Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  * * *

  When he was back in the car, MacNeice took out his cellphone and dialled Wallace’s private line. As soon as the deputy chief picked up, MacNeice said, “Sir, I’ve just come from an interview with Elene Galanis.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want to do right by her.” He paused, but Wallace didn’t respond. “I want you to reinstate her on a full-time basis, but move her to the accounting department of my division.”

  “Why? Because you feel sorry for her?”

  MacNeice knew Wallace wasn’t as hard-hearted as he pretended to be, so he didn’t take the bait. “The woman has two sons. She lost her husband over an affair with one of our own. She did nothing wrong. We need to be on the right side of this and not victimize her further. If you let her go, you’ll pile more shame on someone who is blameless. But if she comes back to work, you’ll be sending a message of compassion to her, her sons, and the community. It will also go a long way towards mitigating the damage to the department’s reputation.”

  Static on the line. “Okay, it’s the high road. I’ll see what I can do. For now, don’t say anything to anyone, especially her.”

  “Thank you.”

  [36]

  Swetsky barked at Ryan over the office landscaping. “Where the hell is Mac?”

  “He went to speak to Mrs. Galanis, the woman who —”

  “I know who she is. When’s he due back?”

  “I’ll try his cell again, sir.” Ryan dialled and MacNeice picked up after the first ring. He had been about to turn the loaner car into his parking spot when he noticed it was occupied — by a new deep blue Chevy fleet car. The wheels were huge, as if they’d been lifted from a truck. He pulled into the next available spot.

  “Ryan, did the motor pool drop off something big and blue for me?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s already in your parking space. All your gear’s inside, and Sazabuchi gave you an upgrade on the CD player and speakers — top-of-the-line Japanese.” Then Ryan realized the big man was hovering over him. “Sir, DS Swetsky would like to speak with you.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  When Swetsky heard MacNeice’s familiar two-steps-at-a-time run up the stairwell, he made his way over to meet him. “Okay, you’re gonna love this. I have a composite sketch of Mister V from Wendy Allen’s description. But I wanted a comparison, so I called in the couple from the park. They did their own composite without seeing hers. And looky here . . .” He handed MacNeice a printout.

  MacNeice studied the composite provided by Wendy Allen. Swetsky read from her description. “‘He’s got a wide face, strong cheekbones, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth.’ Her take on his eyes: ‘They were gentle and compassionate’ — but that’s probably because he came to her assistance. ‘He has a thick, athletic neck and a bald head like a Brancusi sculpture.’” He glanced at MacNeice to see if that had registered. “I had to look that one up.”

  Swetsky handed him the second composite. “With these folks, I’m thinking they weren’t as freaked out by a dead dog, so their description might be more accurate.”

  MacNeice looked at the sketch. The eyes, cheekbones, mouth, and bald head were all similar, but the chin featured a distinct cleft. And his nose, which was indistinct in Wendy’s sketch, was stronger and appeared to have been broken. “Wendy didn’t remember anything about his ears, so the artist put in as average-white-guy ears. But the couple said they were large and tucked in against his skull. They also said his skin tone was pale white and very smooth. The wife said he looked like a genuinely concerned young man, very compassionate. They never spoke to Wendy about him.”

  “Brilliant.” MacNeice took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. “We are definitely getting to know him.”

  “Sir,” Ryan said, “don’t forget you’ve got an appointment with Jeffery Ridout, the curator, in ten minutes.”

  Moments later, Williams and Vertesi came striding around the corner of the cubicle. Behind them, on crutches, was Maracle, grinning from ear to ear. “We found buddy here just getting off the elevator,” Vertesi said. Seeing the printouts in MacNeice’s hand, he added, “They’re good, and pretty close to each other.”

  Ryan had cleared Aziz’s space for Maracle. He sat down, put his crutches within reach, and swung his chair around to face the whiteboard. Williams handed him copies of the sketches.

