Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  He went back to the nursing station, where he met the surgeon. He was told that Aziz could go home the next day, but she’d need bed rest for at least a week before being cleared for active duty. “Normally I would recommend a patient lay low for four to six weeks, but I know that’s not going to happen. Detective Aziz can be on her feet in a few days. It will be painful, but she can do it. Her only risk at this point is the possibility of infection, which,” said the surgeon, “could present fairly quickly. She’ll be taking antibiotics and iron for the next ten days, but that alone isn’t enough. I’ve ordered a wound specialist to see her once a day for the week. When she said that she lives alone, I suggested getting in someone from homecare to bathe her. The key is to keep those sites clean and dry.”

  “Other than that,” he added, “she’s a very healthy woman.”

  [29]

  At noon the next day, The checkout lines at the Golden Goose Family Market tracked between stacks of cereal on one side and potato chips and nachos on the other. Ahead of him, a kid maybe four years old was eyeing Miss Vickie’s BBQ chips while his mother flipped through a Hollywood tabloid with a pregnant beauty on the cover.

  For his part, he was content to study the shoppers from under his hoodie. He believed that standing in line revealed a lot about one’s character. Not just being frustrated — no one would choose to wait in line at the Goose — but about an individual’s approach to life. You could see it all in a queue: the resigned, those with low self-esteem, the nervous and anxious, the optimistic and energetic. Body language wasn’t the only betrayal; it was also the mouth, the eyes and hair, the clothes and shoes.

  Take the woman to the left. Dyed black hair with silver roots growing from the crown like a fraying skullcap. A ­pilling grey sweater over worn beige pants, the cuffs still showing salt stains from a winter several months gone. Those hadn’t been chosen to show off her figure; they were just what she’d reached for this morning. Her back hunched forward in response to a sunken chest; her legs, while thin, looked as if they carried the weight of her world. Her mouth had given up to gravity and curled down at the corners; he wondered if she ever laughed. Her eyes appeared to be focused on the magazine rack, as if she was studying the covers and reading the pitch copy. She wasn’t. She was killing time — or perhaps it was the other way around. Often there’d be something, maybe a spectacular hairdo, a gorgeous pair of shoes, something that would holler, Don’t look at me, look at my shoes. I am my shoes! Not her. She wore scuffed-up, worn-out tan walking shoes.

  In front of her was a young man, tall and slim, carrying a deli wrap and a diet Coke. He wore a royal blue suit, a white shirt with slim pink tie, and stylishly pointy brown shoes. His blond hair, with close-shaved sides and back, sported a stiff top that fell like a bird’s wing over his ear. He was definitely shouting, I am my hair!

  The kid suddenly caved. He grabbed the Miss Vickie’s bag and tugged at his mother’s leg. Without looking down, she swatted him across the face with the magazine, accidentally dropping her wallet on the floor. The boy let go of the bag and fell bawling to his knees. As she squatted to pick up her credit cards, his mother said something under her breath that reduced his wailing to breathless sobs. She didn’t notice that a black business card had slipped from her wallet and was under the heel of her boot. Still angry, she stood up and raised a hand above the kid’s head; he closed his eyes, cowering as he waited for the blow. Instead she took his bony shoulder and shook him hard. His sobs reduced to a whimper and he stood up.

  The young man with the birdwing hair reacted without thinking. “Hey, you can’t do that!” Undeterred, the woman smacked the kid’s head and, with a slender finger inches from his eyes, told him to quit whining. She picked up the chips and slammed them back on the shelf. Wiping the snot from his nose, the boy was doing his best to stop crying. His posture suggested that he knew the real punishment would begin when they got home. At four he was already defeated.

  The man in the hoodie watched as the woman emptied her buggy of tinned soups; frozen pizzas, peas, and fries; milk and soft drinks. She looked like someone from Central Casting who’d been hired to play a party girl. All dressed up in black: shiny tights below, feathery and fetching above. Long black hair with purple highlights — she could be a Goth rock star who specialized in a bad attitude. Her cleavage, spiked heels, and studded purse made a strange sight in daylight. The boy’s clothes were worn and stained and one of his running shoes was torn at the toe; he clearly wasn’t part of the act.

