by Tim McGregor
Flipping through file after file, he drew up a mental list of locations that might match the place that Billie had described. An institution of some kind but not a jail. There was the psychiatric facility near the university that he could check. There was also the older institute to try, given the age of the remains. There were a good number of halfway houses in town he added to his list. Piling atop that were the charitable organizations in Hamilton. He could also put in a call to someone at Family Services to see if they had any suggestions about a place where a woman could turn to for help.
He almost slapped his forehead when he realized the answer had been staring him in the face the whole time.
“Morning chief.” Odinbeck strolled into the room, a tall cup of coffee in his beefy hand. “You got started early. Feeling the pressure?”
“Something like that,” Mockler said. He nodded at the detective’s coffee. “Did you bring me one of those?”
“Sorry, princess. We can send Hoffmann on a coffee-run when he gets here.” Odinbeck scanned the mess of paperwork piled throughout the room. “I had this dream last night that magical elves came in and sorted all this shit for us during the night.”
“Dream on, buddy.” Mockler rolled down his sleeves and reached for his jacket. “I got something to work with though. It should help.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“A first name,” Mockler said. “Charlene. Caucasian, about five-four, blonde hair.”
Detective Odinbeck’s eyebrows shot up. “No shit? Where’d you get that nugget from?”
Mockler scrounged for an answer as he shrugged into his jacket. Telling Odin the truth would just be problematic. “Something on the tip line. Caller didn’t leave a name but I think it’s right. Tell Hoffmann as soon as he comes in. Maybe we can get some more help in here too.”
Odinbeck watched his younger colleague cross to the door. “Where the hell you going?”
“Checking another lead,” Mockler said. “A women’s shelter over in Blakely.”
“Jesus,” Odinbeck gruffed. “Seven days of nothing and then two possibles come in overnight? Maybe the magic elves were here after all.”
18
ANNA, THE ADMINISTRATOR of the Magdalene Shelter, left him cooling his heels in the front room. Unlike his first visit, she was cool to his unexpected arrival and asked that he wait.
“What for?” he asked. Something didn’t feel right. The woman seemed tense.
“Please,” Anna said, escorting him to the parlour. “Our director, Mr. Napier, is on his way. He’d like to speak to you.”
“Napier? What about?”
“He’ll answer all your questions, detective.” She stopped at the door. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“No thanks.”
The door closed and Mockler looked around the large room, feeling like a chump. The front room was large with tall windows that let the sunlight flood half the space. There was a fireplace at one end and ornate crown moulding on the ceiling. The house had been grand at one time but its conversion to a shelter had roughed the sheen from the place. The furniture was old and ratty and the place smelled of stale cigarette smoke. A long table was set near the windows but this too was cheap and banged up. The foldaway kind of table found in church basements. A deck of cards were splayed across the table and he stepped closer to take a look. A round of solitaire, abandoned.
“Detective Mockler?”
A man appeared at the door. Mockler tagged his age at fifty, but a healthy fifty. Neither the puffy face nor paunch most men acquire. Impeccably dressed in a suit that was worth more than Mockler’s car. He looked peculiarly out of place in such a grubby surroundings. “That’s me.”
The man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Aaron Napier. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” Mockler tilted his head a tiny degree. “Napier? As in the Napier family?”
“One and the same,” Napier said, maintaining his smile. His teeth were flawless. “I heard you visited us last week, yes?”
“That’s right.” Mockler looked around the room. “Your parents founded the shelter, didn’t they?”
“Yes. My mother was devoted to this place.”
“This is her, isn’t it?” Mockler pointed to a framed photograph on the wall of a well-dressed woman deep in conversation with a frail-looking woman bent over a sewing machine.
“Yes. The common room has become a bit of shrine to her.” Napier nodded at the numerous photographs that hung on the walls. All of them featured Helen Napier, either working at the shelter or with her husband. “That’s my father there. Won’t you sit down?”
Napier motioned to the table and they sat. “You sure we can’t get you anything? The coffee here is actually good. Something mother insisted on.”
“I’m fine, thanks. So you still oversee this place?”
“I wouldn’t say oversee. Anna runs the place. She’s a whiz, actually. But I stay involved. Help out where I can.” Napier scanned the room around them. “It’s funny. Of all the businesses my father built and ran, this place is the one that really stands out.”
“It’s helped a lot of people.”
“That was mother. She used to say to dad, ‘what was the point of wealth if one couldn’t use it for good’?” He leaned back in his chair and brushed lint from his knee. “So. What is it we can help you with, Detective?”
“Part of an investigation. It may be nothing but I’d like to look through the records of all the women who came to the Magdalene House for help.”
Napier’s smile dimmed. “Anna told me it had something to do with that awful discovery last week. Do you really think the remains were of someone who was here?”
