Natassia raised a dark eyebrow. "Who, you?"
Jasi let the comment ride. "We'll have to check out the movie alibi. He says he saw a remake of Titanic last night…midnight show. That would put him there until three."
She was frustrated with Beranski. Because he had changed his story twice, she'd have to spend valuable time determining exactly where the man had been.
"I have an appointment with the coroner and a corpse," Natassia reminded her.
Tossing the soiled paper towel in the garbage, Jasi said, "I should come with you, be your reality line."
"No, I'll ask the coroner to stay. All I need is a voice to pull me out if I go in too far. I'll be fine."
"Okay, I'll take the theatre then. You hear from Ben?"
"Yeah, he said he'll meet us for dinner." Natassia's eyes drifted down the front of her blouse. "Crap!" she pouted, plucking at her damp shirt. "Ben has my pack."
Jasi aimed an apologetic look in her partner's direction.
She didn't envy the coroner…or the corpse.
7
Entering the Kelowna Coroner's Office, Natassia held her head high, eyes front. Her blouse had dried but the stench of vomit trailed after her like cheap 'knock-off' cologne. People stared at her but she ignored them, heading straight for the information desk. She was buzzed through a security door while the receptionist sniffed the air trying to detect where the foul odor came from.
"Agent Prushenko?"
The security guard that greeted her sported a tattoo of a shark's head that was barely visible above the collar of his crisp white shirt. The man was long-limbed, dark-eyed and dark-skinned.
Ebonic, she reminded herself. That was now the politically correct term for people of African or 'black' origin. In 2006, the word had replaced African American and all other related descriptions because Ebonic people had protested being lumped into African or American phraseology. Ebonic was more general, like Caucasian or Hispanic.
"You sure you want to go to the morgue?" the guard asked. The shark's mouth pulsed menacingly.
Natassia waited, silent and impatient.
The man shrugged. "The coroner will meet you at the bottom."
He carefully scanned her badge and then escorted her down a long corridor. When they stepped inside the elevator he keyed in a code and hastily moved back into the hallway before the doors closed.
The elevator was quick and settled with a gentle lurch.
When the doors opened, Natassia took a few seconds to readjust her blouse, examining it in the dim light. The smell was dissipating. Or maybe it had killed off her olfactory senses. Perhaps no one else would notice.
A tall man with a close-shaved goatee lunged toward her and pulled her from the elevator.
"Agent Prushenko, we meet again."
Winded, her eyes locked on the face of the suave Marcel Desrocher, Quebec City coroner extraordinaire.
"Marcel! What in God's name are you doing here?"
The man loosened his death grip and kissed her firmly.
Natassia shrugged him off, then studied him.
They had met when she had been transferred to Quebec City after basic training. One of her first cases as a rookie VE pitted her against a skeptical and somewhat older coroner who had swept her off her feet.
"Ah, mon Dieu!" Marcel sniffed.
He wrinkled his nose in disgust when a waft of something rotten hit him. "What is that terrible parfum you are wearing?"
Pushing him away, she scowled. "Eau de vomi!"
Vomit.
He backed away a few feet and frowned.
Then waving at the space between them, he grinned wickedly. "Ah, mon chéri, it has been too long."
"Not long enough," she muttered disdainfully.
Marcel Desrocher hadn't aged a bit, Natassia thought. His silver-tipped black hair was trimmed neatly, his moustache and goatee a bare shadow, and his dark eyes still gleamed like a wild child at an illicit rendezvous. Tall and thin, the man appeared unbelievably fit―for someone who was in his late forties.
She followed him down a short corridor. "How's the new girlfriend…uh, Maureen, is it?"
"Marilyn. She's in Cuba."
Natassia really didn't want to discuss his latest conquest, so she changed the subject. "Are you here permanently or just on loan?"
"Which would you prefer, ma belle?"
When she didn't answer, he chuckled. "On loan. The regular coroner is on holiday in Greece, probably sunbathing tout nu…naked." His dark eyes glimmered with desire as they rested on her breasts.
