by A. M. Potter
“Why don’t you tell me about the last time you were aboard?”
She appeared to scan her memory. “It was over a month ago, more like five weeks.” She forced herself up in the Slider. Her face showed obvious exasperation. “Just at the dock.”
Moore made a note. “What did you do, Miss MacLean?”
“Do? Nothing. Thom and I sat in the cockpit and had a beer.”
“A beer?”
“Two beers, Inspector, to be exact. One each.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Very well, let’s step ahead, to the question of how Mr. Tyler ended up in the lake. Rumor has it,” Moore began then shook his head dismissively, as if to say groundless gossip, “that he fell overboard while taking a leak, or while setting his fishing lines, or hauling them in. The usual tropes.” He eyed the POI with apparent respect. “What do you think happened? Miss MacLean?”
Naslund saw that the Miss salutation was beginning to irritate MacLean. It was an old-school technique, designed to unsettle a female POI. Both confuse and anger her. At times, Moore sounded respectful, at others, contemptuous, his tone saying you’re a disgrace to your gender.
“Miss MacLean,” Moore repeated, “what do you think happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Care to make a guess?”
She shook her head.
“A small guess?” he pressed. “Come, you must think something.”
Think? her eyes said. I can’t think.
He scrutinized her then continued. “I assume you know the victim’s body was submerged for many hours.”
She nodded.
“Well, you might not know this. DNA evidence is not affected by immersion in water. Fingerprints often survive as well. They did in this case.” He paused to observe her reaction.
She nodded again.
“Given that the body was immersed in deep cold water, we have excellent prints. We fingerprinted Mr. Tyler’s skiff as well and scanned it for DNA. The whole boat.” Moore leaned forward and studied her. “We’ll soon know if anyone interfered with it.” He leaned closer. “In any way.”
She said nothing.
Naslund watched the inspector lean back. He’d used the “lean in/out” method. It was subliminal. You leaned in, you invaded the half-meter the POI thought they owned, and then you leaned back when you had what you wanted. The inspector had what he wanted. Naslund assumed he took MacLean’s silence as an implication of unease, if not guilt. Naslund did.
MacLean stared at her hands then looked up. “I know you have to question me, but it’s horrible.” Her lips quivered. She seemed about to cry.
“Would you like to take a break?” Moore asked.
She shook her head.
“Coffee or tea?”
“No thank you.” She straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine.”
“Well, Miss MacLean, as I mentioned, Mr. Tyler’s skiff has been combed for evidence. It is being treated as a crime scene. As of half an hour ago, so too is the boathouse and dock at your Mallory Beach cottage. That area is now off-limits to everyone, including you. An investigation team is working the scene as we speak.” Moore stopped and studied the POI.
She didn’t seem disturbed or defensive.
He jotted down a note. “When did you last speak to Mr. Tyler?”
She slumped in her chair. “Sunday night, when he went to bed. About nine-thirty.”
“When did you go to bed?”
“Around eleven.” She pushed herself back in the Slider.
“What did you do between nine-thirty and eleven?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, what I usually do on a Sunday night. I relaxed, I watched TV.”
“Anything else?”
“I read a while, for about half an hour I’d say. Before bed, I went down to our dock to cool off. I swam out from the boathouse for a few minutes and back. I always do that before bed.”
“Was Mr. Tyler’s skiff moored at the boathouse?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go aboard?” Moore asked.
“No.”
“Did everything look normal on the skiff?”
“Yes.”
He made a note. “Where were you on Sunday until nine-thirty p.m.?”
“I worked a brunch function from seven in the morning until four. In Owen Sound.”
“And after that?”
“I was at home.”
“Meaning your cottage, Four-Fourteen Mallory Beach Road?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing?”
“Cooking, until around six-thirty. Then Thom and I ate dinner.”
“It took you over two hours to cook dinner?”
“No. I also made meals for the coming week. They’re in the freezer.”
Moore studied her before speaking. “Was anyone else with you Sunday evening, other than Mr. Tyler?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea who might have been aboard the skiff recently? I mean, did Mr. Tyler sail with anyone else?”
