t an issue. Mrs. Cutler only wanted the house in Rosedale. I flipped back to the table of contents and looked for assets, and found it listed under NFP-Net Family Property. This was a particularly thick section of the file. The wicket clerk harrumphed loudly. I ignored her.

  The army had been a lot better to Cutler than it had been to me. All I got for my service was a bum eye and a beat-up car. Cutler had a multi-million-dollar home, a cottage in the Muskokas, and a veritable fleet of cars, an Escalade, a BMW,
and a Mercedes. According to the file, Cutler earned just shy of a hundred and fifty grand a year. Not too shabby, but hardly enough to support the lifestyle described in the report. I looked up Ellie’s salary. Her occupation wasn’t listed, but she was definitely the bringer of bacon. Her salary was nearly quadruple his. Very interesting. Looks like Cutler had himself a sugar-momma. That might be a tough pill to swallow for a man that was used to being the boss.

  I pulled the pages that were most interesting to me and lined them up on the counter. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and positioned it, trying to take photos. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “What?”

  “You aren’t allowed to do that,” said Doris.

  “But you won’t let me leave with it.”

  She gave me an incredulous `are-you-shitting-me’ look. “You could request copies,” she said in a tone suggesting that I must be an idiot.

  I felt the pent-up rage that comes with any dealings of red tape, but I swallowed my frustration. Serenity fucking now. “May I have these pages photocopied?” I asked with an exaggerated sweetness.

  “It’s a dollar a page,” she smiled. She was adept at this game. I threw in the towel. She won.

  I sighed and pulled out my debit card. Doris processed the payment, then picked up the documents I needed copied and disappeared into the back. She returned a few minutes later, handing me the still-warm pages. “Can I look up a criminal court report too?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” she said, but cocked her head towards another wicket. “That’s criminal over there. I only deal with family.”

  “There’s no way you can help out?”

  “I’m afraid not, hon. I only deal with family matters.”

  I went back to the terminal and entered in the name James Cutler at the prompt. This time, instead of clicking on family in the drop-down menu, I chose criminal. I jotted down this ridiculously long number in my notebook, went to the desk and selected a new number. It was going to be one of those days.