  While Ryan was downloading the memory stick from the pharmacy security camera, Vertesi gave them an update. “There are four sign companies in Dundurn, but only two deal with metal signage; it’s expensive and old-school compared to vinyl and plastic. Neither of them carry one-inch brass V’s.”

  Williams added, “They said they’d never been asked for brass letters, but if they were, they’d both reach out to a large company in Toronto called Sylvester Signs.”

  “So we called them up and, yes, they have cartons of one-inch brass V’s. But no one has purchased just V’s in the last year. Robbie Sylvester, the owner, said in an English accent . . . take it, Montile —” Vertesi swung his chair around to face his partner.

  “You see, mate” — Williams was enjoying the role — “usually a V is in a word, yeah, like Sylvester or Divine or Vegemite — ooh, ’orrible stuff that. Not many words begin and end with a V. ’Cause it’s not a word, yeah; it’s just a flippin’ letter. And it ain’t one of our more popular letters. I mean, it’s not an A or an E, is it? It’s just a bloody V.”

  MacNeice took the point and added one of his own. “I think, given what we know about our man, if he’d had an encounter with Mr. Sylvester, the police in Toronto would be investigating a murder at a sign shop.” He picked up his jacket. “Keep looking. He got those brass V’s from somewhere. Try Buffalo.” He turned back to Swetsky. “Don’t release those composites just yet. I want to show them and the killer’s drawing to Jeffery Ridout.”

  “Right. I’ll check in with police services in North America and Europe to see if anyone recognizes him,” Swetsky said as MacNeice put on his jacket and slipped the photocopies into an envelope.

  “We’ll meet with Vice about the laneway killings,” added Williams. “Look into Paolo DeSouza’s women. Maybe one of them knows this guy.”

  “DeSouza . . . I know that name. He’s a wannabe. Runs with a big guy,” said Maracle. “I can help with that.”

  “Before you do, Charlie, there’s a video you gotta see.”

  [37]

  The Gallery’s offices had the sort of modern interior that made MacNeice uncomfortable — all chrome and black leather, sleek lines, and cool grey monotone walls. He felt out of place, clumsy, even before he sat down.

  Moments later, Ridout swung the tall translucent door to the offices open and crossed the floor to greet him. He was a short, tidy man in a narrow-cut dark grey suit, yellow bowtie, and pointy brown suede shoes. His glasses were black-framed circles that made it difficult to focus on his eyes. They also contributed to a look of permanent surprise.

  Ridout appeared to be sizing up MacNeice as they walked through to his small office where nothing appeared out of place. While there was little wall space, Ridout did have a narrow tilted bookcase that seemed to be standing on two points of black steel the width of pencils. MacNeice couldn’t help himself. “How does that even work?”

  “Gravity, Detective. If I were to take the large books off the bottom shelf, it would all come crashing down. But as it is, it’s extremely stable. Here, look —.” He shook the structure, and while the publications shuddered, nothing tumbled down.

  “Well then, Detective, what can I do for you?”

  MacNeice gave Ridout a brief recap of the killings and put the crime scene photos on his desk.

  “Oh yes. Daumier and the Chapman brothers. Truly marvellous.”

  Surprised by his excitement, MacNeice shook off a desire to point out that the people really were dead. F
rom the envelope, MacNeice took out the killer’s sketch of Durand Park, the handwritten description of Tundell, and the two composites.

  “Now, if you’re saying this little sketch is by the same person who created these, I am surprised.” Ridout took off his circular specs and used a small loupe to study the drawing. “Clearly classically trained, yet conceptually he’s a very edgy modernist. And with these” — he pointed to the crime scene photos — “his intent seems very clear. They’re obviously ghastly, but I’m grateful for having seen them.”

  MacNeice was speechless.

  “But you’re not here to hear me wax poetic on the beauty of these images, or their satirical commentary on man’s endless capacity for slaughter.”

  “Correct.”

