by A. M. Potter
Larmer eyed him with distaste.
“No idea? Well, let me tell you. The right side of Mr. Tyler’s head was impacted by three blows from a ballpeen hammer. They smashed the orbital bones and destroyed his right eye.”
Larmer blinked.
“But whoever wielded the hammer wasn’t satisfied with that, were they Mr. Larmer?”
He said nothing.
“The assailant then deployed a pointed instrument. Pointed, but not particularly sharp. It made a bloody mess. You see, the instrument was driven into Mr. Tyler’s left eye.”
Larmer stared at Moore.
“The instrument, a Phillips screwdriver, to be precise, went right through the victim’s pupil. Right through. Are you familiar with screwdriver types?”
The suspect shook his head, apparently in shock.
Naslund couldn’t tell if he was truly distressed or play-acting.
“I think you are,” Moore said. “The forensic pathologist reported that Mr. Tyler’s left pupil exhibited a star-like perforation consistent with a puncture generated by a Phillips screwdriver approximately eleven millimeters wide.” He paused to emphasize the details. See, his look said, we know exactly what you did. “Given the hammer blows that destroyed his right eye, his vision was immediately impaired. He likely tried to save himself like someone fumbling in the dark. Must have been awful, especially for a visual person like Mr. Tyler.”
The suspect sat motionless. The blood had drained from his face, as if he were in shock.
“Mr. Tyler was thrown from his boat. We know you’re a strong person, Mr. Larmer.”
The suspect’s eyes said Fuck off.
“I’ll ask you again, where were you on the night of July seventh, from nine onward?”
“At my cottage.”
“Unfortunately--unfortunately for you, that is--you have no proof.” Moore smiled. “By the way, we found three different sets of fingerprints on Mr. Tyler’s skiff. I believe you know who they belong to.”
“How would I know?”
“You seem defensive.”
“You’ve worn me out.”
“Three, Mr. Larmer. Mr. Tyler’s, Miss MacLean’s--and yours. We found your prints on the centerboard mechanism.”
“Yes?” Larmer seemed genuinely perplexed.
“Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you.” Moore pursed his lips. “After assaulting the victim, you untied the anchor rode and released the anchor when the rode was wrapped around the victim’s ankle.”
Larmer regarded him with disdain. I did?
“Then you loosened the screws that held the centerboard tight, Phillips screws,” the inspector added and stopped to study Larmer’s face. “Did you think that would fool anybody? I thought you were smarter.”
Larmer ignored him.
“You wanted to render Mr. Tyler sightless and voiceless. You bashed in his right eye and stabbed his left--with merciless intent.” Moore paused. “Who would be able to get close enough to do that? To attack Mr. Tyler without raising suspicion? Someone who knew him. Someone like you, Mr. Larmer. Where are the clothes you were wearing? I assume they’re soaked in blood--Mr. Tyler’s blood. Aren’t they?”
Larmer stared straight ahead.
“As for taking his voice,” Moore continued, “a full-immersion drowning is soundless. When Mr. Tyler could no longer hold his breath, water rushed down his throat, blocking his airways. He soon lost consciousness and died.”
Larmer didn’t react.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself? Nothing? Are you dumb, Mr. Larmer?”
Larmer took the bait. “Of course my prints are on the centerboard. I sailed with Thom. I told you that.”
“So, you tampered with the centerboard mechanism. You confess to the murder of Thom Tyler.”
“I do not. I did not tamper with the centerboard. I used it. I adjusted it. You do that when you sail, Inspector. But one can’t expect you to know that.” He shook his head in disgust then pointed to Naslund. “Ask your colleague.”
“Confess, Mr. Larmer. It will be better for you.”
“I have nothing to confess. I’m innocent.”
“I don’t believe you. In fact, I believe you were involved in a second murder, Mr. John MacKenzie’s.”
“I was?”
“Don’t play stupid. Where were you today from midnight until seven a.m.?”
“Are you asking me for another alibi?”
“Call it what you want.”
“Bullshit. You think I’m a murderer. I’m not, but you don’t believe me.”