“Yes, some of his friends.”
“Who?”
She eyed the ceiling, apparently going back through her memory. “J.J. MacKenzie...Ward Larmer.”
Moore recorded the names. “To the best of your recollection, when did they sail with Mr. Tyler?”
“Ward went out with Thom last week, at least three times. J.J. hasn’t been out with him for months.”
“Just to confirm, by Ward you mean Ward Larmer?”
She nodded.
“Would you say this Mr. Larmer knows the skiff well?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say he knew Mr. Tyler well?”
“Yes. He’s known him for years. Almost fifteen. Not that they were best of friends.”
“Oh?”
“Ward’s a painter, a friend, yes, but also a competitor.”
“How so?”
Naslund sensed that Moore was being deliberately thick-headed.
“Artists, Inspector,” she replied, “they’re often in competition.”
“I’ll take your word for it. All right then, how competitive were Mr. Tyler and Mr. Larmer?”
“Very. Ward was always asking Thom how much he got for his work. And always envious when he heard the answer.”
“How do you know he was envious?”
“I’ve known Ward for fourteen years, Inspector. I lived with him for two.”
“And?”
“I can read him.”
“I see. Well, Miss MacLean, on the subject of art, just so you’re aware, the investigation team will be cataloguing all the sketches and paintings in Mr. Tyler’s studio. I trust you’ll cooperate fully.”
“Of course.”
“Two team members will be there well into the night. The studio contents are salient to a crime. Murder.” Moore stopped to emphasize the word. “Like the boathouse and dock,” he went on, “the studio has been cordoned off with police tape. Do not enter it. Do not remove or alter anything, even things you think you own.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Is that clear?”
She nodded.
“I’d like to ask you a personal question.” He sounded solicitous.
“Yes?”
“What’s your favorite Thom Tyler work?”
She didn’t hesitate. “A painting he never finished. He considered it too realistic, but...”
“But,” Moore prompted.
“Well.”
“Go on, Miss MacLean.”
“Well, I thought it was perfect.” She seemed to be seeing the painting in her mind’s eye. “It was a portrait of our cottage, from out on the bay. Thom sketched it from his sailboat. Looking at it, you felt drawn in to shore. The bay seemed to vanish. You were drawn to the cottage. You felt that it contained the whole world.”
“Go on.”
“I loved that feeling. I loved seeing our cottage nestled amongst blue-green pines, bounded by a beautiful blue sky.”
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“Sounds lovely.”
“It was. When he was there.”
“Ah. But he was never there.”
“Well.”
“Please, continue. It seems Mr. Tyler was rarely home.”
“I...I suppose that’s true.” She straightened herself in the Slider. “Yes, I hardly saw him this past year. Anyone can tell you that. I work long hours at times, I admit, but only at times. On the other hand, Thom was always painting or getting a boat ready for a painting trip.”
“Ah.”
“He was a workaholic. No, worse. He was obsessive. He had no time for anyone.”
Wrong, Naslund said to herself. Even when Thom was busy, he found a few minutes to talk to her. People often mistook them for brother and sister.
“What about you, Miss MacLean? Did he have time for you?”
“Well.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, but not often.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the inspector said. However, his eyes were ablaze, as if he’d discovered a hidden treasure. Almost immediately, he doused the fire. “We’ll be in touch. We may need to ask you more about Mr. Larmer.”
“Certainly.”
“And yourself.”
“Certainly,” she repeated, her eyes saying sorry, I can’t think very well.
Bull, Naslund thought. Behind MacLean’s eyes, she sensed her mind whirling. Carrie MacLean was on guard. While most of her words were straightforward, some of them were double-hinged.
Naslund felt confused. From what she knew of her, MacLean was always direct. Prickly at times, but direct. However, Naslund sensed she was withholding information. If so, what? She’d opted to come to the station. Was she hiding something at home?
Naslund shook her head. She was doing what she always did under pressure, trying to consider every angle. Relax, she told herself. Let the investigation unfold. Remember your father’s advice.