Mockler kept his tone even. Something was nagging his radar but it was hard to pinpoint what it was. “It’s possible. So every possibility needs to be crossed off the list to narrow down the probable.”
Napier looked at the floor. “It’s horrible what happened to those poor souls. How many individuals did you find?”
“We’re keeping that confidential for the time being.”
“Right. The holdback evidence.”
Mockler muted his surprise. “Yes. Standard procedure in some cases. So. What I need is the records of people who have passed through here. Specifically records from the late nineties and back.”
“You’re more than welcome to what we have. Anna explained to you about the loss of a good number of records, yes? The flooded basement ruined a good number of things, I’m afraid. Including our archives.”
“I heard. I’ll take whatever you have.”
“I’ll have it brought it up.” Napier laced his fingers together. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for? We may be able to search from our end. Anna can find anything.”
Mockler considered dismissing the idea but decided to lob one out to the man. “There is, actually. A woman by the name of Charlene. White, blonde hair.”
“No surname?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll ask Anna. She can ask the other staff if the name rings a bell.”
“Thank you.” Mockler looked down at the unfinished game of solitaire before him. Curious, he turned over the next card. “Does the shelter employ any men?”
“We have,” Napier said. “Custodians or groundskeepers. Not many, as you can imagine. And even then, we keep them in the background, away from our clients.”
“I’ll need a list of all the men who have worked or volunteered at the shelter.”
Napier smiled. “Of course. Going back how far?”
“All the way.”
The director straightened up, surprised at the answer. “That far? Can I ask what it is you’re looking for?”
“I just want to be thorough,” Mockler said. Something about the man’s demeanour rankled him but he didn’t know why.
“I’ll have Anna start on it straight away.” Napier stood up, indicating the conversation was over. He pressed a finger to his lips, th
inking. “Detective, do you think this could be done quietly? Your visit here?”
“That’s the way I prefer it.”
“The people we reach out to. If they knew a police officer was hanging about, they might stay away. It’s unfair, but there it is.”
“Of course.” Mockler shook the man’s hand again. “Thanks for your time. Your family has done a lot of good here, Mr. Napier. I’m sure your parents would be happy to see their legacy carry on.”
“I certainly hope so,” Napier said.
Mockler scanned through the framed photographs on the wall again as he crossed to the door. Then he stopped cold, his eyes locked onto one of the pictures.
“Detective?” Napier asked, wondering what the matter was.
“This picture,” Mockler said. “This is your father?”
Napier took a closer look. “Yes. That was during a renovation to the shelter. Father had a wing built to the back of the property.”
In the photograph, the late Clarence Napier was bent over blueprints, pointing out some detail to a foreman in a hard hat. There was something wrong with the man’s left ear. It seemed to be missing.
Mockler felt his pulse spike. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what happened to your dad’s ear?”
“Would you believe a dog did that? When he was a boy.”
“Really?” Mockler stammered. His heart was knocking so loud inside his chest he feared the other man could hear it boom. “Must have been awful.”
“It was. Needless to say, we never had dogs growing up.” Napier shook the detective’s hand again, leading him to the door. “I’ll have the material brought up immediately. We’ll let you know when it’s ready to be picked up.”
“Thanks,” Mockler said as he exited the common room. “I’ll be in touch.”
Ten minutes later, Mockler was still sitting behind the wheel of the car he’d signed out of the motor pool earlier that day. He hadn’t started the engine nor even slid the keys into the ignition. He looked out at the street before him without really seeing anything that was there. It had happened so fast, he still wasn’t sure it was real. One minute he had a stone cold case with little to no chance of going anywhere, the next minute, the investigation broke open all over the place. A suspect had been identified. The scattered details of the case were locking into place. The old man, Clarence Napier, had killed those women and hidden the bodies away. Simple as that.
The only problem, Mockler realized, was that he couldn’t do anything with that information, given the source of the lead. Testimony from psychics didn’t hold up well in court.
19
“I DON’T THINK I’m up for Art Crawl today,” Billie said into the phone. “I’m not feeling well.”
Kaitlin was on the other end of the line. “Are you sick?”
Sick as a dog, Billie thought. She had barely moved from the couch she crashed on last night. Her joints were aching, her belly cramped and her neck was as stiff as whiplash. Encountering the dead souls at the abandoned warehouse the night before had left her ill beyond belief. The worst of it was the numbing agony in her neck. A residual echo from the suffering of the dead women. Billie had no doubt that they had all been strangled.
“I’m coming down with something,” she said. “Nothing serious.”
“I’m sorry you’re feeling crappy,” Kaitlin said. “Do you want me to bring you anything? Jewish penicillin?”
“What’s that?”
“Chicken soup. Nana swears by it.” Kaitlin sighed. “Bummer. I don’t want to do Art Crawl alone.”
