by A. M. Potter
“Ah.”
“I dispatched Conrad to canvass the Colpoys area with two PCs. With any luck, someone will have seen or heard something. Afterward, he’s going to conduct a digital canvass, looking into murders anywhere in North America by ballpeen hammer.” Moore kept rolling. “Chu’s team will be here in a few hours. So far, except for seven beer cans, they haven’t found anything on the boat or Hay. They’re going to run the cans through the lab. Might be some FPs or saliva on them.”
“Did they check the mooring lines?” she asked. “The perps likely handled the lines if they set the boat adrift.” She kept going. “Take a good look at the lines. There might be FPs or bio matter on them.”
“All right, Sergeant. I’ll call Chu. By the way, I spoke with Dr. Kapanen. He noted that MacKenzie was attacked with a blunt force instrument, likely the same one used on Tyler. Not the same MO, but very close. If we solve Tyler’s case, we’ll likely solve MacKenzie’s. And vice-versa.”
“Agreed.”
Moore rolled on. “Given the second murder, Tyler’s murder was not likely a mistake, a confrontation that got out of hand. He was targeted, and then MacKenzie was targeted. The evidence points to two premeditated first degrees. I had doubts about premeditation with Tyler, but none now. What about you?”
“None.”
“Okay, Sergeant, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Central is pulling out all the stops. Dr. Leonard is doing the autopsy today at fourteen hundred. I’d like you to join me.”
Chapter 26
Orillia, OPP Central, Forensic Morgue. July 16th:
As Naslund walked into Central’s forensic department, she felt a jolt of optimism. Dr. DeVeon Leonard was waiting at the morgue door.
“Good afternoon, Detectives. As per the norm, we’re audio- and videotaping this, but please stop me if you miss something or have any questions.”
Moore and Naslund nodded.
Leonard looked subdued. He led them to the top of the autopsy table. “I believe Dr. Kapanen covered virtually everything. We’ll begin with the head wounds. As Dr. Kapanen noted, the top of the head was impacted by two blows from a blunt force instrument with a rounded surface. The focal point was zero-point-eight centimeters anterior of the crown.” Leonard indicated it with his pointer. “The blows punctured the crown, resulting in a series of secondary skull fractures. Both blows left indentations almost two centimeters deep. Very deep.” Leonard paused. “You have a strong assailant. The instrument was a metal ball-peen hammer. The hammer head had a fifteen-centimeter circumference and deposited three tiny gunmetal gray paint chips--the same circumference and the same kind of paint chips found during the Tyler autopsy.”
Leonard moved down the table. “Consider the left temple and left frontal region. They were impacted by three blows from the same blunt force instrument. It deposited four gunmetal gray paint chips. Again, the same kind of paint chips found during the Tyler autopsy. The chemical composition matched the Tyler chips precisely. I’m confident the same instrument was used in both assaults.” Leonard paused. “Any questions?”
Both detectives shook their heads.
Leonard traced the five blows with his pointer. “Blood has leached from all the wounds, but they are clearly antemortem. The victim was alive when they occurred.” The doctor indicated the large open fracture above the left eye. “Two blows landed on or near the nexus of this fracture. One or both of them breached the skull and fissured multiple cranial bones. That, in turn, resulted in a protruding meninges and triggered massive subdural and subarachnoid hemorrhaging.” Leonard stopped. “I can’t be certain how long he lived after the blows. We took a CAT Scan. It suggests the hemorrhaging was extensive enough to generate herniation, which means it could have caused enough intracranial pressure to trigger brain death. That is, death within minutes.”
The two detectives remained silent.
“It’s likely the assailant knew what he, or possibly she, was doing,” Leonard said. “The cranial bone plates are thinner in the frontal region than elsewhere. If you want to kill someone with a blunt force attack to the head, that area is optimal.”
The detectives nodded.
