by A. M. Potter
Her eyes moved down the body. The lower abdomen had been slashed multiple times. No blood flowing, not even oozing, specifying wounds sustained after death, when the heart had stopped. It appeared someone had killed MacLean with a hammer and then stabbed her.
Naslund quickly surveyed the puncture wounds. Over half-a-dozen slash lines, delivered by a wide blade, each slash about fifteen centimeters long, presenting an almost star-like pattern. Why the knife attack? Why the pattern? Almost instantly, an answer came to her.
The baby.
The killer had purposefully attacked MacLean’s unborn child, purposefully made sure her son was dead. The star-like pattern told a story. The slash lines radiated out from the navel like spokes on a wheel, penetrating the whole lower abdomen, the home of the womb.
Naslund exhaled and stood. Someone had just removed two of Thom Tyler’s potential heirs, not that MacLean had made an official claim on his estate. In time, her son--Thom’s direct blood line--may have. Now he was dead.
In the corner of her eye, Naslund noticed Chandler approaching and turned. She was relieved to see him wearing CS shoe covers and gloves.
“Evening, Sergeant.”
“Evening. I’d like you to go back up top, Constable, and guard the property. Don’t allow anyone on it, not even the driveway. That includes the coroner. Please send him down as soon as he arrives. I want him clean. Get him in a whitesuit and shoe covers.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Do you have a spare flashlight in your squad car?”
“Yes.”
“Please send it down with him.”
“Roger.”
“Take John Tyler with you,” she quietly said. “Lock him in your car for now.”
“Do you think he’s the perp?”
“There’s no blood on him,” Naslund said, then shrugged. She wouldn’t bet against it, not this time.
Chandler nodded. “Better in S-S than B-S.”
“Exactly.” Better in small shit than big shit. “Tread gently. Don’t walk on the path or driveway.” With no more POIs to question, the best she could do was preserve evidence.
As Chandler and Tyler ascended the stairs, the sun sank below the beach cliffs. Almost instantly, the light level dropped. She phoned Bickell on her cell, reported the apparent murder, and asked for two PCs to canvass the neighborhood, one working south, the other north.
Standing by the corpse, she took in the darkening bay. Three dead. In a sense, four. Tyler, MacKenzie, MacLean, Tyler-MacLean’s unborn son. There had to be a link. What was it? As she sought the connection, Kapanen arrived, short of breath, as usual.
“A dock,” he announced. “Again.”
She nodded.
He gestured at his clean suit. “Did you have to gift-wrap me?”
“You’re welcome.”
He snorted, handed her a flashlight, and pulled on gloves.
Naslund directed two beams at MacLean’s head. Kapanen knelt down. “Not a drowning,” he quickly said. “Look at the forehead. I detect four substantial blows by a blunt force instrument with a rounded impact surface.” He stopped. “I’d say the same instrument used a few months ago.” He moved closer. “Unless toxicology tests establish otherwise, the victim was killed by blunt-force blows. Please direct the light down the body, to the abdomen.” Eventually Kapanen looked up. “I’d conjecture the victim was over six months pregnant. As you no doubt know, Detective, assaults on females are frequently associated with sexual interference. However, in this case, I see no evidence of sexual predation. On the other hand, there is ample evidence of post-mortem assault.” He pointed at MacLean’s stomach. “Look at those slashes. I detect nine, delivered by a wide-bladed knife. Extensive and deep slashes but relatively little bleeding. The victim was dead when the knife assault occurred.”
Naslund nodded. As she thought.
“I won’t hypothesize as to why the victim was assaulted in such a manner. That’s your job.” Kapanen jutted out his chin. Get with it, his pose seemed to say. He eyed her. “I hope you have more luck with this case than the last two.”
“I hope so.”
“In fact, from what I hear around town, you better. You’re letting your side down.”
She said nothing.
“Right. I thought so. Nothing to say.”