  The man behind him reached for a Kit Kat, tousled the boy’s hair, and put the treat in his hand. “Don’t touch my kid. Who the hell do you think you are?” She wrestled the Kit Kat away from him. “Gimme that.” The kid was down and crying again. “See what you’ve done? What are you, a perv, in that cheap sweat-hoodie?” She threw the Kit Kat at him and he caught it without effort. That only seemed to make her angrier.

  The young man piped up again. “Jesus, lady, you are so twisted. People like you —” He didn’t get to finish his thought.

  “Shut your fucking mouth, you pussy in your first suit!”

  “Oh my, what a potty mouth,” said the woman in the grey sweater, lifting the corners of her mouth for a moment.

  “Fuck you, you old hag!”

  “Well, someone’s having a bad day.” The woman pursed her lips, looking up to the young man for agreement. That comment was apparently too pathetic to respond to verbally; the young mother simply sneered and raised her middle finger in their direction.

  The checkout girl kept her head down, happy to be punching in purchases, and the faster the better. It was about getting the angry lady on her way so she could hear the easy-listening music again and say “Have a nice day” with some degree of sincerity. If there was a manager, he or she had found something urgent to do somewhere out of sight and sound.

  “Do you have bags, ma’am?”

  “Do I look like I’ve got bags?”

  The woman in grey and the young man in blue were watching the man in the hoodie. He seemed to be studying the mother as if she were the most interesting thing in the world. While her payment was processing, she glared back at him. Retrieving her credit card, she said, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

  He put his basket down on the conveyor belt, smiled, and walked slowly towards her. Though his eyes were gentle, the wide, thin-lipped smile was unnerving. Still, she was game and responded with a sneer. “You don’t scare me.”

  Towering over her, his smile widened. He pulled his hoodie further over his head and leaned into her, whispering, “When your boy is thirteen, he’s going to slit your throat as you sleep.” Standing upright, he motioned with his finger. “From here to here.” Then he winked.

  The colour drained from her face. She picked up her bags, grabbed her kid by the shoulder, and shoved him through the sliding doors. She never looked back.

  “That’s if someone doesn’t do it sooner,” he said to himself as he unloaded his basket. After he’d paid, he picked up the black card and put it in the pouch of his hoodie.

  [30]

  As he stepped out of the stairwell, MacNeice could hear Williams and Vertesi talking, the whirring of Ryan’s printer, and Swetsky on the telephone in his cubicle. While that wasn’t much, it had the instant effect of energizing him. At the same time, he realized that he was physically and emotionally depleted. He was still reeling from his role in the deaths of three men. As for Palmer, MacNeice couldn’t rise above anger and pity. The man had been an alcoholic and the department had stood by him through detox and treatment, yet the DPD had continually turned a blind eye to his sexual misadventures. “And here we are,” he whispered to himself.

  MacNeice went to make a coffee. Swetsky didn’t look up; he was listening and making notes, the phone locked between his head and shoulder. As the espresso poured, MacNeice sent a high-priority text message to Dr. Sumner requesting an appointmen
t. In less than a minute he had her reply: “You’re lucky. Had cancellation. Come at 3 pm today.”

  MacNeice gave his team an update on Aziz’s condition and her expected recovery time. Then he provided a top-line summary of his conversation with Wallace and the likely fallout in the media.

  Williams spoke first. “Are we groomin’ the goat now, sir?”

  “The scapegoat?”

  “Yeah. Where’s this one headed?”

  “The DC’s taking responsibility.” MacNeice changed the topic slightly. “Any reports from McMillan on the interview with Mrs. Galanis?”

