by Boswell Joan
Cut Off
His Tale
JOAN BOSWELL
Text © 2005 by Joan Boswell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Cover art: Christopher Chuckry
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.
Napoleon Publishing/RendezVous Press
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
09 08 07 06 05 5 4 3 2 1
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Boswell, Joan
Cut off his tale / Joan Boswell.
“RendezVous Crime”.
ISBN 1-894917-18-9
I. Title.
PS8603.O88C88 2005
C813'.6
C2004-907032-0
For my mother, Marion Barlow Dunsford Young, who always believed, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I could do ‘whatever I set my mind to’.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my critiquing group, The Ladies’ Killing Circle—Vicki Cameron, Barbara Fradkin, Mary Jane Maffini, Sue Pike, Linda Wiken and the late Audrey Jessup. Their tutelage and friendship made Cut Off His Tale possible. Thanks must also be given to Isabel Huggan and the Humber School of Writing and to my publisher, Sylvia McConnell and editor, Allister Thompson at RendezVous Crime—all of whom helped smooth the rough edges and point me in the right direction. My love and appreciation to my supportive and ever-growing family and, of course, to my beloved flat-coated retrievers.
One
An epiphany—that’s how seasoned runners describe their feeling when they complete the twenty-six miles, three hundred and eighty-five yards of the marathon. Hollis Grant’s epiphany occurred fifty paces into the race.
She arrived at the National Capital Marathon’s starting point fifteen minutes before the eight AM race. To ease her pre-race tension and satisfy her curiosity, she pushed through the crowd toward the starting line and focussed on the other runners.
At the front of the pack of more than four thousand, the elite, the lean, mean human greyhounds, skin stretched tautly over bones and muscles, seemed oblivious to their surroundings. As she edged through the men and women with low bib numbers, she scanned the colourful mob, the fluorescent shirts, the brand name jackets and the high-tech shoes. Some runners came equipped with sunglasses, caps, gloves, walkmans, belly bags—they might be spending a day hiking in the Gatineau. Others, minimalists despite the cool morning, barely covered their lean frames with singlets, shorts and shoes.
Kinetic energy rustled from synthetic fabrics, echoed from the soft thud of shoes on the road as people ran on the spot, and rose from the continuing murmur of hundreds psyching themselves up for the twenty-six-mile endurance challenge. The competing odours of sun screen, aftershave, mouthwash and sweat mingled on that chilly Sunday morning in May.
A little further back, her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Paul, an ordained minister by profession and a runner by avocation, would wear a relatively low number and be positioned with the faster, proven runners. Because she was a first-timer, she had a high bib number and a starting position at the back of the pack. She eased through the throng and considered the race.
It still surprised her to find herself here. When she’d taken up running as part of a weight loss program and to prove to herself and to Paul that she could do it, she never would have anticipated this moment. Although thinking about Paul and her short-lived marriage made her feel bitter, nevertheless, in a perverse way, she had him to thank for challenging her to run. And long distance running had hooked her, given her a goal and pride in her new abilities.
She chose a spot toward the back and jogged quietly on the spot. The growing pack of runners closing around her shared a sense of camaraderie. As they edged ever tighter, she drew warmth and comfort from the press of bodies, twelve or fifteen deep across the width of the street, and caught the crowd’s excitement.
Five minutes to go. Taking a deep breath, she considered the day’s horoscope (Virgo: diversions abound—keep a steady course), the state of her shoes, shorts, bowels, hydration and psychological readiness to run. Jostling, shifting, bouncing on her toes and stretching, she marvelled at the instinct encouraging everyone to move ever closer, while at the same time isolating each individual in a cocoon of nervous self-absorption.
Three minutes to go. Hollis reviewed the list of pre-race imperatives listed in a recent issue of Runner’s World. First on the list, the twenty-mile run. The previous Sunday she’d covered the required number of miles, achieved the out-of-body state of euphoria she craved when she ran and reached the mythical breaking point, the twenty-mile marker, without noticeable distress. Secondly, the night before, to make sure she could repeat this feat and add another six miles on race day, she’d carbohydrate-loaded by devouring a huge plate of spaghetti carbonara.
