The Delicate Storm

by Giles Blunt

“Drop it, John.”

  Cardinal turned onto MacPherson, skirting a messy construction site.

  “They said on the news you found a chewed-up body in the woods?” Stan said. “Sounds a little more interesting than the usual crap you get.”

  Great, Cardinal thought. Here we go.

  “Those trailer trash constantly shooting each other. Drug dealers. Robbers. Fat-assed drunkards. I don’t know why you didn’t go into a more interesting line of work. It’s not like you didn’t have the education. Your ma and I saw to it you and your brother got to college. You could have gone into any profession you wanted.”

  “That’s exactly what I did, Dad. I went into the profession I wanted. A line of work that can actually make a difference in people’s lives. A lot of my colleagues didn’t go to university—that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Look at the people you worked with.”

  “Morons, the bunch of them! Except for Mark McCabe. Mark was the smartest guy I ever knew. Read more books than most college professors. Did long division in his head. But he was a union man through and through. And it was guys like you—your oh-so-brainy colleagues—that saw fit to bust his head open for having the guts to call a strike against the fat bastards that run this country. That nightstick came down on his head—and I heard it. It sounded like a plank dropping on a cement floor. That nightstick came down on Mark’s head and for the next three years he did nothing but drool, and then he died. A good, good man.”

  The line went quiet. Cardinal heard his father sniff and knew that he was crying. His dad, who for most of his long life had displayed few emotions other than irritation, now became teary when he talked of the past. It didn’t seem to be self-pity but some deeper, long-abiding sorrow. The tears would flow for a minute, then be gone.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  There was a loud sniff from the other end of the line. “Fog’s turning to rain,” Stan said. “Maybe I’ll plant some zinnias in the spring.”

  7

  “LISTEN,” MUSGRAVE SAID. “I’ve gone over it with my regional commander. I’m not working with that laptop-toting twerp from CSIS. What we do is, I deal with you, you deal with him.”

  “Squier didn’t seem all that bad to me,” Cardinal said.

  “You haven’t worked with CSIS before, have you.”

  “No.”

  “You poor bastard. Anyway,” Musgrave said, looking at his watch, “this is forty-five minutes of my life we’ve wasted. Tell me again what we’re doing here.”

  They were parked in an unmarked on Main East. The fog had finally condensed into actual rain that was drumming on the roof.

  The moment Cardinal had hung up with his father, the cellphone had rung in his hand and Arsenault was on the line telling him they’d matched a print at the trapper’s shack to a name: Paul Bressard. Cardinal had driven straight out to the house. Bressard’s wife, who was already reeking of scotch at one-thirty in the afternoon, told him Paul would probably be at Duane’s Billiard Emporium. Cardinal didn’t mention that he was a cop, and she wasn’t sober enough to tell.

  Which was how he and Musgrave came to be sitting in the unmarked on Main East watching the decayed entrance to Duane’s Billiard Emporium.

  “Duane’s is a hangout for the guys who can’t quite make it to big-time crime,” Cardinal said. “Bikers that failed the entrance exam to Satan’s Choice, Italian guys too dumb for the mob.”

  “And the wife just handed you this information? Why’d she take a shine to you?”

  “In Cutty Sark veritas.”

  “In Cutty Sark bullshit, it looks like.”

  “Tell me something, Musgrave. Does your wife know your every move?”

  “You could fill a mountain of CD-ROM with what my wife doesn’t know. It’s a point of pride with her.”

  “Fine. So let’s give it another half-hour.”

  They listened to the rain hammering down for another ten minutes, and then the Explorer came into view.

  “That’s him with the moustache?”

  “That’s him. The guy with him is Thierry Ferand, another trapper.”

  Bressard parked half a block away, then he and Ferand came slouching back toward the pool hall through the rain. Ferand was half the other man’s size and had to scuttle along beside him like a dachshund.

  “Bressard’s a dresser,” Musgrave said. “Get a load of the coat.”

  “He better hope the anti-fur movement never hits Algonquin Bay.”

