Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  * * *

  It was 9:40 p.m. when MacNeice eased the Chevy off Upper Paradise into the Usi driveway. Two rows of back-to-back storage units stretched a hundred yards into the lot, with three paved lanes for easy access. The centre lane was the widest. Tungsten lights washed over the bright orange of the unit doors, but the lighting didn’t cover the entire facility, so many of the units faded into the night.

  MacNeice parked the car so that it partially blocked the entrance. They spread out and walked slowly down the middle lane, with Maracle squeezing the opener at every unit on the right. When they reached the end, they switched sides and started walking back. Moths dive-bombed the light fixtures above them and the night birds were darting about, screeching warnings.

  As they approached the third unit closest to the entrance, Maracle pointed the fob as he kept walking. Click-click-click. They heard a door respond, but it was on the outside row.

  “Do it again,” MacNeice said, as they stood silent. The distinct hum of machinery and the rattle of a garage-door chain. “Stop it, then start again to let it open fully.”

  They walked swiftly around the corner. The orange door of the third unit had given way to a black void. Maracle took out his side arm, released the safety, and held it close to his thigh. Aziz and MacNeice drew theirs as well.

  A late-model silver minivan sat collecting dew on the grass that edged the asphalt. Maracle circled the vehicle and signalled that it was empty. The nearest tungsten lamp was shattered, leaving the unit to the ink-black gloom inside.

  MacNeice was reaching for his Maglite when they heard a vehicle swerve off Upper Paradise and bounce over the curb. It swerved again to avoid hitting the Chevy.

  “Behind the minivan,” MacNeice said. Huddled below its windows, MacNeice and Aziz released the safeties on their weapons.

  “Dodge Ram 3500,” Maracle whispered.

  Aziz looked at him, puzzled.

  “Sound of the engine, and the suspension.” Maracle smiled.

  Slowly the truck appeared, and more slowly still it turned towards them before stopping. Its high beams raked the driveway, broadsiding the minivan and merging their legs with its shadows. “Don’t move. Not a muscle,” said MacNeice.

  After what seemed like minutes, the truck inched forward. “Wait for it. When I give the signal, Charlie, you go around to the other side. I’ll give the driver an order to surrender. Aziz, stay low and take out the wheels if he tries to make a run for it.” MacNeice took out his Maglite and squared it along the barrel of his weapon.

  As the truck drew closer to the unit, its headlights pushed aside the dark of the opening like a curtain. MacNeice’s eyes widened as what appeared to be two human feet emerged from the darkness.

  The truck eased forward again and stopped. MacNeice nodded to Maracle and switched on his Maglite. He stood up, leaning on the van’s hood and training the Maglite and the weapon on the driver. “Police! Shut down that vehicle. Get out and lie face down on the ground.”

  Maracle’s flashlight hit the driver’s face from the side. Startled, he raised a hand to shield his eyes and then began revving the engine, at the same time talking to someone in the passenger seat and someone else behind.

  MacNeice repeated the command and received more revving in return. Seconds later, the engine dropped to a rumbling hot-metal idle, after which the driver’s and rear passenger windows slid down.

  MacNeice was about to give them a final warning when a shotgun blast from the front passenger seat tore into the storage unit, driving the feet into darkness. The engine roared to life and the driver opened up with a semi-­automatic. He fired at Maracle and then dropped the truck into gear. The wheels shuddered and screamed. As he accelerated past them, the driver sprayed the minivan’s windshield with several rounds before howling down the lane and disappearing behind the units.

  Maracle didn’t hesitate. He sprinted for the entrance and the cover of the Chevy.

  MacNeice looked down. Aziz was frantically tearing at the bottom of her blouse, which was covered in blood. MacNeice pulled it up to reveal a hole above her left hip oozing blood. He felt her lower back and then pulled his hand away; it was also bloody.

  “It went through. Put pressure on it as best you can, Fiz. I’ll be right back.” Running up the driveway, he could hear the truck accelerating on the other side, the roar of its engine echoing off the metal units.

  MacNeice squared himself into a firing position and opened up the moment the front bumper came into view. He had no idea how many rounds he fired, but when asked later by SIU, he said, “As many as you can fire in two and a half seconds. I emptied the clip.”

