Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  “No,” he said softly.

  “Well, there’s no failure that hurts as much as failing your child. Frank and I failed Melody, and she was failing Jamie. And you see, that also becomes our failure.”

  “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Who did this to my daughter?”

  “We don’t know his name or much about him, but we’re learning fast. We will find him.”

  “Do you know why he killed her?”

  “We’re working on a theory, but it’s too soon to speak about that.”

  “What do we have to do to adopt Jamie?”

  “Social Services will help you with that. Of course, you’ll want to discuss it with your husband.”

  “Yes. But my lord, Frank loves Jamie as much as I do.”

  When they left the room, Jamie was standing in front of the duty sergeant’s desk wearing a DPD cap. His face lit up when he saw his grandmother. He ran to her and they embraced, swaying back and forth, as reporting officers passed by to start their shift.

  MacNeice watched them walk out together holding hands, and Jamie adding a skip to his step.

  * * *

  Upstairs, Williams was waiting for MacNeice. “His name is David Parker. He’s assistant to the assistant bank manager a block away from the alley where DeSouza and Grant were killed. He was grabbing lunch from the Golden Goose Family Market across the street. Melody Mason and her son were in the checkout line.

  “In Parker’s words, ‘She was wound up tight and she freaked and started hitting her kid when he picked up a bag of chips. The man behind her in line gave the boy a chocolate bar to cheer him up. But she went nuts and started up on the guy.’ Parker says he came in because of Melody’s photo and the sketch of the man; he’s pretty sure he was the guy in the Goose. He couldn’t see much of his face, but there was something familiar about the sketch.

  “There’s more. As Melody was about to leave, the man whispered something in her ear. Parker says, ‘She looked like she’d just seen the devil. She grabbed the kid and rushed out the door.’

  “Parker described what Manserra was wearing, including the hoodie pulled over his head. He said that physically he looked like an athlete, possibly a weightlifter.” Williams turned the page. “One last thing, sir. Parker said the guy was chilly. When I asked what that meant, he said, ‘Cold. Like scary cold.’”

  “Find out if there’s a security camera on that Golden Goose checkout line, or outside in the parking area.”

  Ryan swung around. “Sir, I’ve got Mary Richardson for you.”

  MacNeice had been so focused on what Williams was saying that he hadn’t even heard the phone ring. He dropped his jacket over the back of his chair and sat down. From experience, he knew it was advisable to take Richardson’s calls sitting down. As soon as he put the phone to his ear, he could hear the cold echo of the lab. “MacNeice, I don’t need you here for this, but I’m just finishing the preliminary autopsy on” — there was a pause while, he assumed, Mary reached for a file — “Melody Mason.”

  MacNeice said he’d just met with her mother, who would be coming by to identify the body.

  “We’ll need to make sure she’s presentable. As you know, the bodies are piling up like cordwood —”

  “What have you found, Mary?”

  Richardson began a rapid-fire recitation. There were no drugs in the body. Some years before she’d had a tubal ligation, perhaps to eliminate the risk of unwanted pregnancy. Her breasts had been augmented — “a lovely job, authentic reproductions of 36D’s.” What little food was in her stomach was for the most part healthy. “And she didn’t smoke. I suspect her lungs, heart, liver, kidneys, and eyes, if harvested, could have saved or improved the lives of . . . Well, enough of that.”

  MacNeice could feel his heart racing, partly because of the speed of the incoming information, partly because it made him feel slightly nauseated. He took a deep breath and waited for what was to follow.

  “Interestingly, this lovely young woman doesn’t appear to have been ‘interfered with,’ though presumably that’s the reason why she was there. As she wasn’t drugged, one has to ask if she simply fell asleep or was in a trance. You see, the question is, why didn’t she scream or fight back?”

  “I hope you have an answer.”

  “As it happens, I do. Though it will sound unbelievable and, but for the facts, I wouldn’t believe it either. Melody’s left hand was covered in blood, but her right had comparatively very little on it, and that was on the back of the hand, suggesting that she didn’t use it to reach for her neck. You see, the moment her neck was slashed, she reached up with her left to staunch the flow.”

  “I don’t know where you’re going with this, Mary.”

  “Of course you don’t. I believe Melody was in a state of heightened sexual arousal at the time of her death. She didn’t see the blade coming because her eyes were closed.”

  “Something he was doing to her?”

  “Far from it. Your assassin didn’t touch her, at least not until afterwards, and then only to move her leg. No, this was digital self-stimulation — Melody was masturbating. There’s residual evidence of that inside the vagina and on the fingers of her right hand.”

  MacNeice waited for Mary to continue.

  “You’re speechless. That’s understandable, MacNeice. It’s my first time as well. Simply put, I believe Mason’s throat was slashed at the very moment of sexual climax. The carotid arteries were severed by a razor or scalpel, and it was done in a flash. This man knows his anatomy and his blades.”

  There was an inch of day-old water in the glass on MacNeice’s desk. He drank it down — cool wet for a hot, dry throat. “Is there anything else, Mary?”

  “Only this: I believe Melody was in the grips of an authentic and overwhelming euphoria when she died.”

  “And that was exactly the way her killer wanted it to be?”