Her recently-departed father, a former Metro Toronto superintendent, had taught her that to work efficiently, you often had to slow down.
“One more thing,” Moore said. “We don’t want to confuse your bio matter with anyone else’s. We’d like to take a DNA swab and fingerprint you.”
“Of course.”
No hesitation, Naslund saw. Almost too cooperative.
Chapter 6
Orillia, OPP Central, Forensic Morgue. July10th:
Every time Naslund walked into Central’s forensic department, it felt like she was stepping into the future. The section was ultra-high-tech: a realm of whirring machines and stainless steel. As she approached the autopsy lab, she reflected again that in her society, in the twenty-first century, no expense was spared to solve murders. Murderers had to be found and prosecuted. The department always renewed her confidence that they would be.
Naslund followed Moore into the lab and nodded to the forensic pathologist, Dr. DeVeon Leonard. In many respects, Leonard was the opposite of Kapanen: humble and affable. Under his lab coat, he wore an open-necked blue shirt and jeans.
“Good afternoon, Detectives.”
“Good afternoon,” Moore and Naslund replied.
“Let’s get right to it,” Leonard said. “You two aren’t rookies.” He smiled. “We’re audio- and videotaping this.” He pointed to two cameras. “But please stop me if you miss something or have any questions.”
The two detectives nodded. As Naslund knew, Leonard was usually able to tell what had happened to a victim and in what sequence. Corpses generally divulged crucial evidence.
“First,” Leonard said, “Dr. Kapanen’s report was very thorough. I concur with his findings. In fact, I have relatively little to add.”
“Good,” Moore said.
“As you know, Detectives, logically, an autopsy proceeds from the outside in.” The pathologist beckoned them forward.
In death, Thom looked smaller than Naslund remembered. The long autopsy table emphasized his diminishment.
“We’ll begin with the head,” Leonard said. “Dr. Kapanen reported the right eye and orbital region were impacted by a blunt force instrument with a rounded surface. I’ve concluded the instrument was a metal ball-peen hammer. The hammer head had a fifteen-centimeter circumference and was painted gunmetal gray. It deposited two paint chips of that color.” Leonard stopped. “Don’t worry. Besides the tape, my written report will include all the details. See here?” He pointed to deep circular indentations near the right eye. “There are three overlapping wounds. The orbital bones were crushed.” He slowly traced the indentations with his pointer, careful not to touch them. “Lengthy immersion in water leaches blood from wounds. They may look like bloodless postmortem injuries, but they are antemortem. The heart was pumping when they occurred. If you look closely, I think you can see three different wounds.”
Moore put on his glasses, bent closer, and nodded.
Naslund looked and nodded as well. “Doctor, could the victim have fought back after those blows?”
“Possibly. Everyone reacts differently to head blows. But given the depth of the imprints and the shattered bones, the blows may have disabled the victim.”
“Would they have knocked him unconscious?” Moore asked.
“I don’t think so. I see evidence of defensive wounds, which I’ll point out later. An unconscious person cannot defend themselves. Furthermore, the victim had a thicker-than-average skull, about nine millimeters. The blows struck the orbital region, and thus didn’t impact the brain directly.”
“But surely they impacted it,” Moore said.
“Certainly, Inspector, but not, for example, like three blows to the crown of the head. One thing is certain, he would have lost a lot of blood. Head wounds bleed a tremendous amount. A human body contains about six liters of blood. It’s possible the victim lost half of it.”
“I suspect he knew his assailant,” Moore said. “Or wasn’t worried. To bash him like that, someone had to get very close to him without raising suspicion.”
“Valid point,” Leonard acknowledged. “I didn’t think of it. I can’t think the way you detectives think. I know--” He smiled. “--I wouldn’t want to.” He winked conspiratorially at Naslund and then refocused on the corpse. “Consider the left eye. As Dr. Kapanen noted, it was punctured with a pointed instrument. That instrument was a metal screwdriver. The tip was eleven millimeters wide and had a star-like bit consistent with a Phillips design. There were no other identifying characteristics. In conclusion, a ball-peen hammer crushed the victim’s right eye and orbital bones. A Phillips screwdriver pierced the left eye.”