Moore harrumphed. “I’m not in the habit of believing everything people say. Certainly not you. I repeat, where were you today from midnight until seven a.m.?”
“I was in Toronto.”
“Can someone corroborate that?”
“Yes. LaToya Austin.”
“When did you arrive in Hope Bay?”
“Just before noon.”
Moore glanced at Chandler. “PC Chandler looks tired,” Moore said. “I think he wants to go home. I think you better tell the truth.”
“I told you the truth. I was in Toronto.”
“PC Chandler looks cranky.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Threatening you?” Moore said with fake indignation. “Not a chance. We just want to get everything settled, get you back to painting and swimming. Whatever your heart desires.” He smiled. “But we need to know the truth. Tell us whatever you know about the murders of Tyler and MacKenzie.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“It will be better for you if you tell us.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Moore rose. “We’ll see.” He strode to the door, beckoning for the two PCs and Naslund to follow him.
“Sergeant Naslund?” Larmer called.
She turned around. “Yes?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
In the corner of her eye, she saw the inspector stop.
“But not to him.” Larmer gestured toward Moore. “Or them.” He pointed at the two PCs.
As Moore and the PCs left, Naslund retook her seat at the table. “Go ahead, Mr. Larmer.”
“LaToya can verify where I was today,” he said, “but she can’t prove I was here on July eighth. No one can. But that’s where I was.” He looked like he was going to cry. “I loved Thom, I did.” Suddenly, his eyes were wet. He swiped at his tears. “He was like a brother, you know that.”
She said nothing.
“We argued, we yelled, we dug in and battled, but he was my brother.” Larmer stopped to dry his eyes. His face hardened. “And you lot think that I killed him. Well, your inspector thinks I did.”
“Yes?”
Larmer didn’t reply. He rose and fetched a bottle of whiskey from a kitchen cabinet and returned to the table with two shot glasses. “Glenfiddich?” he asked her.
“No thanks.”
“Your loss. Me? I love whiskey. There are two kinds: good and very good.”
She started to shake her head then nodded. “True. I love beer. Imports. Tuborg, Heineken.” As in Heineken tallboys.
“Never touch the stuff. Piss-water and swill.” He poured a shot of whiskey and downed it. “It’s been a hard week.”
She nodded. “What do you want to tell me?”
“I’m sick of Inspector Moore. Detective Inspector Moore,” Larmer mimicked. “Homicide. You won’t find a more bloodless twat. Less is Moore, indeed.” He reached for the whiskey bottle then put it down. “He’s frantic as hell. Stop or go, no middle gears. So I gave him the treatment.” Larmer nodded with satisfaction. “Gave him exactly what he deserved.” He chuckled. “Anyway, I have to admit--” He stopped in mid-sentence then carried on. “--well, I’ve been thinking about things.” He nodded twice and looked up. His animosity had dissolved.
“Go on,” Naslund said.
He straightened in his chair. “I’m not proud of this, but I owed Thom money.” He paused. �
�A lot of money. I didn’t pay it all back. I, umm, I took advantage. I owe it to Thom’s parents now. I’ll pay them.”
She remained silent.
“Well, I think I should tell you what I know about Carrie. It’s not a smoking gun, but it should help.”
“Go ahead.”
“She’s pregnant. And she told Thom she was pregnant. Let me put it this way: He wasn’t pleased.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me last week. Two days before Thom’s funeral. She also said she asked Thom to marry her, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t show her ‘that decency.’ Her words.”
“And does this information somehow clear you of murder and implicate her?”
“You’ll soon learn the truth. I’ll tell you about Thom and Carrie and kids. It’ll set you on the right path.”
Naslund shrugged.
“Fine, doubt me. Presume I’m guilty. You don’t have to believe I’m innocent. But believe me about Carrie. Go and ask her about her unborn child and her unmarried state. See what she says.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Larmer.”