  “Correct.”

  “So we can add master seducer to his list of accomplishments.”

  “If a study were ever done, Mac, of the number of ­shattering climaxes a woman experiences in a lifetime, three-quarters of them would be self-induced.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  MacNeice picked up the empty glass and got out of his chair. In the canteen he added two ice cubes to a fresh glass of water.

  As he was walking back, Swetsky’s arm flew up. He was on the phone. “Yeah . . . Okay. Thank you, yeah . . . Very helpful.” He put the receiver down gently and turned to MacNeice. “Corporal Patrick Manserra, twenty-four years old, was killed in a firefight in Afghanistan in 2006.” Swetsky studied MacNeice’s face. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’m not. He’s too smart to be discovered by a record check.”

  “Right. So it was too good to be true.”

  “Maybe, but it seems to confirm a connection to the military.”

  “Good point. I’ll head over to the Armoury and show the composite to the commanding officer.” The big man lurched forward. Though still favouring his hip, he was surprisingly graceful getting to his feet. “And then I’m off to the Department of National Defence office. A guy I know there offered to help.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “To check on Aziz. If she’s willing and the doctor agrees, I’d like her in on this. Things are starting to move quickly, and while she and Maracle are both on ‘injured reserve,’ they can still make a contribution.”

  Swetsky walked ahead of him down the stairwell. “What’s bugging you, Mac?” Big, physical men aren’t supposed to be sensitive to the subtle changes in a voice, but John Swetsky was an exception.

  “Maybe it’s from coming up as a beat cop, but I’ve never felt comfortable doing police work from a command post. It’s necessary and effective, but there are times when I nee
d to be out smelling the ground, looking for boot marks in the sand.”

  “Following your gut.”

  “Exactly.”

  As Swetsky opened the door for MacNeice, he asked, “Is that all?”

  MacNeice stopped to inhale the spring air. He listened to the chorus of house sparrows, the muffled sounds of traffic passing by on Main, and the single-engine plane overhead. “I need to think like this man thinks.”

  Swetsky nodded. Then he slapped MacNeice on the back and walked off to his car. Dodging an SUV as he was reversing, he powered out of the lot and onto Main.

  MacNeice lowered the Chevy’s windows to let the new car smell out and the birdcalls in. Hearing only sparrows, he slipped Bill Evans into the stereo and waited. When he heard “You Go to My Head” begin, he turned up the volume and began easing out of his spot. He wanted to follow the treeline at the back of the lot, where a pair of cardinals had made their nest.

  [46]

  He didn’t see it coming. Hurtling down the line of parked police vehicles was a grey Ford Explorer. It slammed into his passenger door, sending MacNeice hard into the console and the Chevy careening down the line. The airbag inflated, hitting him in the shoulder. His car smashed into a parked cruiser, spun around, and came to a lurching stop. Flashing lights and sirens were triggered in the damaged vehicle. But Bill Evans kept playing “You Go to My Head.”

  MacNeice pushed himself off the console. He had to see what he could do for the other driver. Clawing at the deflating airbag, he took hold of the steering wheel. When he lifted himself up to look out the windshield, the SUV was speeding towards him again. Heavy smoke enveloped its hood, obscuring the driver’s view. It rammed the Chevy’s front end, pushing the car backwards. MacNeice struggled to find the brake pedal, and when he did, he hammered it down and the car shuddered to a stop.

  The Explorer was surging again. It plowed into the Chevy’s front end, slamming his body into the steering wheel and his foot off the pedal. Once again the car was driven backwards. He couldn’t see the SUV’s windshield, but the smell of smoke coming from its tires indicated that the driver had pushed its accelerator to the floor.

  On the impact, the Chevy’s steering wheel whipped back and forth like an injured snake. The interior was filling with the combined smells of smoke, burning rubber, plastic, and paint. MacNeice’s left hand was bleeding badly, but he hadn’t noticed. He unfastened the seatbelt, retrieved his weapon, and released the safety. Holding it in both hands, he fired two rounds through his windshield and into that of the Ford Explorer locked onto his front end.

  Suddenly the SUV was screaming backwards, dragging its bumper and ploughing through its own smoke. It came to a stop at the end of the line, fifty yards away. MacNeice threw his weight against the door but it wouldn’t open. At this point Bill Evans had given up.

  The duty sergeant and several uniformed officers were rushing out of Division’s back door. Some were drawing weapons, others moved tentatively towards the Explorer, and still others were clicking keys to shut down the onboard sirens triggered by the impact.

  * * *

  MacNeice could hear the SUV’s engine revving again. His mind was racing. He threw his shoulder into the door while keeping his eyes on the Explorer. He considered climbing over the console or out through the smashed windshield, but he didn’t want to get caught midway if it charged again. He glanced quickly at the passenger door, which by now occupied most of the passenger seat; there was no exit there. Again he threw his shoulder hard against the door. Through the smoke and steam escaping its buckled hood, he could see that the driver had dropped the Explorer into gear; its tires were squealing. As it closed the distance, shuddering and swerving all the way, he fired another shot into its windshield before bracing himself for the impact. Several officers fired their weapons, taking out the front and rear tires on both sides, but it wasn’t enough to stop the Explorer’s momentum. It slammed hard into the Chevy, and once again the driver was holding the accelerator to the floor. Amid the screaming of shredding metal, the hissing of red-hot breached radiators, and the popping and crackling of plastics and paint, the two vehicles were welded together.

