Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  He looked at the image and immediately turned away. “My lord in heaven.” He took several deep breaths before returning to the photo. Then he flipped quickly through several others, including those with Vertesi in the chair. He slowed down, turning the photocopies until he stopped at one.

  In the photo, Vertesi was looking down at the floor, elbows resting on his thighs. “It’s this one, number six. The angle isn’t right, but I know this one.” Ridout shook his head in frustration that he couldn’t put a name to it. “I’ve got your card, Detective. Give me till morning. I might consult Nicole, but I do know this work.” He folded it in half and put it in his jacket pocket. “He’s referencing another artist. It’s someone well known but perhaps second tier.”

  * * *

  It was 8:45 p.m. when MacNeice picked up his jacket, scanned the whiteboard one last time, and left the building. He left a photo of Melody Mason’s body taped next to those from Amelia Street and the Punchbowl. Vice had no information about her home address or surviving family. But she had been caught in a sweep, fingerprinted and photographed, and released without charges. Her sheet cited lack of evidence. MacNeice had her mug shot posted on the department’s online police alert page. In the morning she would appear in the media as a POI — a person of interest — in an ongoing investigation.

  The composite of the suspected killer had already been released to local and regional news sources. While MacNeice was hopeful that the images from the alley or FotoBlast could be enhanced, there was little in them but the killer’s chin and wide grin. They would refer to him as a POI in several recent homicides. The Standard had already begun describing him as a serial killer, and once Mason’s photo appeared, he was certain every reporter would begin using the same language.

  MacNeice was merging with the eastbound traffic on Main when his cellphone rang. “Detective MacNeice, I remembered where I’d seen that image.” Jeffery Ridout was shouting to be heard over loud background noise. “I’m sorry for this — the artist here insists on playing this music — but it’s even louder outside.”

  “I can hear you, Jeffery.”

  “It’s Walter Sickert, a British artist who lived from 1860 to 1942. A young prostitute in London had her throat slashed on a bed in a dingy room. He called his painting The Camden Town Murder and then mysteriously provided an alternative title, What Shall We Do about the Rent? Sickert knew a lot about that killing, the crime scene details and such. Some thought he knew too much, and for a while he was considered a suspect. Though many were convinced that he’d killed her, it was never proven, and her killer was never found.”

  The background noise faded suddenly. “I’ve retreated to the toilet. I can’t tell you what a chill it was when Sickert’s paintings came onscreen.” Ridout lowered his voice. “Honestly, I’m gutted. I don’t know that I want you showing me any more of these . . . God, I hope it’s helpful.”

  “It is, Jeffery. Thank you.”

  “Stay safe, MacNeice. I’ve never said that to anyone with more meaning.”

  * * *

  Sitting at the kitchen table in his stone cottage, MacNeice pushed aside the remains of his hastily prepared pasta and opened his laptop. He typed “Sickert what shall we do about the rent?” and waited. What appeared was sanitized and bloodless compared to the scene at the hotel, but there was no question about the reference.

  MacNeice’s cellphone rang; it was Montile calling from Division. “Sir, I just got a call from the organizer of last year’s FotoBlast. She said she knows the Dundurn photography scene really well but doesn’t recognize our guy from the photo or the composite.”

  “Too bad, though I’m not surprised. He’s an outlier by definition.”

  * * *

  MacNeice cleared the dishes and poured a double grappa. He sat in the living room looking out at the forest, where dusk had already faded to night. The chatter of day birds had given way to bats and their reckless skimming flight. On the ground, the squirrels and lesser rodents had retreated to their nests to wait for morning. Soon, if he was lucky, a fox or coyote might amble by and glance his way. But for now — apart from the reflection of his hand lifting the glass — it was a still life outside and in.

  You miss me still, don’t you.

  “More than words can say.”

  It’s holding you back. I never wanted that for you.

  “You’re with me now. That’s all that matters.”

  You think so, Mac, but you’re a puppet master pulling invisible strings, providing words for an invisible puppet.