Natassia huffed indignantly, then firmly fastened the top button of her blouse.
Marcel leered at her, then stopped at a door marked 'City Morgue'. He scanned his thumbprint and keyed in his password.
Then, with a sweep of his arms, he opened the heavy door. "Voici, ma château!"
The morgue gleamed with brushed stainless steel cabinetry, tables and counters. The concrete walls were beige―what little wall space there was. On the ceiling, small track lights were aimed in various directions. One light illuminated an older model forensics body scanner that hovered over a polyurethane table in a far corner of the room. Beside this, a low dividing wall separated an area of desks that held computers, printers and a fax machine. Two walls housed a variety of shelving, filing cabinets and six sinks. Steel tables extended from each of the sinks, with drainage hoses attached.
The tables were clean.
And all were unoccupied―except one.
Marcel indicated the fully clothed man lying on the table. "Nathan Watts. My assistant. We've had a long night and Nathan is trés fatigué."
Natassia suspiciously eyed the man on the table. She searched his chest for signs of life. The man's eyes were closed and his hands were folded across his chest. His pristine white lab coat was the only indication that he didn't really belong on a slab of dead cold metal.
"Over here," Marcel beckoned.
He led her to the third wall―the one lined with sliding drawers each labeled meticulously with the name of the deceased.
"Dr. Norman Washburn, case H085A. Prête?"
"Ready," Natassia nodded.
Marcel pressed a red button.
A noise issued from the wall. The humming sound was high-pitched and intermittent. The sound stopped abruptly when a bottom drawer slid fully open, revealing the black body bag that preserved Washburn's remains.
"Jesus!" Natassia muttered under her breath.
The stench of death oozed from the bag.
A waft of pungent air was released when she eased the zipper down, and she swallowed hard.
Don't lose it, Natassia!
Removing a tube of Mentho from her pocket, she sprayed it into both nostrils and inhaled deeply. The heavy menthol base coated her olfactory nerves. For thirty minutes, she would have no sense of smell.
Now why hadn't she used it after Beranski unloaded his breakfast on her?
Forcing the bald-headed pharmacist from her mind, Natassia focused on the corpse in front of her. Norman Washburn's face was a contorted mass of blackened and blistered flesh. Both eyes had literally melted into the sockets, his mouth was frozen in a tortured scream, and the scalp had been burned to the bone. Not a trace of the thick white hair that had once covered it remained.
She pushed the bag aside, examining the rest of Washburn's body. The left arm revealed seared tendons, and three of his fingers were missing―burned completely and converted to ash.
A loud rumbling sound erupted from the far end of the room, and Natassia raised her head.
Nathan Watts, the live stiff, was snoring.
"Anything you'd like me to do for you, mon chéri?" Marcel murmured softly, hovering over her shoulder.
"Yeah. Leave me alone with my corpse."
Marcel was getting on her nerves. Now she remembered another reason why she had ended their brief affair. The man was overconfident and overbearing.
And he was nothing like Ben.
Natassia sa
t bolt upright in a chair next to the drawer and stared at the lifeless cadaver. Then she reached into the bag and with closed eyes, gently traced her fingers across what was once the doctor's face. Hardened skin and smooth bone. Most people cringed when they touched the dead but for Natassia, it was an intimate act of necessity.
She perceived her mind floating―hovering above the black bag. She felt her own body invading the empty corpse.
Unresisting, Natassia slipped inside…
Into darkness, despair and loneliness.
These were the first emotions that Natassia recognized. She fought to open her eyes but they remained closed. She allowed herself to be lured in…deeper into Washburn's soul.
"I don't remember you!" she heard him scream.
Time traveled erratically in flashbacks.
"I can function just fine, Nurse Landers. Who are you to tell me I'm incompetent?"
Natassia absorbed Washburn's hostility. How dare they persecute him! He was the head of Surgery, God-damn-it! Now Washburn was losing everything he valued. His marriage, his son, his career. What was there to live for?