“Regardless of gender, the assailant was strong. As I noted previously, the wound indentations are very deep. It appears the assailant approached the victim from behind. As to the sequence of events, we might assume that the two blows to the crown knocked him down. It looks like he broke his own fall. There are no indications of a freefall. No knee or facial abrasions, no broken teeth. When he was down, the assailant rolled him over and attacked the vulnerable frontal region and temple. From the angle of the blows, they came from directly above. There is a high probability that one or two frontal blows would have been enough to kill him, yet the assailant delivered three. Five heavy blows in total. A vicious attack.”
Naslund’s chest tightened with anger. She breathed deeply, trying to control it. Relax, she ordered herself, don’t make this personal.
“As with the Tyler case, it appears the assailant was right-handed. I stress, appears. The victim’s left temple and frontal region were attacked, which suggests the ballpeen hammer was held in the assailant’s right hand. However, due to the fact that the victim was then on his back, we can’t conclude that the assailant’s dominant arm was the right one. It’s possible the assailant perpetrated the attack from the victim’s left side. According to the impact angle of the frontal indentations--straight down from above--either arm could have been used.” Leonard shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry I can’t be more definitive.”
“Understood,” Moore said.
“There is another matter to consider. The indentations left by the two crown blows indicate they came from a vector angle of seventy-six degrees. That is--given a hammer with a handle, even a short handle--almost from above. Which suggests the assailant was likely as tall as the victim, perhaps taller. The victim was six-foot-three, so we’re looking at a tall assailant.” Leonard raised a cautionary hand. “Unless the assailant was wearing high heels or shoe lifts or standing on a portable platform of some kind. I don’t recall the CS report mentioning evidence of a platform.” He looked at Moore. “Do you?”
Moore shook his head.
“As for high heels?” Leonard shrugged. “I wouldn’t count it out, but unlikely. Not very stable. A five-ten or -eleven person wearing four-inch heels? Might work for a pole dancer, but a killer?” He grinned. “I’m trying to see it, but I can’t.”
Moore harrumphed.
“However,” Leonard continued, “shoe lifts are possible, although typically they don’t add over two inches. Regarding defensive wounds, I detect no marks on the victim’s arms or hands.” He moved down the body. “And none on the shins and no indication that the victim struck out with his feet. I do not see any evidence he put up a fight. I assume that he was unable to--despite his obvious size. He probably lost consciousness soon after falling. It appears he was quickly overpowered.”
“Seemingly,” Moore said.
“All right, Officers, next step.”
Leonard selected a scalpel and made a Y-incision in MacKenzie’s chest. Naslund’s stomach churned. Her lunch--a tuna fish sandwich--rose in her throat. The doctor sawed through the rib-cage, excised the chest plate and extracted the inner organs. After dissecting the heart and lungs, he looked up at the detectives. “There is no evidence of water ingress. Nonetheless, we’ll analyze the lung tissues for microscopic lake algae. Consistent with Dr. Kapanen’s findings,” he concluded, “I do not detect any evidence of drowning. I surmise the victim was dead when he entered the water, which is what Dr. Kapanen reported. I concur with his PMI estimate. The victim likely died somewhere between ten PM last night and midnight.”
Moore nodded.
“The toxicology screen results will be back in three to four days. I’ll release the body tomorrow at eleven a.m.”
“Thank you,” Moore said.
“As with Mr. Tyler, I’m ordering burial rather than cr
emation. Any questions?”
Moore shook his head.
Naslund remained silent. She felt deflated. As usual, Dr. Leonard was excellent and yet they hadn’t learned anything new--other than that the assailant could be either right or left-handed. No forensic dots, no lab magic. The team didn’t have much to go on.
***
Outside Central, Naslund waited for Moore. The inspector had excused himself to make a call. Ten minutes later, he reappeared. “I called Justice O’Reilly,” he said. “I floated the idea of a warrant to search Larmer’s Hope Bay cottage. I gave O’Reilly probable cause. I emphasized we have two murders on our hands, with almost the same MO, and that one of the assault weapons, a ballpeen hammer, was used in both murders.” Moore smiled in triumph. “The justice will grant a warrant provided we focus on the weapons. However, any other evidence will be inadmissible. We’ll file the paperwork at the station.”