  For his part, Maracle was firing into the truck’s windshield and engine block as it sped directly towards him. The Ram slammed into the rear of the Chevy, tossing it sideways into Maracle, who disappeared from view. The truck skidded onto Upper Paradise and careened south, leaving a cloud of blue smoke behind it as it tore away.

  Running over to the Chevy, MacNeice saw that Maracle was on his back. He pulled out his cellphone and punched in some numbers. “Officers down! Officers down! Paradise Road U-Stor-It facility — that’s Uniform. Sierra. Tango. Oscar. Romeo. India. Tango.”

  “Roger that, sir. 2900 Upper Paradise Road. Assistance is on its way.”

  “Patch me through to all DPD radios.” MacNeice waited until he heard the hoarse beep. “All units, all units to the mountain. Pursue a black Dodge Ram heavily damaged by gunfire. Last seen heading south from 2900 Upper Paradise Road. Three suspects, considered armed and dangerous.”

  Maracle lifted his head as MacNeice approached. “I’m okay, sir. Maybe a broken ankle. I got smacked pretty good by your car. Was Aziz hit?”

  “She was. Help will be here soon, though. Stay where you are.”

  * * *

  Aziz had removed her jacket and blouse and was using the jacket to slow the bleeding. MacNeice knelt beside her and eased her hands away from the wound. Shining his Maglite on her lower back, he said, “It’s a clean exit, Fiza.”

  “So now you’re a homicide cop and a doctor?”

  MacNeice removed his jacket and placed it over her for both warmth and modesty. He sat down, pulled her up between his legs, and leaned against the wheel of the van. “Think of this as a bicycle built for two, or our first sleigh ride together. Use the warmth from my body.” Wrapping his right arm around her, he pressed his hand over the entry wound. With her blouse in his left hand, he tried to plug the torn and bleeding exit wound. Aziz arched her back from the pain.

  “I’m going to increase the pressure, Fiza. Tell me about where you go when you want to escape.”

  Aziz felt faint and slightly nauseated. She was shivering and taking slow, deep breaths. Leaning into him, she looked up at his face. “I don’t have a place to go to, Mac.”

  He could see the fear in her eyes. “A beach, or maybe a forest? A city. London, New York, Paris?”

  Her head rolled slowly back and forth across his chest as she closed her eyes. “Paris, only once . . . when I was twelve . . . a school trip.”

  “Fiza, stay with me. The ambulance will be here soon. Stay awake now. Open your eyes.”

  “Mmm. I can feel your heart beating, Mac.” Aziz didn’t open her eyes, but she smiled again briefly before passing out.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Aziz was on her way to St. Joe’s. Maracle refused to go to the hospital but allowed the paramedics to tape up his foot and ankle and leave him a pair of crutches. MacNeice was picking up Fiza’s jacket and blouse as the detective approached.

  “How’s Aziz?” Maracle asked, glancing at MacNeice’s bloodstained shirt and the dark red pool at his feet.

  “She lost a fair amount of blood, but she’ll make it.”

  MacNeice was using his jacket to wipe Fiza’s blood from his hands when he realized he still hadn’t looked into the storage uni
t. He dropped the clothes near the soiled wound packs by the paramedics and turned towards the open door. A crowd of uniformed men and women stood there, many of them talking softly, while others wisecracked and some just shook their heads. He turned to Maracle. “That is not a good sign, Charlie.”

  They crossed the driveway and the emergency personnel began stepping aside. The cops among them addressed the detectives with “Sir, sir” and the firefighters and paramedics nodded or did nothing. It wasn’t a sign of disrespect. MacNeice assumed that it was more an acknowledgement that what had happened to Aziz might have been a mistake — his mistake.

  [25]

  Other than lumpy upholstery and the pair of human legs relaxing on the cantilevered footrest, it appeared to be a classic La-Z-Boy recliner.

  “Christ, the body’s inside that thing,” said Maracle.

  MacNeice sighed. “Now we know what happened to the chair in Palmer’s living room.”

  The reupholstered vinyl of the chairback had been blown apart, leaving an angry blackened hole the size of a large cantaloupe. That and the legs would have been reason enough to draw a crowd, but the blast had shattered the flesh and bone and muscle within, mixing them up with the chair’s foam.