  “I thought not. You want to know if I’ve ever come across this artist. Sadly, I have not. Leaving aside the homicidal nature of his work, it is conceptually very sound. It’s theatre, really. These two are crime scene photos, are they not?”

  “Yes.”

  “It seems to me that he’s creating these tableaus in order to render them in some other form. Perhaps he plans to draw or paint them from photographs he’s taken.” Ridout seemed to marvel at the snapshots. “How did you choose where to place your camera?”

  “Actually, he told me. He placed a marker to indicate where to stand.”

  “Clever, though odd. It suggests in a way that you became his accomplice.”

  “Possibly.” It was something MacNeice hadn’t considered. “Where could he exhibit work like this?”

  “From your question, I assume you’re ruling out galleries in Canada or the U.S. — and you’d be right. But Paris, Berlin, Rotterdam, Brussels . . . There are collectors there with certain tastes.”

  “His sketch — does it look familiar?”

  “In style, no. He’s a draftsman and stylistically very clever. His strokes are quick and, I suspect, rendered from life.”

  “Durand Park.”

  “Ah. Well, in that case he’s given it more energy than it deserves.”

  “Is there an arts organization or a neighbourhood where artists congregate in Dundurn?”

  “Well, there is an established watercolour society. I mention that because of this sketch, though I can’t imagine that the man who created these tableaus would be a member. Many of the younger artists here are economic migrants from Toronto, so they tend to be scattered throughout the city and surrounding communities.”

  “Do you keep a list?”

  “Artists seek me out and I do conduct regular studio visits, but I’ve never seen this man’s work. While it might be a waste of time, you’re welcome to the list. You never know, one of them might know of him.”

  “Is there a bar where they gather?”

  Ridout raised his eyebrows at that. “Yes. I think it’s only been open a couple of years. Le Hibou — ‘the owl.’ As unlikely as this sounds, it’s on the road to Ancaster. A French chef and his Canadian wife opened it as a truck stop.” He clicked away on his laptop. “Here we are.” Ridout turned over one of his business cards and wrote down the address and phone number. Handing it across the desk, he added, “I’ll email you that list today.”

  As they stood to leave, Ridout did a quick head-to-toe study of MacNeice. “You’ll stand out like a sore thumb at Le Hibou. I wasn’t joking; it really is a truck stop. The artists who gather there are more or less indistinguishable from tradesmen.”

  “You’re referring to these heavy black shoes with the comfortable soles and my dark but otherwise forgettable suit?”

  “Why, yes, I couldn’t have put it better myself.” He nodded twice. That MacNeice could roll with such a critical assessment of his attire seemed to delight Ridout.

  At the elevator, MacNeice asked, “How do you dress when you go to Le Hibou?”

  “I go as I am; they expect no less. But were I to wear a torn T-shirt, paint-splattered coveralls, and worn-out penny loafers, no one would notice me. I’d be utterly invisible.” His smile suggested that he didn’t really believe it. “For the artists — and I know this is a stretch — Le Hibou is our Paris in the wilderness. Writers and philosophers, painters and sculptors — it’s their Café de Flore. Some ride their bikes out from the city just for a coffee, a croissant, and the conversation.”

  The elevator doors opened and MacNeice stepped in.

  Ridout wasn’t finished, but his tone changed. Holding the door, he said, “Detective MacNeice, whatever else this man is, he has talent. Possibly an extraordinary talent. A diabolical villain without doubt, but a true artist today is rarer than hen’s teeth.”

  [38]

  Instead of going back to Division, MacNeice walked around the building to his new unmarked Chevy. Sitting inside, he scanned the interior before sliding a Roberto Occhipinti disc into the player. Driving slowly out of the parking lot onto Main, he headed south on James Street towards St. Joe’s.

  Aziz was sitting in a chair by the window. She smiled when he swung open the door, and with some effort stood to greet him. “Hi, Mac. I’m being discharged for home care today. I’m just waiting for the surgeon to sign my papers.”