The despondency in Washburn was so strong that Natassia was slipping, her identity drifting away. Her empathy grew and Washburn's emotions became hers.
Life was unfair! Even Allan hated him.
"I'm sorry, Allan. What can I say? Your mother practically threw herself at me. She knew I was already married but she still wanted me. Yeah, Sarah Baker was a great lay."
A hazy image of Washburn's wife, Freda, floated nearby.
"Other women? Yes, there were a few, Freda. But I wouldn't have turned to them if you had given me what I needed―what I deserved."
Did she know about the prostitute in Vancouver―the one he saw during the conventions he frequently attended?
"Freda, don't leave me! Those other women meant nothing to me."
He needed another drink. He was empty. Lost…
"What do you mean, that son-of-a-bitch Beranski is filing charges? Stacey Beranski died because she waited too long for the surgery. Against my orders, I might add. By the time I got hold of her, her appendix had already burst and poisoned her system."
Washburn was outraged. How could the hospital administrators question his competency?
"You want what? A blood test? Jesus Christ!"
He could feel a panic attack coming on. They were slaughtering him. His career would be over! And he was the best surgeon in Canada…when he wasn't drinking.
"I don't understand how the results could come back positive for drugs or alcohol. I haven't taken either in over a month! I swear!" The lie came easily, persuasively.
"Marty, you better get me out of this mess. We wouldn't want the others to know what we've been doing…now would we? Tell the press whatever you want. Tell them I had a stroke, for all I care."
He knew he had the administrators in his pocket, or at least one of them. They couldn't afford to replace him and they certainly could not afford the scandal.
"Thank you," he said when facing the board members' stern faces. "You won't regret your decision."
He deserved a drink after this. Maybe two, to celebrate.
Natassia struggled to regain control of Washburn's memories. Backing off a bit and inhaling deeply, she tried to steer Washburn toward his last painful moments.
"I better put my fishing gear away. Tomorrow's another day," Washburn murmured to himself, alone in his cabin by the lake.
Events flashed quickly―too quickly.
A hospital room, a woman crying.
A dark shadow standing in a doorway.
The shadow shifted, revealing a young man wearing a neon yellow jacket that was too big for him. His arm was wrapped in a plaster cast and suspended in a blue sling. He was smoking a cigarette and blowing circles in the air. All around him were rows of incubators, some containing sleeping babies.
At the opposite side of the room, Natassia saw Washburn hovering over a bed. Lying motionless on blood-soaked sheets, a woman screamed with fear. Her swollen belly contracted powerfully when the doctor reached between her legs.
Washburn was performing a delivery…or an abortion.
Natassia looked down and was surprised to see several hundred-dollar bills clenched in her hands.
Then a female voice whispered, "Give me the money, doctor. I'll take care of everything."
Suddenly the incubators exploded.
Litter from the blast filled the room until it resembled the city dump. A tiny hand, detached from its owner, lay on the floor at Natassia's feet. Raising her head, she gazed into the open eyes of the woman on the bed.
When Natassia looked back toward the doorway, the young man had disappeared and she knew it was time to return. To stay any longer might be dangerous. Especially since she had no reality line―no one to help bring her back.
Retreating into safety, Natassia's body floated toward her while Washburn disappeared slowly, fading into death and debris.
Like the piece of garbage he was, Jasi thought when Natassia finished telling them what she had seen. Jasi realized she felt little sympathy for Norman Washburn.
They were seated on plump embroidered cushions on the floor of Ayumi's Japanese Restaurant in Kelowna. Hand-painted paper lanterns decorated with cherry blossoms were suspended from the ceiling by brass chains. The lanterns illuminated the small private room with a warm golden light. Two traditional Japanese sliding doors, fusuma, separated them from the other rooms in the restaurant.
Jasi made a face while Natassia tried to coax her into eating a seaweed-wrapped rice ball stuffed with raw shrimp. How could her friend eat that stuff?
"No, thanks," she grimaced. "I prefer my food cooked to extinction." To prove her point, Jasi piled steaming chicken teriyaki on her plate and doused it in Soya sauce.