  Bressard and Ferand entered the building. Cardinal and Musgrave left the unmarked and went to examine the Explorer. A jagged line ran across two doors on the passenger side. “We’ll have to get our ident guys on it,” Cardinal said, “but for now I’d say that looks fresh, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would. Is this guy going to be a problem?”

  “Bressard? No way. Bressard will come along voluntarily.”

  Musgrave laughed. “Christ, Cardinal. I’d never have pegged you for an optimist.”

  As they stepped into the dark stairwell that led down to Duane’s, Cardinal said, “Watch out for Ferand. He’s little, but he’s got a mean streak a mile wide, and he’s fond of brass knuckles.”

  “Let me handle him.” Musgrave hitched up his belt. “It’s always the small guys.”

  When Cardinal was a teenager, the poolroom had been like a secret society. Cardinal and his friends would play endless games of Boston, High-Low or snooker, chain-smoking their Player’s and du Mauriers like thirties gangsters. Smoke used to hang like storm clouds over a landscape of green felt. So he was a little surprised to step into Duane’s and find that the air was not even visible. Even pool players had become more health-conscious.

  Duane himself was behind the counter from which he served easily the worst hamburger in town, for twice the going price. He was a great fat stoat of a man who, without ever having been convicted of anything more than the odd traffic offence, radiated an air of sleaze.

  Most of the clientele were in their late teens or early twenties, all male, all trying with varying degrees of success to look tough. With a single glance around the room, Cardinal recognized two drug dealers and one car thief. Bressard and Ferand had started up a game at a corner table. Bressard was bent, lining up a shot. Without straightening, he looked along the cue at Cardinal as they approached. Ferand was drinking a Dr Pepper and spilled a good deal of it over his shirt when he caught sight of them. Cardinal had arrested him twice for assault, though only one charge had stuck. Ferand cursed, placed his cue in the wall rack and grabbed his coat.

  “Relax, Thierry,” Cardinal said, flashing his badge. “We just need to talk to your buddy here.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Bressard said. “You’ve come to make sure I’m not dead.”

  “Oh no, I can see you’re not dead, Paul. I just need some help clearing up a few things with that story I mentioned to you yesterday.”

  Ferand said, “What are you looking at?”

  Musgrave was standing in front of the rear exit, arms folded across his massive chest, and staring at Ferand with a funny little grin, a barely perceptible uptilt in the corner of his mouth.

  “See, we still have this story about a murder in the woods,” Cardinal said to Bressard. “We’ve even got a body now—not yours, obviously—but maybe you heard about it on the news.”

  “What if I have?”

  “Well, you’re the only person whose name’s come up in this whole deal. So I was hoping you’d come down to the station and help us clear it up.”

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Ferand said again. “You a faggot or something?”

  Musgrave was still planted like a sphinx in the doorway, still doing that funny little Mona Lisa thing at Ferand.

  “Tell him to stop looking at me.”

  “Shut up, Thierry,” Bressard said. “He’s just trying to psych you out. And you’re letting him do it.”

  “So, what do you say, Paul? Come on downtown with us, we’ll have a chat about how your name got mixed u
p in this. I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t—”

  A small blur launched itself past Cardinal in Musgrave’s direction. Before he could even turn to look, the small blur came flying back and landed on the pool table. Balls went flying, the overhead lamp swung crazily back and forth. Something gold or brass glittered in Ferand’s hand as he lay groaning on the table, and then it slid to the floor with a clang.

  “Assaulting a police officer,” Musgrave said. “He’s even dumber than he looks.”

  8

  FERAND WAS BOOKED AND PLACED IN THE CELLS, after Wudky had been transferred to the jail for his own protection, in case Ferand should happen to remember who it was he had mentioned the murder to.

  Musgrave was all for going at Bressard full force, which was one reason Cardinal insisted that he do the interview by himself.

  Musgrave shrugged. “I’m heading back to Sudbury. Let me know what the habitant has to say for himself.”