Before she could consider the other items on the list, the crack of the starting gun pumped adrenaline through her body. The crowd’s shuffling accelerated, and the crush tightened. It took several minutes before the front runners cleared out, and those at the rear charged forward.
Fewer than fifty paces later, the racers’ pounding rhythm slowed. The river of runners streamed into two channels flowing around an obstacle on the road. Hollis found her feet moving automatically, while she, like everyone else, craned her neck and stared through the moving tide of bodies. Five more steps, and she had a clear view. A man lay face down on the road.
Hollis recognized his unique T-shirt. It was Paul.
She stopped as if she’d run into a wall. The runner at her heels thudded into her and sent her crashing to the ground.
She struggled to her feet with Nikes, Adidas and Brooks thundering by and heard someone say, “I’m a doctor. Let me through.”
Impossible. The doctor stepping through the throng was Kas Yantha, the husband of her friend Tessa.
Hollis pushed through the surging tide of runners and fought through the clot of spectators who’d moved out from the curb. Something black stuck out of Paul’s back. Kas knelt beside Paul, lifted and turned his head, checked his pulse and air passages, laid his head down and said, almost to himself, “No vital signs.”
That meant he was dead. That couldn’t be. Kas must be wrong.
Hollis squatted beside Kas. Intent on Paul, Kas didn’t notice.
“Kas, it’s me, Hollis.”
Kas’s head jerked up. “Hollis.”
“What do you mean ‘no vital signs’? What’s happened to Paul?”
Kas glanced at her. She read incredulity in his eyes. He leaned toward her and spoke slowly, as if this would help her understand. “There’s a knife in his back. He’s been stabbed.”
Turning away, Kas reached into his jacket, pulled out a cell phone and clicked in the numbers. “Reverend Paul Robertson has been killed at the starting line of the marathon. Send the police.”
Without thinking, Hollis reached forward to smooth Paul’s shirt, the lime green one with the slogan “If Jesus Were Gay, Where Would He Pray?” emblazoned on a wide pink band, but yanked her hand away before it contacted the spattered black handle protruding from the dark oozing splotch of blood. Around the knife, the pink had darkened to maroon. Kas said Paul was dead. That was impossible. Kas was a doctor. Surely, he could do something.
As if responding to her unspoken words, Kas said, “Hollis, there’s nothing we can do. He’s dead.”
“There must be something. He can’t be dead.” She stroked Paul
’s hair. How many months had it been since she’d touched him? Poor Paul. No matter what had happened between them, she wasn’t abandoning him flopped on the asphalt like a run-over dog.
Crouched on the pavement with the rhythmical thud of runners’ footfalls behind her and the forest of spectators’ legs shifting and moving in front of her, a wave of dizziness washed through her. She planted her hands on the roadway to steady herself. She felt her body parts and mind should synchronize, but they were jumbled like the pieces of a jig saw. Aware but detached, she half-listened to the conversation of two teenage girls who had pushed through the spectators and loomed above her.
“Did you see what happened?” the first girl said.
The two girls gawked down at Paul. The second one, who had curly hair like Hollis, shifted her weight from left to right in time with her gum-chewing. “No, but I know who it was.”
The first girl, the one with spiky black hair, mumbled something which inspired her curly-headed friend to speak louder, “I don’t mean I know who did it. How would I know that? I know who he is. We saw him on the CJOH sports news last night and his picture was on the front page of the Sun. He’s worn that shirt before. Rocky says it’s a good slogan.”
Hollis had thought it was a stupid slogan.
With her jaws moving methodically, the girl uttered words Hollis didn’t hear, and, in a louder voice, added, “My boyfriend says, what the hell does it matter? Churches aren’t relative.”