Larmer poured a shot of whiskey and then ignored it. “About ten years ago, I joined Thom at the site of his first big commission, a portrait of the Lonsdale ‘cottage’ on Lake Rosseau--a baronial mansion in reality, with vast wine cellars and cathedral ceilings. It was post-Thanksgiving, the perfect Canadian scene. The granite house, itself perched on a granite outcrop, the mirror-like lake vibrating with brilliant fall colors. Perfect!” Larmer raised his whiskey and downed it. “Thom pulled out his oils and etched the lines of the house, mixing burnt umber and green umber to render the gray granite, adding ivory black to portray the roof and the darker, shaded areas. Lastly, he depicted his favorite elements: trees. Within minutes his sumacs dripped dragon’s blood, his maples fluttered with Venetian red, his tamaracks glinted Naples gold.” Larmer smiled. “It was good work. Very good. He’d deviated from ‘the truth.’ He’d added a dozen trees and rounded the angular granite outcrop. The house was much more of a departure. It didn’t even look like a house. He’d elongated it and tilted it forward, making it appear human, like an avuncular guardian protecting the water. In fact, the whole composition was tilted forward. It appeared to embrace the viewer.” Larmer beamed from ear to ear. “I loved it! He’d captured the core of the place. Not the reality, but the essence.”
Naslund nodded and glanced at her watch.
“Okay, okay. You know you can’t rush a painting or a story.”
“All right.”
“Well, this is where Carrie comes in. Back then, Thom and I could barely afford to paint, let alone raise children. That day I told him Carrie didn’t want to be a childless concubine. You might wonder how I knew that. Carrie fell for Thom but she also split up with me because I didn’t want kids. She’s older than Thom and me. She’s been thinking about the clock for years.”
Naslund knew that story. She’d danced a similar jig with Pete. Maybe next year, he’d say, then renege when next year came.
Larmer rolled on. “I told him if he wanted to be an artist, he had to put art first. Ahead of everything, including marriage and kids. Did he listen? Did he understand?” Larmer shook his head. “‘I’m looking out for you,’ I told him. ‘Some men--’ I pointed to myself. ‘--should never get married. Others don’t have to. You’re one of them.’ I told him why. He didn’t need marriage. He had a home. Most of what he wanted to paint was here in Ontario. He needed to be free to paint it. ‘Don’t be a Thom-fool,’ I told him. ‘Don’t get married.’” Larmer shrugged. “Last week when we were sailing, he talked a lot about Carrie. ‘She’s going to push you now,’ I warned him. He didn’t reply, but I could tell she was already pushing him. Hard. She hated introducing him as her boyfriend or partner or better half. She hates being called Miss or Ms. She really hates it. Then, when we spoke before Thom’s funeral, she said she’d asked him to marry her. She was pregnant. She wanted a father for her child and a husband for herself. I’m guessing Thom pushed back. She’d reached her limit. She retaliated.”
Naslund scrutinized Larmer. “So, she killed Thom because he wouldn’t marry her?”
“I know, I understand that sounds far-fetched. But maybe she finally got fed up.” He sighed. “I’ve told you what I know. You’re the cops, you’re the professionals. Question her. See how she reacts.”
***
The moon had just risen above the hills ringing Hope Bay when Moore and Naslund drove away from Larmer’s cottage. The last lees of daylight were all that remained. The team hadn’t found the assault weapons or any incriminating evidence. Naslund wasn’t surprised. As they rolled along Hope Bay Road, Moore asked about her conversation with Larmer. She delivered the details. “Larmer looks clean,” she concluded. “And MacLean doesn’t. I think we should go after her.”
“We will,” the inspector replied. “First thing tomorrow. But we’re not finished with Larmer. It sounds like he’s trying to sell her out.”
“I don’t think so, sir. I think he’s innocent.”
Moore harrumphed. “He’ll crack,” the inspector insisted. “It’s just a matter of time.”
She didn’t reply.
“I went at him hard, maybe too hard. I might have caused him to clam up. Sometimes you play the wrong card.” Moore sat back. “Larmer’s a stubborn snake. We’ll check out LaToya Austin.”
“I think she’ll verify his recent alibi. I think it’s solid.”
Moore harrumphed again.
Naslund couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “We seem to be putting two and two together and coming up with five.”