Naslund nodded.
“I ordered a squad car to check on Larmer. He’s home. They’ll make sure he stays there.” Moore began striding toward the parking lot. “Central wants some progress. The politicos are breathing down their necks. The news hounds are hungry.”
“Always are,” she said. In her eyes, Moore had done a good job of feeding them yet controlling their access. “But we can’t make a murderer out of a POI.”
“Larmer’s more than a POI.”
She remained silent.
“Can you call Wiarton as I drive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll go in with Lowrie, Chandler, and the four junior PCs. I want everyone wearing Kevlar and fully armed. At the very least, it’ll be a photo op for the hounds. We leave for Larmer’s cottage at eighteen-thirty. No advance notice.”
***
Naslund drove quietly along Hope Bay Road, eyes forward, mind uneasy. Although the road was perfectly level, she felt her car rushing downhill, spinning out-of-control. Moore sat silently in the passenger seat beside her. She could smell the inspector’s sweat through his aftershave, the sharp ketones of a man who seemed to be running on empty.
Chandler and Lowrie manned the squad car behind them, followed by Kraft and Weber in a third car, and Singh and Derlago in a fourth. The team was badgered by a media posse as they left the station. The second murder in Wiarton in a week had whipped reporters into a frenzy. Moore had sent them packing, allowing only photos.
Naslund drove on. In her mind, Larmer was no saint. He’d kick you when you were down. However, that didn’t make him a murderer. She hadn’t been able to convince Moore to hold off on him. The team hadn’t heard anything from Tatyana Filipov so MacTavish was on the back burner.
Moore had slotted MacLean farther back, after MacTavish and Gordon Tyler.
Naslund pulled into Larmer’s driveway and braked quietly. Moore jumped out. Weber and Derlago fanned out to secure the property’s perimeter. Lowrie and Singh headed for the front door. The team knew their way around. They’d studied the cottage floorplan and lot survey.
“Up here,” Larmer called. “I’m on the deck.”
A line of tall cedars hid the deck. Naslund couldn’t see Larmer. The man didn’t sound concerned or dangerous. Nevertheless, Moore stormed up the deck stairs, followed by Naslund, SIG Sauers cocked and raised. Chandler and Kraft trailed, Remington 870 shotguns primed. They emerged onto a large deck to find Larmer alone, lounging in a pool-chair wearing swim shorts. He seemed amused, apparently entertained that they were treating him like a dangerous felon. Naslund hadn’t seen him for almost a week. He looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He gestured the inspector to a patio chair. “Have a seat.”
Moore shook his head irritably.
Chandler moved to cover the sliding door into the house. Kraft entered the house under Chandler’s cover. Chandler followed his partner.
Larmer chuckled. Watch out, his expression seemed to say. It’s dangerous in there.
Well, Naslund thought, Larmer might have fewer cares, but he still seemed to want a fight. From the stiffness of Moore’s back, the inspector was going to give him one.
Within a minute, DC Lowrie appeared at the sliding door and nodded. The circle was complete. The cottage was secure.
Moore stepped forward. “We have a warrant to search this property, Mr. Larmer. First, we’ll have a little chat. Let’s go inside.”
Larmer didn’t move. “I like fresh air.”
“Good for you,” Moore said, “but we’re going inside.” He lifted his chin as if to say Don’t fuck with me and marched Larmer into the kitchen.
Chapter 27
Hope Bay. July 16th:
Naslund dropped into the chair at the end of the kitchen table.
Chandler and Kraft closed off the room, shotguns still primed. Lowrie and Singh were already on their way to the garage.
The inspector sat across from Larmer. “Let’s establish a few facts. First, Mr. Thom Tyler was murdered, and now Mr. John MacKenzie. They were both friends of yours.”
Larmer remained silent, but his face said So? What are you saying?