  Cardinal sat Bressard down in the interview room. The trapper tried to appear calm, lounging in his seat, but he kept playing with the straw in his can of Coke. Cardinal’s manner was inquisitive but not unfriendly—just two colleagues out to solve this peculiar set of events together.

  “I’m hoping you can help me out here, Paul, because right now I have to say it looks pretty bad. How’s it happen that we find a dead body near your old shack in the woods? Can you help me clear that up?”

  Bressard took a sip of his Coke, stared at the wall a moment and went back to twirling his straw.

  “We know it was chopped up at your old shack, by the way. There’s no doubt about that. Blood everywhere. All sorts of evidence.”

  Bressard took a deep breath, sighed, shook his head.

  “You know, I might be inclined to think it had nothing to do with you. Somebody had an argument and got rid of the body in your old neck of the woods, maybe. But there’s one thing bothers me, and I hope you can explain it.” He waited, but Bressard didn’t look at him. “Just tell me this, Paul. How’d you get the scratch on your front passenger door?”

  No answer.

  “You might want to respond to that one, Paul. Because our scene man, and the Forensics Centre, and Ford Motors all say the paint we found on a stump in the woods matches the paint on your Explorer.”

  Bressard sucked on the straw of his Coke until the contents rattled.

  “You may think I don’t know anything about you, Paul, but in fact I have a very good idea how you make your living. Number one, there’s the trapping—you have good years and bad years with that, like everything else. Number two, there’s the odd job for Leon Petrucci.”

  The corner of Bressard’s mouth lifted in the beginning of a smile, but he didn’t take the bait.

  “Leon Petrucci. It’s been a while, maybe, but we know you’ve worked for him in the past. Number three, there’s the guiding. I know that a good part of your income comes from taking novice hunters out into the woods and finding a bear or two for them to shoot. And I also know that you don’t rely on luck for that. Put a few steaks out on the trail at the right time of year, you’re going to see a bear—especially if you know where they live, which I’m sure a long-time professional like you does.

  “Howard Matlock told the Loon Lodge people he was interested in ice fishing. He didn’t bring any guns or knives with him. Didn’t show the slightest interest in hunting. Now, I don’t mean to sound unpleasant, but how does Mr. Matlock come to be eaten by bears near your old shack, Paul?”

  Bressard burped quietly, picked up the Coke can and read the French side of the label. Cardinal had been at this game long enough to know when he was getting nowhere. One more shot, he thought. I’ll just give it one more shot.

  “You had a fight about something. Maybe he came after you first. Maybe you shot him accidentally—I won’t even pretend to know how—and then you decided to get rid of the body. I have to give you credit for originality there. But however it happened, unless you give me some kind of explanation, there’s a good chance you’ll go down for second-degree murder on this. It may take us a while to make the case, but we have a good beginning.”

  Bressard set his Coke can on the table, turning it slowly. Cardinal grabbed it and tossed it into the wastebasket, where it landed with an enormous racket.

  “All right,” Cardinal said, rising. “I was trying to help you, but you’re just making things worse for yourself. Unless you give me some reason not to, we’re going to have to charge you with murder. The Crown already has the paperwork; he’s just waiting to hear how co-operative you were.”

  Bressard didn’t move a muscle.

  “Oh, for Chrissake,” Cardinal said. “Let’s go.”

  He reached for Bressard’s elbow, but before he could take hold, Bressard swung mournful eyes his way and said, “I got a serious problem.”

  That’s a world-class understatement, Cardinal thought, but he didn’t say so. He sat back down and all he said was, “Tell me.”

  “If I don’t say anything, you take these bits and pieces you have and put me away for life—maybe or maybe not.”

  “You fed him to the bears, Paul. I don’t think there’s a lot of maybe here.”

  “So, me, I have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What exactly can you offer in terms of witness protection? Would I get a new name, resettle somewhere?”

  Cardinal sighed. Since Canada inaugurated its witness protection program in 1996, every thug with even the most tangential connection to organized crime has fantasies that, should the day come when the gang gets rounded up, he’ll turn “state’s evidence” in return for a new identity and a nice cottage on a distant lake.