She held her tongue. What could she say? She’d heard the same rumors, and she felt awful. She was letting the Bruce down.
“Now, on to what you really want. Actually, the only thing you detectives seem to care about. Which is?”
She shrugged then thought the hell with it. Play along. “PMI.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
She couldn’t be bothered telling him off. And that she cared about justice, not PMI numbers.
He turned to the corpse. “No fully established rigor,” he announced. “Which suggests the victim died less than four to six hours ago. As for lividity, no sign of it, not to the naked eye. Which only tells us the victim has been dead less than three hours. We’ll have to rely on algor.” The coroner carefully pulled up MacLean’s blouse and pierced her right side with a liver thermometer. “Thirty-four-point-eight Celsius,” he read. “I’d conjecture the victim died approximately two hours ago, possibly two-and-a-half. Definitely less than three.”
“Thank you.” She turned her back to Kapanen and called Bickell. “Murder confirmed. Two to three hours ago. Perps might still be close.”
“Roger that. I’ll road-check the base and top of the peninsula, as well as Highways Twenty-Six and Ten. We’ll cover the airports and marinas too.”
At this point, Naslund knew that apprehending MacLean’s murderers was possible, but a long shot. “Look for a ballpeen hammer and a wide-bladed knife and perp clothes with blood.”
“Roger. By the way, I called Central. DI Moore has been summoned.”
She caught Bickell’s snideness. “Better get his murder room ready,” she joked.
“I’ll leave that to you, Detective.”
“I thought you would.”
“They’re due first thing tomorrow.”
“I’ll set it up tonight.”
She signed off and faced Kapanen.
“Are you ready for my final findings?” he asked.
“I have enough information. Detection One-Oh-One.”
He huffed.
“I’ll read your report later,” she said. “Be careful going up the stairs.”
“You care, Detective?”
“Of course.” She smiled over-sweetly. “Be careful not to damage any evidence.” Her duty phone blared. “Sergeant Naslund, OPP.”
“Harding here.”
“Yes Constable?”
“We have a match. All three documents.”
“Thank you. Appreciate your work.”
She pocketed her phone, thinking, Yes, a match. Considering the handwriting on the map, it seemed Elina Bayeux had been tailing Thom Tyler, or she’d sent someone to tail him. Intuition told Naslund it could be Louise Hennigan. In any case, she had three hooks: possible timeline and motive, plus a forensic hit. She’d get to that later. For now, her hands were full.
Waiting for the morgue transport, she went over the MacLean CS in her mind. Given the head wounds, there should be blood on the dock leading to the stone stairs, and possibly on the stairs themselves and the property above. But there was none. No prints either, no evidence of perps going up or down the stairs. Had the perps used a boat, the boat Tyler Senior might have seen? Perps? Think again, she told herself. Tyler Senior mentioned seeing one person. There might only be one perp. On the other hand, considering the hammer attack, there seemed to be a connection to the Tyler and MacKenzie murders, and they’d been committed by two or more perps. She shook her head. No definite connection.
As she kept her vigil, searching for connections, the sky began filling with stars. A half-moon rose above the dock, its red face eerily similar to the one she’d seen months ago, sitting by Thom Tyler’s body. She turned
away. She’d seen enough red moons. Waves lapped against the dock. The sound brought her back to the bay. If Tyler Senior was right, he’d seen a boat low in water--which implied a heavy load, possibly a large man--heading toward Big Bay. The Albin hijackers had used Big Bay. Was the heavily-loaded boat manned by one of the hijackers? Nikolai Filipov had fallen off the grid, but it could be the other bruiser. Maybe she had more than a hammer connection to the Tyler-MacKenzie cases.
Chapter 33
Wiarton. October 1st:
Naslund arrived at the station at 0600. She’d already heard from Bickell. So far, the road checks, still ongoing, hadn’t produced any leads. Ditto for the airport and marina checks and the canvassing of Mallory Beach. Chu’s MU team had processed the cottage property and found no blood other than the splatter by MacLean’s head and two smears nearby, on the water side of the dock. Their work suggested the killer or killers had come and gone by water.