  “Well put, Kate. . . . Through the window, among the trees, I know there’s a fox peering back at me. I can feel him sniffing the air, waiting for me.”

  And if he isn’t there? If he’s like me, just something you imagine?

  “Then I’m a lucky man to have you here and to have him there watching over me. As winter would miss the spring, I miss you.”

  I recall you once saying, “As the sea longs for the shore, I long for you.”

  “All true.”

  [45]

  It was 8:48 a.m. The telephone rang once. Ryan answered it and swivelled in his chair. “Sir, it’s the managing editor of the Standard for you. Says it’s important.”

  “Detective Superintendent, this is Charles Lowry. Your department published a composite of a person of interest in the Standard today.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I’m sitting with our photo editor, Dorothy Edwards. We’re on speaker, so I’ll let her take it from here.”

  “Hello, Detective MacNeice. Your composite looks very much like a stringer we’ve used from time to time to shoot football or hockey. His name is Patrick Manserra.”

  “Do you have an address for him?” MacNeice was rifling his desk for a pen.

  “Not exactly. We send his fee to a PO box. We do have a phone number for him, but I’ve checked and it’s no longer in service.”

  “I’ll take it anyway.” MacNeice wrote down the number. “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “We haven’t been using freelancers for a while, due to cutbacks, but he’s very professional and a terrific action shooter. Typically he’d email ten to twenty shots from his assignment to keep his costs down.”

  “Do you have that email address?”

  “Yes.” Edwards gave him the address and added, “I tried reaching him a few weeks ago to tell him two of his shots had won national newspaper awards. But the email account, like the phone number, was down. I just assumed he’d moved on.”

  “How did you originally find him?”

  “We didn’t. He came by with some intense combat photography, stuff he’d never published. He offered to shoot free of charge. Basically, if we liked what he shot, he’d be paid like any professional. He didn’t even ask about our rates.”

  “Can you describe him to me?”

  “Well, he’s handsome in a rugged-looking way — tall and wide, like a hockey player. Your composite captures him well, though it’s a bit iffy around the eyes.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I know it’s just recall, but I’d say his eyes reveal a very soulful man who’s seen a lot of life, who’s somewhat weary. He looks at you hard, as if any second he might lose sight of you forever. It’s not creepy; it’s very disarming, especially when he’s smiling.”

  “Do you still have the combat photographs?”

  “No. He didn’t leave them.”

  “Do you recall anything about the uniforms, perhaps a shoulder patch or beret insignia, in those images?”

  “I’m sorry, no. It’s been a while. But I remember he didn’t want to talk about them. It was seriously high-quality stuff. I thought that approach would be perfect for shooting sports, especially football.”

  “Anything else?”

  “At the time we were forced to use supplementary images from other sources. So
when Manserra showed up, a guy with an eye for the moment, and he was happy to work within our budget — it was a gift.”

  “What stories do you have coming up that might require a man of his talent?”

  Sensing an opportunity, Charles Lowry broke in. “We don’t have anything scheduled, Detective, but we could . . . in return for an exclusive.”

  MacNeice let the comment go unanswered. He understood the reason for it: times were tough. It’d be a fair trade in Lowry’s mind, a serial killer for an exclusive story. Aware that his proposal had been left hanging, Lowry made a strategic withdrawal. “Of course, if we were able to ID him from this sketch, he may also have seen it. If so, it’s unlikely he’d take the bait.”

  Edwards returned to the obvious. “And, as I said, we don’t know how to reach him.”

  “What has he done, Detective?” Lowry asked. “You’re the head of Homicide, so it must be bad.”

  * * *

  Within minutes the team was hunting for Patrick Manserra. Williams was on the line with service providers to check the phone number and email address. Maracle was requesting a court order for more information about the post office box. Vertesi was checking social media and Swetsky was onto Veterans Affairs.