“I’ll take that as an affirmative. We’ll start with the first victim. A forensic pathologist determined that Mr. Tyler drowned. He inhaled water into his lungs. When a man drowns in such a manner, he experiences severe chest pain. He suffers simultaneous circulatory and respiratory failure. The victim usually succumbs within four to eight minutes of immersion. Four to eight minutes.”
A flicker of gray eyes. Larmer sat motionless.
“Four to eight minutes of hell, wouldn’t you say so?”
Naslund sighed inwardly. Did Moore have to play his script from the top?
The suspect nodded. Of course it was, his expression said. Don’t ask me stupid questions.
Moore rapped the table. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
“Yes, Inspector, I do.”
Moore waited.
Larmer stared at the table, as if considering a momentous confession.
Naslund could hear Moore breathing in and out. Larmer examined his hands, fingernail by fingernail. He eventually looked up. “On second thought, I have nothing to say.”
Moore exhaled loudly then pulled his chair in to the table, scraping the legs across the hardwood floor. They wailed like a cornered cat. He slowly leaned closer. “Is that right?”
Larmer didn’t look at him.
“You’re contradicting yourself.”
The suspect mimicked him. “Is that right?”
Moore ignored the barb. “You better get your story straight. A week ago,” he said with a false smile, “you told us that you’d be happy to give a formal statement. Do you want a lawyer?”
“I don’t need a lawyer. I’m innocent.”
Moore harrumphed. He rose, walked toward Larmer, and bent to his ear. “We know exactly how Thom Tyler died.”
“Good. Then find his killer. You’re wasting your time on me.”
“Oh? Do you know what I do when someone tells me that? I dig deeper. For starters, there’s your friendship with Carolyn MacLean and Thom Tyler. Given your friendship, pardon me, your relationship--” He lingered over the word. “--I wonder why you didn’t visit them last weekend.”
“Those two had their life,” Larmer replied. “Thom and I had another one.”
“It looks like you were caught in the middle. I’d say you were part of a love triangle.”
“A love triangle?” Larmer snorted as if to say The mindlessness of cops. “Let me explain something. Carrie and I slept together. Carrie fell for Thom. Carrie and Thom slept together. Carrie and I didn’t.” Larmer smiled insincerely. “No overlap, Inspector, no triangle. No mindless jealousy.”
“That sounds rather cut and dry.”
“Perhaps. But that’s the way it was.”
“Is that right?” Moore said.
Larmer remained silent.
“When three people love each other,” Moore continued, “there is often another feeling present. What feeling would that be?”
The suspect shrugged, as if to say You tell me.
“Jealousy, Mr. Larmer. Envy. Hate.”
“That’s three, Inspector.”
Naslund sensed Moore about to jump out of his chair and grab Larmer’s throat. The inspector’s face reddened. The vein in the middle of his forehead started throbbing. His mouth clenched. The jaw muscles near his ears bulged.
The suspect smiled.
Smug snot. Naslund wanted to give him a piece of her mind but sat back and breathed slowly in and out. Let it slide, she ordered herself.
Almost immediately, Moore controlled himself. His jaw muscles relaxed. He eyeballed Larmer. “Do you know one of the tenets of homicide investigations?”
The suspect shook his head.
“People rarely murder people they don’t know.” Moore held up a forefinger. “Here’s another one. They often murder people they love. Or once loved.”
The suspect remained silent.
“What often happens in love triangles?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never been in one.”
“One person kills another. That’s what happens.”
“Huh.”
“You think you know everything, don’t you?”
No reply.
“Tell me this then: how did Mr. Tyler ‘fall’ overboard?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ah,” Moore said. “For once Mr. Larmer is stumped.” He smiled with contempt then leaned forward. “But I don’t suppose you would. Because he didn’t ‘fall’ overboard, did he?” He shook his head. “No, he didn’t. Our forensic team reported the boom didn’t make contact with Mr. Tyler’s body. But other things did.” He stopped.
The suspect said nothing.
Moore leaned right across the table. “Do you know what other things?”
Larmer shook his head.
I think you do, Moore’s expression said.