Unfortunately, Tyler Senior’s statement didn’t corroborate that. He’d mentioned a very vague sighting of a boat. The team had no verifiable connection to a boat-based murderer, let alone an Albin hijacker. As Naslund entered the foyer, Inspector Moore strode toward her.
“Well, well, Sergeant.” The inspector was all smiles.
“Good to see you, sir.” And it was.
“Can you join me in the murder room?”
“Why don’t we use my office?” She grinned. “Your office.”
“The murder room is fine.”
“I insist, sir.” She’d cleared her desk last night.
“All right. Thank you, Sergeant.”
Inside the office, Naslund sat in the guest chair.
“I’d like you to get me up to speed,” Moore said. “I read the coroner’s report. Homicide by hammer blows. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“And the knife assault? Post-mortem?”
“Yes. By the way, I have a theory on that. A hunch, I should say.” She’d seen over twenty dead bodies in her four-plus years in the Bruce, mostly traffic fatalities, except for three murders--two domestics and a botched B&E--and now three murders in three months. She figured greed was the key. A sign of the times. “I think MacLean’s murderer knifed her unborn child. A son. The murderer wanted to eliminate him as an heir. You read about the nine slash lines?”
He nodded.
“They radiate out from MacLean’s navel like spokes on a wheel, covering the whole lower abdomen. The womb.”
He nodded again. “I see where you’re going. Two possible heirs with one stone.”
“Yes. Eliminate blood lines. Given the excessive force--hammering and knifing--I’d say hate’s a motive, but greed too. Money may be the main motive.”
“I agree. Any obvious perps?”
She shook her head.
“Perhaps Larmer?”
She didn’t see it, or MacTavish either. “I don’t think MacLean’s death will enrich any of the previous suspects.”
Moore nodded. “I’ll get M and M on that.”
“Another thing, sir. I have a new lead on the Tyler case.”
“You do? What’s new?”
“Looks like a former art agent, an Elina Bayeux, tailed Tyler or she sent someone to tail him. Possibly Louise Hennigan.”
“Hennigan?”
“Yes. That’s another hunch. Yesterday MacLean told me she saw Hennigan skulking around Mallory Beach Road about a week before the Tyler murder. Early in the morning, twice. I tried to reach Hennigan a few times. She’s on holiday. Last night, I tried to find her whereabouts but didn’t succeed.” Naslund paused. “But we could go after Bayeux. She lives in the city. Etobicoke. Her maiden name is Vostokov. It appears she’s the art agent before Hennigan. MacTavish mentioned her on July fourteenth.”
“Is your Bayeux lead solid?”
“Not ironclad, but solid. Possible timeline and motive plus a handwriting match. I know we have a new investigation on our plate, but I’d like to interview her ASAP.” Naslund pressed on. “Maybe this evening?” She’d almost let the map slip through the cracks. She didn’t want to lose Bayeux.
Moore sat back and pursed his lips. “Okay,” he eventually said, “here’s a plan. How about you debrief the ninjas and Lowrie this morning, and then work on POI lists, one personal, one professional. MacLean may have made some business enemies. I’ve been told to expect her autopsy early this afternoon, but Lowrie and I can attend it. You can leave for the city around sixteen hundred.”
“Good. I’ll email you Bayeux’s particulars and my notes on that lead.”
He nodded.
“Do you think you can call in a favor at Metro? Get Bayeux into a station this evening? Any station,” she added.
“Glad to. By the way, I’d like to be there. In the shadow room.”
“Of course.”
***
Toronto. October 1st:
In the late evening light, Metro 22 Division looked almost deserted. As Naslund pulled into the parking lot, she spotted Moore’s black Ford Explorer. Having cleared security, she was directed to a basement interview room she’d used a decade ago. It looked the same: faded gray, not a lick of fresh paint. Bayeux was due in ten minutes. Naslund took off her coat and walked to the shadow room. Before she could knock on the door, Moore opened it.