  He closed the distance between them, gently wrapping his arms around her. “It’s wonderful to see you on your feet.” He stepped back to look at her. The colour had returned to her face but, though her eyes were brighter, he could see she was still running on empty. “I’ll take you home and give you an update on the way.”

  “Please. I need to fill my head with something other than longing for a good meal” — she looked around the room — “and a different view.”

  * * *

  Over the next half-hour, Aziz became more alert. If MacNeice left out information she’d ask questions and he’d fill in the gaps. She was hungry for details and appeared more and more energetic as the conversation went on. Concerning Wallace’s press conference, which she had watched from her bed, Aziz felt that saving Elene Galanis’s job would go a long way towards saving Wallace’s.

  He told her about the police sketch composites of the suspect and the security footage of him killing an armed pimp and his bodyguard in a matter of seconds. “Charlie Maracle has taken up temporary residence at your desk. He’s looking into the women who worked for DeSouza.”

  “Make sure he doesn’t get too comfortable there.” Fiza was smiling, but he took the point. She was determined not be written out of the script.

  He spoke about his meeting with Jeffery Ridout and about Le Hibou, Dundurn’s little Paris in Ancaster.

  “Is it open for lunch?”

  “Yes. I’m going to check it out after I drop you off at home.”

  “No, take me.” Aziz saw his brow furrow and the muscles at the corners of his mouth tighten. “Look, Mac, I’ve only eaten white-sauce everything, and various colours of Jell-O since I’ve been here. I need something of quality. Take me to the Owl.”

  MacNeice wasn’t persuaded, but reluctantly he agreed — if the surgeon approved it. “Ridout impressed me, Fiza. He didn’t recognize our man from the composites or his sketch, but he saw the crime scene photos and immediately knew what the killer was up to. Ridout thinks he’s a major talent.”

  “Too bad he’s going to spend the rest of his life in prison.” Aziz had heard enough about the murderous “major talent” and changed the subject. “A real French restaurant . . . on the road to Ancaster?” She shook her head impatiently. “Where’s the surgeon?”

  As if on cue, the door swung open and an entourage of clipboard-carrying young residents appeared, led by Aziz’s surgeon. After a brief acknowledgement of MacNeice, he turned to his patient. Aziz knew the drill; she took off her jacket and sat on the bed. The clutch of residents and the duty nurse gathered around.

  Since it was a teaching hospital, the surgeon’s comments were directed to those around him, not to Aziz. “Looking good. The entry wound is heali
ng very well. Here you see the exit wound — a more difficult fix, but also coming along nicely. Those stitches will come out in a few weeks. I’ve told Detective Aziz that I don’t think plastic surgery is necessary, but let’s wait and see. She’s on ten days of antibiotics, but for the next week or so the best medicine is bed rest.” As he resealed the bandages, he addressed Aziz. “We’ve set you up with a wound-care specialist. Once a day will be sufficient. They’ll call you later today to set up a schedule.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Keep an eye out for any inflammation, swelling, or tenderness beyond what you have now, around either wound. We’ll call and book a follow-up for you here, but otherwise you’re good to go home.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. And please, thank your team for me.”

  The surgeon took the discharge papers from the nurse and signed them. As he was about to leave, MacNeice coughed several times. The surgeon turned around and MacNeice coughed again.

  “That’s a dry cough, Detective. Shall I check your chest while I’m here?”

  “He’s fine, Doctor. He’s giving me a not-so-subtle hint. There’s a restaurant not far from here. MacNeice is going and I asked if he’d take me along.”

  Chuckles rippled among the young doctors. “I see.” The surgeon drove his hands deep into his lab-coat pockets, considering the request. “I’m encouraged that you feel up to it, and your wounds are healing well. I approve, but with conditions. Don’t have a heavy meal and don’t stay out more than two hours.”