Relative—that wasn’t right. Relief. Here was something she could know. Not relative, the word was relevant.
Spiky Hair said something about her father and how he felt. Hollis didn’t care what her father had said and tuned out until the other girl inquired if Spiky Hair had seen anyone suspicious. Hollis strained to hear the answer.
“No, in that bunch it was hard enough to watch Rocky. I didn’t really look at anybody else. I guess the minister was the only other person I saw, and that’s ’cause he was kind of a public figure being on TV and all that. As far as I’m concerned, runners are major league weirdos. You ever noticed, before they start, they jiggle around like they have to pee?”
“Yeah, they were packed in like moving sardines. Hey, that’s good. That’s what they were like.”
The police arrived and shepherded the crowd away from Paul’s body.
“The ambulance. Where’s the ambulance?” Hollis demanded, although part of her mind had accepted the reality of Paul’s death and realized he didn’t require an ambulance.
“It’ll be along any moment,” one of the officers said. “Maybe you should sit on the curb until it arrives.”
“I’m staying right here with him.” She heard the belligerence in her voice and wondered what was the matter with her.
Kas intervened. “This is Reverend Robertson’s wife, Ms Grant. She’s suffering from shock.”
Shock. Pity. Horror. And, although she didn’t want to admit it, relief.
Across town, the phone’s high-pitched demand for attention penetrated Rhona Simpson’s sleep. Her cat, Opie, sensitive to the noise, moved off the pillow and none-too-gently batted Rhona’s ear.
“Okay, okay. I’m answering.” She pushed the cat to one side, groped for the phone and then for her glasses before she squinted at the clock radio. Nine on Sunday morning. Zack would never call her this early. It had to be the shop.
After her immediate superior, Detective Charlie O’Connor, identified himself he said, “Reverend Paul Robertson, the activist for gay causes, was stabbed and killed at the starting line of the National Capital Marathon. Hard to believe, but apparently it was such a mob scene, no one witnessed the stabbing. The marathon began at Carleton. How soon can you get there?”
“Inside of fifteen minutes.”
Why hadn’t she told the chief she was through? She’d spent Saturday afternoon drafting her resignation and had planned to speak with him first thing tomorrow, Monday.
It wasn’t the work she hated: being a cop would be great if it weren’t for some of the men on the force. My God, they were dinosaurs, misogynists, racists. When were they going to face reality; women, even ethnic women, had been a police fact for years. And having Zack, the love of her life, in Toronto wasn’t helping one little bit. She’d been ready, yesterday, to throw in the towel, to apply to the Toronto Police, forget police work altogether and take up a trade where her coworkers felt like team players, not adversaries, where everyone wasn’t waiting for her to screw up.
Why hadn’t she said anything before accepting this case? Obviously she wasn’t quite ready to make the big decision. Maybe because it would make her feel like a quitter. She’d think about it later. If she succeeded in this high-profile case and applied in Toronto, it would help her and, if she still wanted to give up police work, she’d depart with the satisfaction of leaving in a blaze of glory.
In the bathroom, she zoomed her electric toothbrush over her teeth, splashed water on her face and replaced her oversize tortoise-shell glasses. Perched on her nose, they allowed her to monitor the transformation from wan dishevellment to competent professionalism. She rolled her long dark hair, a gift from her Cree grandmother, into a tidy French twist, deftly applied black eyeliner, brown eyeshadow, rose lipstick and blush. After fastening gold stud earrings in place, she contemplated the clothes hanging in her cupboard. Dressing had been a whole lot easier when she’d worn a uniform.
Ever since she’d read an article in a woman’s magazine advising short women to wear one colour to appear taller and a dark colour to seem thinner, she’d followed the advice. She pulled on flat-fronted chocolate brown cords, a deeper brown cotton shirt and reached for her cowboy boots, acknowledging that her love of cowboy boots had a lot to do with the fact that she stood five foot three. If the Ottawa Police hadn’t lowered the height requirement, she wouldn’t even be a cop. Peering into her oversize black leather shoulder bag, which doubled as a briefcase, she checked that her notebook, cell phone, disposable latex gloves, plastic bags and wallet along with her card case and keys nestled in their respective pockets.