“Better than coming up with three.”
She gripped the steering wheel. The inspector was like a heavily-laden laker. He couldn’t pivot quickly, he couldn’t change course. She exhaled as quietly as she could. No suspects would be cleared until the killers were found, but she was confident the Murphys and Larmer were clean. Three down, yet no closer to the truth. And now there wasn’t just one victim, but two.
Chapter 28
Wiarton. July 17th:
Naslund hadn’t slept well. Toward dawn she hadn’t slept at all. She’d been turning over Larmer’s story in her mind, particularly the part about Carrie MacLean. She pulled into her parking spot at 0700. Walking by her office, she saw the inspector already at work. He called out to her.
“Morning, Sergeant. Can you join me?”
She entered the office and took a seat. “Morning, sir.”
The inspector was wearing what she thought of as his original gray suit. It looked like he’d slept in it.
“A lot on the boil,” he said.
She nodded.
“Just got some bad news. Nikolai Filipov was sighted in Northern Quebec and then he fell off the grid.”
“Where?”
“North of Val-d’Or. Land of mines and missing POIs.”
She shook her head. Another possible lead down the drain, one she’d had hopes for.
“I want to discuss the MacKenzie CS as well as Gordon Tyler. First, we’ll get MacLean in. I’m calling her now.”
Naslund raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t care if I interrupt her beauty sleep. She’s a caterer. Most days, I’m sure she gets up well before seven. Besides, I’m doing her a favor. She’s too beautiful.”
Naslund grinned.
Moore switched on the speaker phone and punched her number.
“Hello?”
“Miss Carolyn MacLean?” the inspector asked.
“Yes.”
“Detective Inspector Moore, OPP.”
“Yes.”
A very unfriendly “Yes,” Naslund observed.
“We need to see you this morning at ten.”
“Not possible, Inspector.”
“Not negotiable,” he replied. “Be at the station at ten.”
“I’m on site until two.”
“We can visit you there then.”
“That won’t work.”
/> “Then we’ll see you here.”
“But--”
“Here,” he interrupted. “Ten o’clock. Not a minute later. Do you have a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Mr. John Clay can be here at ten.”
“I don’t need a lawyer.”
“As you wish. Ten, Miss MacLean.”
The inspector ended the call and turned to Naslund. “Okay, Sergeant, on to Colpoys wharf. I checked the wind yesterday. At oh-one-hundred it was southwest, fifteen knots. I spoke to Chandler. He said a wind like that would likely get MacKenzie’s body and boat over to Hay Island in three or four hours, possibly less.”
She agreed.
“The ninjas said the wharf grounds are riddled with boot prints and tire prints. Totally contaminated. No luck on that front. Furthermore, they didn’t find any bio matter. Chu’s team didn’t find anything on the Caledon’s mooring lines. The lab worked on the wharf blood overnight. It all belongs to the victim. I’m not surprised.” Moore shook his head. “You remember those beer cans?”
She nodded.
“No FPs, but Chu’s team found traces of the victim’s saliva on all seven. However, they determined it was planted, like the blood on Tyler’s boom. Someone is trying to play us again. I assume they want us to think MacKenzie was drunk and fell from his boat. Yet the wharf CS is loaded with his blood. They must think we’re a bunch of country bumpkins. They’re trying to waste our time, disperse our resources. I’ve seen it before. It didn’t work in the past, and it won’t work now.” Moore pursed his lips. “By the way, Conrad and the PCs didn’t get a sniff. Nobody saw or heard anything or, if they did, they’re not talking.”
Unfortunate, she thought, but not unusual.
“We’ll redouble our efforts. Somebody must know something. I assigned Lowrie to establish a list of MacKenzie’s family and friends. He’ll assemble a team to interview them. Please check in with him before noon. Go over his list.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As with the Tyler murder, we have no bio evidence. No forensics. These days, it seems that all juries want is forensics. CSI this, CSI that. In my experience, solving a murder often has more to do with finding motives than DNA. If you don’t have forensics, what do you need?” It was a rhetorical question. “A confession. That’s where we are. We have to get a confession.”