  Standing nearby were four officers and three firefighters, one with his Leatherman knife at the ready. As MacNeice and Maracle approached, a sergeant turned to meet them and the others stepped back towards the door. “It’s a lousy upholstery job, sir. Should we cut him out of there?”

  Too weary for humour, MacNeice told the sergeant to clear everyone from the unit and install a tarp across the entrance.

  “Will do, sir.” The sergeant turned to the cops and waited until they’d left before adding, “Speaking for everyone here, sir, we’re sorry about your partner. We’re pulling for her.” He wasn’t expecting an answer and didn’t get one. The blood that covered MacNeice’s clothes and hands was answer enough.

  What the sergeant didn’t ask, but likely thought, was why there hadn’t been more backup. MacNeice was way ahead of him. That two of his detectives had been injured — one seriously — was taking its silent toll. Maracle’s statement that it couldn’t hurt to check out the unit had been prophetic in its way, but he didn’t fault the man. It had been MacNeice’s call to go, and it was his call to include Aziz.

  Twenty or thirty rounds had been fired into the Dodge and it had still managed to escape. MacNeice’s Chevy, on the other hand, was bullet-ridden and bent, twisted sideways like a dog with a broken hip. And it was bleeding gasoline. Firefighters were busy spreading bags of kitty litter to contain the spill from its ruptured fuel tank.

  When the storage unit was cleared of people, Maracle leaned up against a workbench.

  “Looks like that scatter gun ended it for him.” He looked over to MacNeice. “Gotta be Palmer, you think?”

  MacNeice shrugged. “Likely.” He looked around the unit. There was a workbench running along the back wall, covered in power tools, pliers, wrenches, and a myriad of small tools. On another table sat a pair of cutting shears, a heavy rubber mallet, an industrial staple gun, a roll of three-inch white webbing, and a box cutter. Strips of brown vinyl lay rolled up under the bench next to the chair’s discarded original leather skin.

  The motorcycle, Palmer’s six-year project, was twisted and destroyed. Its tires and seat were slashed, the spokes mangled, and the gas tank hammered from a teardrop into something resembling a crumpled soda can. In the corner of the unit was a pile of bloodied clothes, a pair of sneakers, and some sweat socks.

  “You gotta be seriously pissed off to do this to a man,” said Maracle. Looking away from the chair to three vodka bottles — two empty, one almost done — he added, “Though I guess this stuff made it more bearable.”

  On the floor were the remains of two family-sized buckets of fried chicken, and rags soiled with a mixture of oil and blood. A large Rubbermaid bin nearby was brimming with vinyl trimmings and beer cans. With his cellphone MacNeice took several shots of the chair, the feet and lower legs, the gory hole in the seatback. The body had been upholstered into the geometry of the chair. The arms emerged from inside to rest on the chair’s arms; the head and body were buried, closely matching the contour of the original chair.

  MacNeice put on his latex gloves, picked up a long screwdriver, and rummaged around in the Rubbermaid bin. In seconds he was scooping out clouds of white foam. “They removed this so he’d sit more or less flush with the surface.” He took out several springs and saw that there were more at the bottom.

  “He would have suffocated in there. May’ve been dead before we even got here.”

  “I hear some wishful thinking, Detective,” MacNeice said with a brief, rueful smile. “Okay, hand me that box cutter.”

  He was about to cut into the chair when Williams and Vertesi appeared. “Jeezus, boss, you look like the sole survivor in a slasher film,” said Vertesi.

  Williams cleared his throat. “Swets is down at St. Joe’s. Aziz is in surgery now. He’ll call us as soon as —” He looked at the chair. “Man, this is ugly.”

  “Upholstery gone wrong,” Vertesi suggested.

  “Way wrong.” Montile leaned over to study the massive blackened hole. “I assume that’s not for ventilation.”

  Everyone but MacNeice laughed. “We believe this is DI Palmer.” In a heartbeat, the levity left the room. “Michael, use your cell to record what I’m about to do.”

  MacNeice drew the blade deep across the top of the chair and down the length of the seatback on either side. Feeling for the man’s limbs within, he made an incision around each arm and another to free the legs.