  Vertesi nodded. “He called. He and a uniformed female were at the apartment by 2:30 a.m. Mrs. Galanis appeared at the door with a black eye, bruised cheek, and split lip. She said her husband had left the previous morning to take their twenty-four-year-old twin sons to the airport. The young men were going to Greece for a month to stay with their grandparents. When McMillan pressed her about the black eye, she admitted that her husband had beaten her. The boys were present at the time, and they knew the reason for the beating. When the boys left, each was carrying a duffel bag.

  “Mrs. Galanis accompanied them to the morgue to identify her husband. When the attendant rolled back the sheet, McMillan said she looked shocked and took hold of the constable’s arm, but she confirmed that it was him. When she had regained her composure, she asked about the other two bodies. McMillan said he was waiting for Dna confirmation, at which point she lost it and had to be led out of the building.”

  MacNeice dropped his chin to his chest. “She’s afraid her boys didn’t leave for Greece after all. Is someone with her today?”

  “Yeah, a cousin from St. Catharines came to stay. McMillan left the uniform and a grief counsellor, but they’re probably gone by now. Galanis has been calling Greece, but her sons haven’t arrived yet—and their cellphones aren’t working.”

  “Any word on Maracle?”

  “Broken ankle,” Vertesi said. “Should be out for a few weeks. But get this: he asked McMillan if he can be seconded to D-1 till Fiza gets back.”

  “McMillan says it’s your call, sir,” Williams added.

  By the looks on their faces, MacNeice didn’t need to ask their opinion. “Okay, I’ll call him. What else?”

  The conversation stopped as Swetsky heavy-footed towards the cubicle. He swung in smiling, waving his notes. “That was a young woman named Wendy Allen. She saw the photograph we posted in the Standard and recognized Tundell as the man who attacked her and killed her dog in Durand Park.”

  All eyes went to the whiteboard photograph of the donkey-head man. Someone had already printed his name on the image. They wondered why this news had Swetsky so charged up.

  “Turns out, four or five people came to her aid. She has all the names and contact information — all except for one.” Swetsky went over to the board. “Apparently he was sketching in the park when Wendy was attacked and was one of the first to reach her. He gave her a complete description of her attacker before heading off in the same direction as Tundell.” Spreading his arms, Swetsky added, “She’ll be here in an hour to give us a detailed description of the guy.”

  “He went to chase him down,” MacNeice said.

  “To kill him for killing a dog?” Vertesi asked in disbelief.

  “Why not?”

  Williams shook his head in amazement. “Rocky, you’ve clearly never had a dog.”

  “They’ve pulled the file for me downstairs. It includes the guy’s written description of Tundell. And guess what — there’s a sketch on the back.” Swetsky turned to leave. “I’ll be right back. Oh, and Charlie Maracle? Get him in here. The guy’s solid; he’s seen stuff.” He went thumping towards the stairwell. They could hear the metal structure groan as he descended.

  Vertesi shrugged. “I’ve seen stuff.”

  [31]

  The description was written entirely in capital letters with a pencil. The forward-leaning and adjoined letters suggested that it had been done in a hurry. The drawing on the other side featured six women sitting at a picnic table with trees as a background. It looked like it had been rendered quickly. Some of the women were fairly detailed, others little more than shapes. Yet one could easily imagine the women’s animated conversation, with hands gesticulating and heads tossed back in laughter. The trees behind them were simple and elegant, like silent sentinels.

  “Ryan, make six copies of both sides.”

  “What are you going to do with them, boss?”

  “Not entirely sure, but one set will go to Jeffery Ridout, that dag curator. Depending on what he says, we’ll visit every gallery and artist’s studio in Dundurn. We may not find him, but someone might recognize his handwriting or drawing style.”

  Taping copies of the note and the drawing next to the mug shot of Tundell felt like progress. MacNeice stood back and eyed the board for several minutes. “I think we actually know a lot about this man. He’s obviously studied art. And his description of Tundell tells us he’s observant — it could have been written by one of us. Plus we know he’s a strong man, strong enough to carry a corpse several hundred yards up to the Lower Falls of Devil’s Punchbowl.”