“Good trip, Sergeant?”
“Fine. And yours?”
“Not bad. I read your notes. Bayeux-Vostokov looks promising.”
Promising, Naslund thought. She hoped so, and more. “Any suggestions?”
He shook his head then pursed his lips. “Oh, one. M and M got her tax records. She shows zero employment income for the last three years. Ask her what she’s working at.”
“Right.”
“And impound her car. Might get a soil analysis match. But I bet you already thought of that.”
Naslund nodded. She had.
“Got some possible leads. The MU team established that the blood smears on the dock were made by a gloved hand. Lends some credence to the water access theory. I also have news from MacLean’s autopsy. The fetus was stabbed multiple times. Dr. Leonard reported that its heart was ruptured. It was likely targeted.”
She nodded, unable to reply. Her job sometimes pierced her heart. She turned away and walked slowly to the interview room, inhaling deeply and slowly exhaling. Opening the door, she ordered herself to focus.
As she sat in her chair, the POI was led in, flanked by two Metro Homicide detectives, Shiffman and Tilley. Naslund recognized the names from the case notes. So, Moore had pulled more than one string. Metro Homicide was in their corner, not just Div 22.
Naslund gestured Bayeux to the Slider. The two detectives left. The POI looked younger than her age, early-thirties rather than mid-forties. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a bun. Her eyes were lively and intelligent. She wore faded skin-tight jeans and a tight-fitting denim shirt. The clothes were a bit declasse. Or maybe just old. Despite them, she projected youth and refinement.
“Good evening, Miss Bayeux. I’m Detective Sergeant Naslund, OPP.” Neither the words detective nor OPP seemed to bother Bayeux. She now knew she wasn’t in on a local disturbance charge. “We appreciate you coming in to the station,” Naslund began.
“I had no choice.”
No sign of an accent, Naslund noted. “Miss Bayeux,” she paused, “do you prefer to be called Miss or Ms.?”
“Ms.”
“Would you like a drink?” Naslund asked. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Tea would be nice. No milk, three sugars.”
Having returned with the tea, Naslund scrutinized Bayeux as she sipped it. Not thrilled to be there, Naslund concluded, but at ease. “What’s your maiden name, Ms. Bayeux?”
“Vostokov.”
“Where were you born?”
“Russia.”
“Where in Russia?”
“Volgograd.”
Step One, Naslund thought. “Ms. Bayeux, I understand you were an art agent for Thom Tyler. How
long did you work as Mr. Tyler’s agent?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“Please elaborate.”
“He never fired me.”
“When did you start?”
“Ten years ago.”
“But he had other agents after you. Two, according to our records.”
“Your records.” Bayeux waved dismissively, then shrugged. “Okay, he had other agents. However, I was more than an agent. I was his muse.” She smiled with pride. “But I don’t expect you to understand that.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not an artist.”
Naslund ignored the gibe. The majority of people thought cops were one-dimensional--or, as MacTavish might say, Philistines. She rarely tried to change their minds. “Did you know Tyler’s other agents?”
“One of them.”
“Name?” Naslund asked.
“Louise Hennigan.”
Step Two. “Are you friends?”
“Not really. She used to come around to my place a lot, but stopped about five years ago.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“About five years ago.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“The same, Detective.”
“But you work in the same world.”
“No, we don’t. I represent the avant-garde. She’s mainstream.”
Naslund decided to move on. Perhaps there was no current connection between Bayeux and Hennigan. “How long did you know Mr. Tyler?”
“Twenty-three years.”
Twenty-three, Naslund thought. Well before Larmer. Well before MacLean.
“I was twenty-two when we met.” Bayeux raised her chin. “I don’t mind revealing my age. But you know it already.”