Naslund grimaced.
“It appears the assailant was right-handed,” Leonard said. “The victim’s left eye was attacked with the screwdriver, which suggests it was held in the assailant’s right hand. You need more motor control to target an eye with a screwdriver than to bash an eye with a hammer, so it is likely that the assailant’s dominant arm was the right one. As to the sequence of blows, we might make another assumption. The assailant likely delivered a few, or possibly all of the hammer blows first, to disorient or disable the victim, and then pierced the left eye. Any questions?”
The detectives shook their heads.
Leonard pointed at the victim’s forehead. “The vector angles of the blows range from twelve to twenty-two degrees. Which suggests the assailant was taller than the victim or came at him from above.” Leonard raised a cautionary hand. “I can’t be certain which. In the stormy conditions prevalent, if the assailant were on a different boat, a wave could have raised the assailant above the victim. But three times? That again complicates certainty.”
Exactly, Naslund thought.
“As I alluded to previously,” the doctor continued, “there is evidence of defensive wounds. Look at the victim’s right forearm. It appears he tried to protect himself by deflecting two blows. You can see indentations and bruising consistent with ball-peen hammer blows, there--” Leonard directed his pointer halfway up the radius. “--and there, o
n the wrist. Sorry to muddy the waters again, but I said it appears. It is possible that the wounds I just pointed out were not defensive, but targeted arm attacks.”
“How possible?” Moore asked.
“I can’t say. I apologize, I can’t be more definitive.” Leonard gestured diffidently. “Let’s move on. There is another site to consider.” He pointed to the corpse’s right shoulder. “Consider the abrasion and the bruising. It appears the victim fell or was pushed onto a hard surface. The abrasion is seven-point-eight centimeters long. I reviewed the crime scene report. The Mackinaw gunwale is eight-point-two centimeters wide. I’d conjecture the victim landed on the boat’s starboard gunwale with his right shoulder. I’d also conjecture his head remained inboard, which led to the blood pool in the bilge.”
Naslund nodded. The man had read the case notes, and he knew boats.
Leonard walked down the table and stopped at the right ankle. “Now, let’s unravel this. Not the actual line.” He smiled. “My assistant will handle that later. Having attacked the victim and severely impacted his eyesight, I suspect the assailant wrapped the line around his ankle and pushed him overboard. Given that the other end of the line was attached to an anchor, it’s not surprising that he drowned. Of course, I can’t tell you how the assailant did that. And my suspicion is only a supposition.” He paused. “Any questions?”
Moore held his fire, as did Naslund. It wasn’t the pathologist’s job to establish how the rode ended up around the ankle. It was theirs.
“All right, to the drowning. Dr. Kapanen suspected a wet drowning. His observations were precise and, I think, correct.”
Leonard applied a scalpel and made a deft Y-incision in Thom’s chest. The skin, which had puckered and whitened due to Thom’s extended immersion, peeled off instantly. Naslund gagged. The room suddenly smelled like rancid liver. Her stomach churned, as it always did, regardless of how well she’d prepared herself. The doctor handed out safety glasses--when the corpse was sawn open, there’d be airborne bone slivers--and sawed through the rib-cage, removed the chest plate, and then extracted the inner organs and placed them on a side table.
After dissecting the lungs, Leonard called the detectives over. “Note the appearance. The victim’s lungs are distended and brick-red. That indicates a substantial ingress of water. Which supports the conclusion of a wet drowning. Regardless, we’ll analyze the lung tissues. I expect we’ll find microscopic algae consistent with Lake Huron.” Leonard turned to the heart and exposed the right ventricle. “Again,” he announced, “we find water. A wet drowning victim often pulls water into their circulatory system.” His eyes looked sorrowful. “Drowning’s an awful way to go. A victim struggles fiercely, but succumbs in minutes. It’s a horrible death.”