  Seconds later, the Explorer’s engine exploded. Flames shot up where the grille would have been and its hood buckled enough to obscure the windshield altogether. Smoke filled the Chevy, and MacNeice realized it was also on fire. Two burly uniformed cops appeared and began pulling at his door. It still wouldn’t budge. MacNeice struggled to get out of his seat. His legs were painful and unresponsive, but he managed to push himself straight back until his head was jammed against the ceiling. He was so disoriented he wasn’t sure what to do next.

  Someone patted him on the shoulder. “Sir, put your head through the window and we’ll get under your arms. But do it fast.”

  All he could see of the man peering through the window were two rows of fantastically white teeth against brown skin. He grabbed MacNeice unceremoniously and pushed him into his seat. “Now stick your head through the window.” MacNeice put his arms and head through the window, but when he realized he was facing the ground, he tried to drop back into his seat.

  “Sir, don’t go back. This is good. We’ve got you. Reggie, by the armpits — now!”

  It wasn’t as messy as childbirth. MacNeice squirted awkwardly out the window and with his next breath was standing, held upright by the two constables. With his arms around their shoulders, he was half-carried to Division’s rear entrance, where they set him down on a bench. When he looked up to say thank you, they were already running towards the Explorer.

  Vertesi and Williams had been on their way to get a sandwich when they heard shots being fired. They ran the distance between City Hall and Division and emerged from the back door with their weapons drawn, only to see MacNeice shaken and bleeding on the bench.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Just a little fuzzy . . . a lot fuzzy.” With that, Vertesi went off to check on the other driver.

  A cop emerged with a first-aid kit. There was a perfectly semicircular puncture wound on the palm of MacNeice’s left hand and it was oozing blood. She applied a wad of gauze and wrapped the hand tight with bandages and tape. “The medics will take this stuff off, but keep putting pressure on it till then.”

  “Thank you. Go and check on the driver of that vehicle.”

  “Will do, sir.” She quickly packed up the kit and ran off.

  MacNeice was still dazed. He kept shaking his head slowly, trying to sweep away the cobwebs. The Explorer and the Chevy were on fire, filling the air with acrid smoke and toxic fumes. Vertesi came back on the run, but before he could say anything, MacNeice asked, “Is he in one piece?”

  “He is, boss.” Vertesi noticed the growing red stain on MacNeice’s bandaged hand. “He’s over by the planters; Moose pulled him out. He took a round in the shoulder — yours, I understand — but he’ll live. Ambulance and Fire will be here any second.”

  Another uniform came running from the direction of the burning vehicles. “We’ve got an ID, sir.” He held up a brown leather wallet. “Musta fallen out of his jeans. Reggie spotted it on the seat.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Yann Galanis. I think he’s the son of the guy who did DI Palmer.” He handed MacNeice the wallet before going back to help.

  “Are we gonna wait for the other shoe to drop, sir?” Williams asked.

  “Shoe?”

  “Yann’s twin brother.”

  “Right . . . I see.” MacNeice got shakily to his feet. He took several deep breaths and made an attempt to walk, staggered, and reached for Williams’s shoulder. “Let me get my bearings, Montile.”

  The cops standing over Galanis were obscuring his body. All MacNeice could see were the young man’s legs thrashing about on the pavement.

  With a loud burp of its siren, Dundurn Fire Department’s big yellow pumper bounced over a speed bump into the parking
lot. Behind it were two ambulances. Within seconds, firefighters were rolling out lengths of hose and two teams of paramedics were approaching quickly. MacNeice turned awkwardly and staggered back to the bench, with Vertesi and Williams under each arm.

  The firefighters positioned their hoses to force the flames away from the parked cars, then opened them up on the buckled hoods, front ends, and wheel wells of both vehicles. Two of the paramedics started assessing and treating MacNeice. While one removed the makeshift dressing, the other shone a light into his eyes. “Just checking for concussion in case your head hit the window.”

  “The window was down. I was listening for birds.”

  Vertesi and Williams exchanged glances, both wondering how that would sound to the medics.

  Moose emerged from the building carrying a small glass. “Here you are, sir.” He handed the glass to MacNeice. “It’s not water, but it’s what you need.”

  The paramedic with the flashlight shot him a hard look. The desk sergeant’s bushy eyebrows lowered and he smiled broadly, the tip of his nose nearly touching his upper lip. It was a smile that served two purposes: it was very friendly, but when aimed directly at the paramedic, it was also menacing. The paramedic got the message — as most people did — and focused on taking MacNeice’s vital signs.

  Within minutes the fires were out. A firefighter with an enormous crowbar pried the hoods and doors open so they could train the hoses on the insides. For a while the cars pinged and popped, and then they fell silent. A police photographer was already at work, recording the damage and the tire marks. The rage and determination reflected in those skid marks would remain long after the wrecked vehicles had been towed away.