  MacNeice studied the whiteboard. He had a nagging suspicion that the name would prove to be an alias. Why would someone so utterly thorough overlook such a dropped thread? On the other hand, this man was aware that several people in Durand Park had seen him and needed only the photo of Tundell to jog their memory. And while he hadn’t had a choice about entering the strip-mall laneway, he didn’t appear particularly concerned about the security cameras. It seemed that, with his hoodies and ball caps, the man spent his life looking elsewhere to avoid them.

  Where did he live? MacNeice asked himself. He wouldn’t live in the city, where he could be seen by many eyes. He’d live in the country, somewhere quiet on the concession roads that connected like latticework, in a house hidden among trees, not unlike MacNeice’s stone cottage. A place where he could see everything coming and going long before it came or went. A place with an escape route if the police ever came knocking.

  “Ryan, look up every rural house sale in the area over the past two years. Isolation is the key — a dormant farm with some land shielded from a road or highway, maybe a garage or barn. Start within a twenty-mile radius of Dundurn.”

  Like the pilot of a small Cessna, Ryan started flicking switches, pushing buttons, and manoeuvring his joystick. Before him three screens came to life, including the massive Millennium Falcon, which produced a low but impressive hum even when it was sleeping.

  “Timing, Ryan?”

  “End of day, sir. But I’ll try to do better than that.”

  “Give it to me in batches, then — say, five at a time — with the contact information for the buyer’s real estate agent.”

  The telephone rang and Ryan answered. Listening to the caller, he swivelled around again. “Sir, there’s a woman downstairs with the duty sergeant. Says she’s Melody Mason’s mother. She has a four-year-old boy with her — Melody’s son.”

  * * *

  The resemblance of Melody to her mother was remarkable. They shared the same high cheekbones and narrow chin, the eyes hooded and dark. Melody’s son Jamie, however, had fair hair, large brown eyes, and a buzz cut that emphasized his cowlick. Other than his pale skin, there was little of his mother or grandmother in evidence. By the look on his face, he had no idea why he was in a police station, but whatever the reason, he seemed delighted. Every time a uniform walked by, he’d turn and watch in apparent admiration, then glance wide-eyed up to his grandmother.

  The desk sergeant, Leo “Moose” Stanitz, introduced Betty Mason and her grandson, then leaned over with his large hands clasped on his knees to speak directly to the boy. “I think you’d like a tour of this establishment, Jamie. It ends with ice cream in the cafeteria.”

  Jamie looked to his grandmother, who smiled. “Not too much, though. Remember, we’re going out for lunch.”

  MacNeice offered Mrs. Mason tea or coffee. She declined both. Once she was in the interview room, he excused himself and went next door to study her from the observation room.

  She wasn’t fidgeting, but she looked worried. She glanced at the mirrored glass, clearly wondering if someone was looking back at her. She was smartly turned out, her hair brushed away from her face with a swoop on both sides that reminded him of Mary Tyler Moore. Her clothes were tastefully bright: a flocked red and orange military-cut top with a hip-hugging skirt. She was slim and probably in her mid-fifties. Her purse was dark grey patent leather, matching her shoes.

  MacNeice re-entered the room, carrying two cups of tea. “I know you declined, but I thought you might enjoy this.” Betty Mason thanked him and took the paper cup with both hands, though not for its warmth. She smiled briefly and apologized for being nervous; it was just because she didn’t know what was happening.

  MacNeice asked about her daughter.

  “I know what she does for a living. She doesn’t want to tell me, but I know.” Betty sipped the tea. “What’s happened to my daughter? She never came home last night. I don’t know what to tell Jamie.”

  MacNeice’s face softened. He looked down at her hands and noticed the wedding band. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mason, but your daughter Melody was found murdered yesterday.”

  “Murdered . . . Why? How? Where? I don’t understand. Are you sure it’s her?” She left no time for answers as she processed the shock. He waited; he knew she didn’t want to hear the answers, at least not yet. She was trying to steel herself for the grief that would follow once she had them.