Natassia glanced at Ben who was sipping sake from a small cup. "Want to try some sushi?"
Apprehensively, Ben scrutinized the food, then shook his head. "I have to agree with Jasi. Give me a salmon steak on the barbecue any day."
Natassia pouted, then promptly deposited the roll into her mouth, watching Ben as she did so. "You don't know what you're missing."
Jasi snickered at her partner's blatant innuendo.
"I'm missing real food." Ben threw Natassia a warning look then quickly finished the rest of his sake. "I've finished profiling our arsonist, by the way. It's uploaded to your 'coms."
Jasi looked up, her mouth full of chicken. "What can you tell us?"
Ben heaped a beef noodle concoction onto his plate. "Basically we're searching for a male―primarily a white male between twenty-five and forty. Physically strong enough to lift or drag a three hundred pound man." He took a sip of sake before continuing.
"His crimes are premeditated. Emotionally, he harbors feelings of inferiority, low self-esteem and rage toward those who have hurt him in the past. There's a high probability that our man was abused as a child―sexually, physically or psychologically."
Jasi knew that a serial killer usually had unresolved issues in his past. He would continue killing until those issues were worked out…or until he ended up dead.
"I've made reservations at the hotel next door to give us time to finish with these leads," Ben continued. "Were you able to confirm Jason Beranski's alibi?"
Jasi's trip to the theatre had been inconclusive, but she told them what she had found out so far. The ticket booth attendant had remembered Beranski. A tall skinny man with a pale shaved head would stand out in most places nowadays.
"He took a cab to the Pyramid Theatre and purchased his ticket to Titanic shortly before midnight. The guy taking the tickets recognized the photo of Beranski but like he says, Beranski could have slipped out the back door anytime."
"What time was the movie over?" Natassia asked her.
"3:10 in the morning. It was about twenty minutes late because they had some trouble with the first reel."
"Twenty minutes is nothing," Natassia huffed. "Compared to ten
years ago. Remember when they used to show previews for over half an hour right before the movie?"
"Yeah," Ben replied. "Then they finally got smart and started showing them in between movies. It's better than those damn trivia questions they showed."
"Why didn't they think of that sooner? I mean, it takes them almost an hour to clean up after a movie and then seat people for the next one. That's the perfect time to be showing previews."
Jasi cleared her throat loudly. "Okay, you two. We've got work to do. The movie finished just after three. If he stayed there, then Beranski has a clean alibi."
"So we can cross him off the list," Natassia suggested.
Jasi shook her head. "For now, he stays on the list. Until I know for sure he didn't leave the theatre."
She stared at Jason Beranski's face on her data-com screen. He would have had plenty of time to get to Loon Lake. And back before the movie ended.
Natassia reached for another shrimp roll. "The coroner should be sending us the autopsy report tomorrow."
A soft knock on the fusuma ended their discussion.
A tiny Japanese girl wearing a yellow and red yukata slid the door open and presented them with a new bottle of sake. She bowed, then trailed from the room, her feet whispering across the floor.
"What about Premier Baker?" Jasi asked Ben.
"Baker checked into the Paloma Springs Hotel at noon yesterday." Ben consulted his notes. "He held a private dinner party in one of the Ballrooms from eight until past two. Around midnight, he went up to his room to take a personal phone call and was gone for about half an hour. At least that's what he said."
Natassia placed her chopsticks on the table. "Alone?"
Ben studied her oddly. "Why? What difference does it make if he was alone?"
"Just curious. Perhaps he was taking a different kind of personal message. I'll check his phone records."
"Maybe Baker hired someone to do his dirty work," Jasi suggested.
The idea that Allan Baker had contracted out had flickered through Jasi's mind ever since the man showed up at the scene of the crime. Baker had the resources to hire a hit man―and the motive. His father was a disgrace. Dr. Washburn had embarrassed the Premier of BC, maybe one too many times. And with Baker running for Prime Minister, he couldn't afford another family scandal.
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