Dressed, she ran downstairs, opened a can of Meow Tuna Treats for Opie and filled his water bowl. Instead of the waffles and bacon she’d planned for Sunday breakfast, she grabbed two MacIntosh apples, her consumer’s bow to nationalism, and hurried out the door. With the stereo blasting an aria from Madame Butterfly, and her secondhand red Mazda Miata exceeding the speed limit, she arrived at Carleton at nine twenty. The marathon was less than two hours old. Enough time for a couple of constables to rope off the scene and prevent an ambulance crew from making off with Robertson’s body. On past occasions, overzealous ambulance staff, worried they might be accused of negligence, had rushed clearly dead victims to hospital. Only something as discernably fatal as a severed head or advanced rigor mortis deterred them.
Two constables, Gregor and Featherstone, awaited her. She’d worked with George Gregor before when she’d been a rookie. He’d given her a hard time. One of the dinosaurs, he referred frequently to “the good old days” and left her in no doubt that in those days there were no women on the force. She’d also heard him use the word “squaws” but had chosen to pretend she hadn’t, since she knew he’d complain that some women were “too damn sensitive” to be cops. A plump, square-faced man of middle years, he lacked imagination but performed his routine tasks competently. Sheila Featherstone, a rookie, had asked Rhona to mentor her. Because she was unsure of her own feelings about the force and about the viability of police work as a long-term career for women, Rhona had been reluctant to accept the role.
At the murder site, Rhona inspected the body. Covered with a green tarp, it lay isolated from the milling crowd by a cordon of yellow tape.
“We’ve interviewed some of the spectators,” Constable Featherstone said.
“And?”
“Nothing so far. The victim’s wife was also running the race. She’s over at the medical tent with the doctor who attended the victim.”
“I’ll
talk to her next. Both of you remain here. Finish with the spectators. The ident team will arrive soon. I’ll arrange for an interview room in the gym.”
“Interviews?” Constable Gregor said.
“For the moment, we’ll assume Reverend Robertson was killed by one of the runners. It’s our job to sort them out. Many probably knew him. It’s an out-and-back race that ends on the other side of the campus. I’ll meet with the out-of-towners when they finish. If we talk to them now, it’ll save them or us from making a trip later on. When you’re finished here, you,” she nodded to Constable Gregor, “move to the finish line, take some of the officers with you, and tell the out-of-towners who knew Robertson to change and be at the gym by one thirty.”
“You organize the interviews,” Rhona said to Constable Featherstone. “I’ll do them after the marathon finishes.”
Rhona checked the time. “It amazed me, when I watched the Olympics, to see the top runners finishing in a little over two hours. The first ones whip across the line shortly after eleven. Where’s the medical tent?”
“Over by the finish line.”
“I’m off to see the widow.”
Two
A short, stocky woman dressed in brown and wearing cowboy boots strode purposefully toward Kas and Hollis as they sat side by side on a cot in the medical tent.
“Mrs. Robertson, I’m Rhona Simpson, the detective in charge of the case.”
“It’s Grant, Hollis Grant.”
“Reverend Robertson’s wife?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll wait outside,” Kas said.
Simpson lowered herself to a cot facing Hollis and took a long careful look at her.
Hollis thought about her appearance, about how she must seem to someone else. At five-foot-ten, with a big-boned frame, some might catalogue her as “super-sized”. As a large woman and as a curly-haired bottle blonde with wall-to-wall freckles, brown eyes partially hidden behind red-framed prescription spectacles that doubled as sunglasses, she knew her appearance commanded attention. Hollis ignored the detective’s scrutiny and gazed into the middle distance.