  “I have no control over witness protection, Paul. The Mounties decide who qualifies, and it’s seriously underfunded. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “Then why the hell should I give you Petrucci?”

  “Are you saying you killed this guy for Leon Petrucci?”

  “I didn’t kill nobody. Me, I’m just asking a question. If I go to prison, at least I get life. With Petrucci, I get a nice view of the bottom of Trout Lake.”

  “So you’re going to go down for him? You want to do his time for him? You’re a nicer guy than I thought, Paul. Lot of guys wouldn’t sacrifice their entire lives for a guy like Petrucci. It’s very thoughtful of you, and I have to wonder how much he’ll appreciate it.”

  “So you, you keep talking, Cardinal. You got nothing to lose. Me, I got everything to lose.”

  “You’re making a mistake about Petrucci. I’m not an organized-crime expert—that’s an RCMP job, thank God—but I can tell you this: Leon Petrucci is not Don Corleone. Leon Petrucci has a distant, and I emphasize distant, connection with the Carbone family in Hamilton. They back him on a few enterprises up here in return for their cut, but they do not whack people for him, and I don’t think they’re going to miss him a whole lot if he gets put away.”

  “So, what do I get if I do this?”

  “Concentrate on what’s going to happen if you don’t. You will go down for murder. A murder you say you didn’t commit. If you can help us nail Leon Petrucci, you’re still an accessory after the fact, but I will ask the Crown to reduce your charges to something like interfering with a dead body or whatever the hell the statute is.”

  “Interfering? ’stie, I’m no pervert.”

  “I just mean you disposed of the damn thing. You fed it to the bears, right?”

  “Okay, I fed it to the bears. But I don’t want no stories getting around I interfered with it.”

  “Depending what you can give us on Petrucci, I’m prepared to ask the Crown to push for protective custody. And I’ll talk to Musgrave about witness protection.”

  Bressard stared down at the floor and cursed. “Like I say, I didn’t kill nobody. Last Sunday, it’s nine in the morning, me and the wife are having breakfast. The doorbell rings. My wife goes to answer it and there’s no one there, just a fat envelope stuck between the doors.
The envelope is marked Personal for me, nothing else on it. I open it up and there’s five thousand dollars cash, along with a note.”

  “What’d the note say?”

  “The note says, ‘At your shack you’ll find a fresh supply of bait. There’s another five thousand when the bears have had their dinner.’”

  “Was it signed?”

  “Just P. Initial P. Petrucci, he has to write everything. He’s got no voice box.”

  “I know that. Was it handwritten or typed?”

  “Typed. First I was gonna toss it, but you never know how things are gonna turn out. I thought maybe I might need it.” Bressard reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet.

  “Wait,” Cardinal said. “Don’t touch it any more than you have to. Just dump it on the table there.”

  Bressard held his wallet upside down so that a square-folded piece of paper fell to the table, along with some coins and half a dozen Lotto tickets.

  Carefully, using just his fingernails, Cardinal unfolded the paper without smoothing it out. The wording was pretty much as Bressard had said: There’s a fresh supply of bait at your old shack. There’s another five when the bears have had their dinner. It was signed simply P. It looked like it was from a computer printer; they wouldn’t be tracing any typewriters here.

  “It could be from anybody,” Cardinal observed. “And the last I heard, Leon Petrucci moved down to Toronto to be close to Mount Sinai Hospital.”

  “Yeah, sure. And you think that’s gonna get in the way of business? Not too many people are gonna drop five grand in my mailbox and leave me a dead fucking body to get rid of. I told you. Petrucci don’t talk. He’s got no goddam voice box. Who the fuck else you think it’s going to be from?”

  “How do I know you didn’t type this up to cover your ass?”

  “Jesus, Cardinal. You’re so fucking skeptical.”

  “I’m paid to be skeptical.”

  “How do you get on in life? How do you cross the street? I mean, how do you know the street isn’t going to cave in the minute you step on it? Some things you just got to believe, you know what I mean, or there’s no point in living.”