  “Right.” MacNeice took a deep breath. Holding the top of the covering in both hands, he pulled it away with an unintended flourish, like a magician lifting the cloth from a top hat to reveal a rabbit. A sickly gust of sweat, blood, and urine blew by the men.

  Palmer, naked but for his underwear, had been set into the workings of the chair. The recliner’s springs and foam stuffing were all around him, as if he were dough in a cookie cutter. His weight was resting on the wooden seat frame. His eyes were black and swollen shut. A stiff webbing gag pulled grotesquely at his mouth. The same webbing had been used to tether his body, legs, and arms to the chair’s frame. Judging by the amount of blood on his boxer shorts and the massive bruising on his upper thighs, his genitals had sustained blunt-force trauma.

  The shotgun blast had removed Palmer’s left shoulder, leaving shreds of flesh, vinyl, foam, and bone. Down his torso, large staples had been fired randomly into the flesh; from each of the staple sites, blood had flowed freely. Given the devastation of the shoulder wound, however, there was very little blood loss. Though he said nothing, MacNeice assumed Palmer had been dead before the shotgun was fired.

  “Boss, any chance this is related to Amelia Street and the Punchbowl? I mean, Donkeyman — and now the Chairman?”

  “I’d say no.” MacNeice nodded towards the far corner. “Palmer’s clothes are tossed against the wall; there’s nothing neat about this scene. And there’s no V that I can see. This looks like payback, revenge. Worse, the inhumanity of this suggests that the killer was trying to reclaim the manhood stripped away when Palmer seduced his wife.”

  Maracle shifted his weight in an attempt to ease the pain in his ankle. “I guess the men in that truck were here to pick up their gear and leave town.”

  “You mean the guy who came into your division raising hell?”

  “Yeah, him — or his sons or brothers. Start there. Find out who owns that black Ram. It’s fulla holes, maybe even a body or two.” Maracle let out a groan and leaned back against the bench.

  “Give me your keys, Michael. I’ll take Maracle to St. Joe’s and check on Aziz.”

  [26]

  They were approaching Stone Church Road when a call came in over the radio. “DFD called to a vehicle fire south of 127 Gl
encaster Road. Believed to be a pickup truck.”

  “Can you stand the pain a little longer, Charlie?”

  “Hell, yes.” Maracle sat up in his seat.

  MacNeice switched on the blue grille flashers and powered the car into a tire-screaming U-turn through the intersection. In seconds the speedometer climbed to 110 miles per hour. Maracle tightened his seatbelt and smiled.

  “Put a fresh clip in your weapon, Detective, and another one in mine.” MacNeice tore past the U-Stor-It facility. In his rear-view mirror he saw cops running out to the entrance to see what was going on.

  In a hard right on Rymal Road, the Chevy clawed for traction. Skidding across the lanes, it dropped onto the gravel shoulder before launching back onto the pavement. MacNeice powered the car through a left turn on Glencaster. Its rear end swung around, threatening to send machine and men rolling into the ditch. At the last second he twisted the wheel, driving the Chevy’s rear end in the opposite direction. The tires shuddered and spun, filling the car with the smell of burnt rubber. The Chevy slalomed, then straightened; when it did, MacNeice buried the accelerator in the floor. In seconds they saw a plume of black smoke rising behind the trees and shrubs in the distance. There were no other emergency vehicles in sight.

  MacNeice turned off the flashers and pulled to a stop as quietly he could. Getting out of the car, he looked across to see Maracle hoisting himself onto his crutches and making his way towards the lane. MacNeice caught up to him. “You might want to sit this one out.”

  “Not gonna happen, sir. I learned how to run on crutches when I was a kid, so trust me, I’ll keep up.”

  The lane was barely wide enough for a truck as large as the Ram. There were shrubs and blooming forsythia on either side. As it curved away from the road, they could hear the popping hiss of a burning vehicle.

  When the Ram came into view, it was engulfed in flames. The smell of burning paint and plastic was mixed with something more organic. There was no sign of anyone. The wind-whipped flames drowned out the whine of any approaching sirens. MacNeice considered pulling back to wait for support, but, working on the assumption that the men weren’t injured and might make a run for it, he kept going.