  She began sobbing, sending tracks of mascara down her cheeks, where they gathered before dropping to the table. Embarrassed, she tried to wipe them away. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  MacNeice handed her several tissues. He waited patiently before asking, “I see that you’re wearing a wedding band. Are you —?”

  “Yes. Frank’s an engineer. He works out west on the oil sands. What am I going to tell Jamie? Oh my God . . . I honestly don’t know what to do.”

  “What about Jamie’s father?”

  “We don’t know who he is . . . or was.”

  “In that case, you will tell Jamie his mother has died. But you’ll have Social Services there when you do.”

  “Can it wait till Frank gets back?”

  “Make it soon. You don’t want Jamie’s playmates or their parents confronting him with the news.”

  Whatever Betty’s thoughts had been before coming to Division, nothing could have prepared her for this. But the shocks weren’t over. “Mrs. Mason, I know this will be the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, but I must ask you to identify your daughter’s body.”

  “Jesus, Lord Jesus. What happened to her? How’d she die?”

  “Her throat was slashed.”

  For a moment Betty didn’t say a word. Her eyes were wide, her jaw quivering. Then she covered her face with her hands and began to shake violently. Her sobbing swept away any hope that the worst of it was over. MacNeice reached across the table and put a hand on her shoulder. “Is there anyone we can call for you, Mrs. Mason? A family member or close friend who could stay with you and Jamie?”

  It took some time for her to answer, and as she did she wiped her face dry. “No.” She blew her nose. “Only Frank. I called him before I came and told him about Melody’s picture being in the paper. He’s flying home from Alberta today.”

  There was a knock on the door; it was Stanitz. MacNeice stepped outside and closed the door to shield Betty. Moose apologized for interrupting but said there was a young man at the desk with information about the Mason case. MacNeice glanced quickly up and down the corridor for Jamie.

  “Not to worry. He’s had his ice cream and I’ve set him up with a pad and pencil at my desk. Anyway, this fella comes in,
looks at Jamie, and goes all bug-eyed. He’s here to report a confrontation between Melody Mason and a man at a grocery store checkout.”

  “Thanks, Moose. Call my team and ask Vertesi or Williams to go and get him. They can interview him upstairs.”

  “Yes, sir. And the boy?”

  “Keep him drawing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When MacNeice went back inside, Betty was dropping her soiled tissues in the waste bin. She appeared frail, but with her smudged makeup removed, she looked younger and even more like her daughter. Her breathing was steady but laboured, more like an ongoing cycle of sighs.

  “Do you work, Mrs. Mason?”

  “Yes, I’m a property manager for Hightower Incorporated. It’s a good job — they have five condominium buildings. Recently I’ve been working from home so I can be available to look after Jamie.”

  “Can you tell me about Melody?”

  “Gosh. Well, she’s our only child. She was wonderful . . . until she was almost fourteen. A boy she knew gave her drugs — cocaine, I think. I guess she liked it. Frank and I didn’t know. Well, not at first. After that, things went downhill. She had been an A student but she started failing some of her classes. She went from wanting to be an engineer like her dad to wanting to be a model. She skipped school, but we didn’t know. We knew she was having sex, because Frank went through her room and found things —”

  “I don’t need you to be more specific, Mrs. Mason.”

  “No . . . Okay, good. Anyway, we knew when she was arrested that Melody was a prostitute, even though she was released. Then along came Jamie.” Her face softened.

  “Was she a good mother to Jamie?”

  Betty took her time answering. “I think she tried to be.” She shook her head as if trying to erase a thought. “Melody was a very angry person. I don’t think she was using anymore, but she had a terribly short fuse. And Jamie’s a doll. He’s so sweet.” She took a deep breath and dabbed at her tears. “I think she frightens him. Of course, I tried to talk to her about it, but she responded by getting a babysitter. We only saw Jamie when the sitter wasn’t available.” Her eyes overflowed again, but this time she wiped away the tears with her hands. “Do you have children, Detective MacNeice?”