  MacNeice studied the snapshots of Amelia Street and the Punchbowl again. “So far these scenes appear to be drawn from historical references or satirical takes on historical art. He’s thorough, and when he’s not — like leaving the boot prints and tire tracks — he doesn’t mind giving up those details. I don’t think he’s too concerned about how this ends. He may think the ultimate sacrifice for art is to die with it.”

  Williams wasn’t convinced. “I can’t think of a motive that connects Tundell to Amelia Street. What did that old priest and his investor son do to deserve what happened to them?”

  “That might be the point.”

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “As I understand it, a great white shark may pass all kinds of fish, mammals, and surfboards without attacking them. But when the ‘eat something now’ urge is triggered, it’s a killing machine for whatever’s nearby.” MacNeice tapped the photo of the young addict. “Tundell happened to be nearby. He stood out because of what he did to Wendy Allen and her dog.”

  “But a detailed note like that must have been done before Tundell did the dog,” Vertesi said. “Doesn’t that suggest he was actually anticipating the attack?”

  “Exactly.” MacNeice wasn’t finished with his analogy. “Before that, he was just an artist sketching people in the park. The trigger for the shark may be hunger, but the trigger for our man may be some sort of violation. It becomes the inspiration for another piece of art.”

  “You’re making it sound like you think V’s got a conscience.” Once again, Swetsky wasn’t convinced.

  “Well, maybe a variation of a conscience,” MacNeice said. “If he’s our man and he pursued and killed Tundell, he might have been exacting justice . . . or consequences.”

  “I’ll give you the dog-killer and a lawyer, but why an old priest?” Swetsky pressed.

  “I can’t answer that, John.”

  * * *

  MacNeice studied the note again. Absent of any flourishes, it was similar to field notes he had seen at the bird sanctuary in Suffolk. He’d spent days there with Kate’s father, a field volunteer who had seen in MacNeice a willing student.

  MacNeice loved everything about the place, including the address — Sheepwash Lane. The wind gusts skipped across the North Sea and tore through the marsh grasses there, sending a chill through him that would last the whole day. “The winds from Minsk,” Kate’s father would say as he buttoned his coat. The sea was usually slate grey, but occasionally when there was weak sunshine, the wind left a streak of gold on the water that seemed to delight the low-flying seabirds on their way to nest or feed. When his shift ended, Kate’s father would hand MacNeice his notebook to read off the names while he c
ommitted them to the “Recent Sightings” board.

  You know that he loved you, don’t you.

  MacNeice turned away from the whiteboard. He sat at his desk and continued to study a copy of the note.

  He’d never say that, of course. But Mum told me once when we were at the farm picking up asparagus that you were the son he’d never had.

  MacNeice swallowed hard and coughed unnecessarily to clear his throat. He was aware that Williams had turned his way. “I’m for a glass of water. Anyone need anything?” He smiled briefly and left the cubicle.

  He also felt protective of you, because of your work. But then, we all worried about that.

  MacNeice pressed the tap to draw cold water into a paper cup. “I know you did,” he whispered.

  Funny to think of it now. We’re all gone and you’re still there doing dangerous work.

  MacNeice’s eyes filled with tears. He coughed again and took a paper towel to wipe them away. “I loved your father.”

  I know. He knew . . . We all knew.

  The phone was ringing in the cubicle. Ryan picked it up as MacNeice turned the corner. “It’s Forensics, sir.”

  While it would take two weeks or more for absolute certainty, Rapid Dna analysis from the pickup truck corpses was in. Junior sounded serious — a modest breakthrough — as he delivered the news. “They’re related to Kyros Galanis, sir, but they’re not his sons. Dna, dental, and bone studies suggest they are men in their late forties, possibly early fifties. Best guess, they’re first cousins.”

  MacNeice put down the phone with a sigh of relief. Her sons might never forgive her for what had happened, but Mrs. Galanis would be relieved beyond measure that they were still alive. He picked up the phone and called McMillan.

  “Good to hear from you, brother. You attending the press conference this morning?”

  “No, Wallace has that covered.”