“Isn’t Kyle going?”
“Yeah. But it’s not the same.”
Art Crawl was a monthly event in the city; a street festival and art show trailing a path along James Street south to Locke street. The ladies had missed the last two events and Kaitlin was insistent that they not miss this one.
“Aren’t the others going?”
“No. Jen was supposed to come but the girl working the shop today called in sick. Meaning hung over. So Jen’s stuck at the Doll House.”
“What about Tammy?”
“Work. Last minute gig she couldn’t turn down.” Kaitlin sighed again. “Are you sure you won’t come? It’s a beautiful day. Maybe a walk would do you good.”
Billie sat up and looked over her apartment. It was a mess and it was gloomy. Did she really want to spend the day here? “All right. Where’d you wanna meet?”
Kaitlin was right about the day. It was especially fine. Billie felt her spirits lift as the sun warmed her skin and the crush of people on the street hummed with a certain giddiness. The Art Crawl was even bigger than last year, with crowds and vendors and music set up all along James Street. Billie meandered through the crowd with Kaitlin and her boyfriend, Kyle, stopping every so often to look at the wares on display.
“Too bad Jen had to work,” Kaitlin said. “She’ll miss most of it being stuck at the shop.”
Billie perused a table of handmade jewelry. “I think the amount of business she’ll do today will make up for it. She’s so worried about money right now.”
“She is?”
“Haven’t you noticed?”
Kaitlin shrugged. “Jen doesn’t talk to me about that stuff.”
“That’s because she’s superstitious. She thinks that if you talk about your worries too much, you’ll make them happen.”
“Jen isn’t superstitious,” Kaitlin replied.
“She’s totally superstitious, she just won’t admit it.”
They walked on, jostling through the festival-goers. Music blared from a stage further up the street and the air simmered with the smell of popcorn and barbecue. It felt odd, being out alone with Kaitlin. They weren’t close and often had little to talk about if Tammy and Jen were absent. All that changed, of course, after she had woken up in the hospital.
Kaitlin looked at her. “Are you superstitious?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Just wondered,” Kaitlin said. “Given your abilities and all.”
Billie bit her tongue. She’d hoped this wouldn’t come up but it seemed all Kaitlin ever wanted to talk about these days.
“Kaitlin, why are you so interested in that stuff?”
“Dunno. I just always have been. I had an aunt who used to read the Tarot. She claimed to do seances too but I think she was fibbing to me.” They continued on before Kaitlin turned to her. “What about you?”
“No,” Billie said. “Just the opposite, actually. I used to hate it.”
“Why?”
“My mom was into it. And I mean really into it.”
“Tarot?”
Billie nodded. “Tarot, palmistry, tea leaves. All of it. She even read entrails.”
Kaitlin stopped. “Entrails? You mean guts?”
“Yeah. Usually bird entrails.”
“That’s gross.”
“That was mom. I used to be so mortified by it all. Most people in town thought she was crazy.”
“That must have been tough growing up like that.” Kaitlin tried on a hat from a vendor and looked at herself in a mirror. “Could she see the dead too?”
“No. Or if she did, she never told me about it.”
“It’s usually passed down in the family. That’s why I used to think I had some ability.”
“Maybe you do,” Billie said. “But you just haven’t found it yet.”
Kaitlin smiled at that and they carried on. Kyle had disappeared again. Then Billie said, “I took your advice.”
“What advice did I give?”
“About helping that detective.”
“Good for you.” Kaitlin punctuated it with a bop to her friend’s arm. “What did you find out?”
“I shouldn’t say. It wasn’t much.”
“Well, let’s hope he can use it.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t think the cops can use anything you found on its own. It’s not admissible as evidence or something. Your friend will have to find hi
s own path to whatever tip you gave him.”
“Oh,” Billie said. “How do you know that?”
Kaitlin shrugged again. “TV.”
Kyle appeared out of nowhere with an overflowing bag of caramel corn. “Here,” he said, handing it to his girlfriend.
“I hate this stuff,” Kaitlin groused, shoving a handful of it in her mouth.
“Then don’t eat it,” he said.
Billie dug into the bag. It crunched sweet and salty on her tongue. “Thanks, Kyle.”
They walked on, the music getting louder as they neared the stage. The popcorn disappearing quickly. Kaitlin turned to Billie. “I wish I could have gone with you. To the crime scene.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I still think you should meet my friends,” Kaitlin said. “The paranormal investigators. I think their show is gonna be big.”
“Not that again.”
“Keep an open mind. That’s all I’m saying.” Kaitlin reached into the bag again. “It’s a bigger platform, bigger reach. Think about all the people you could help.”
Passing the fortress-like facade of Hamilton Armouries on their left, Billie took Kaitlin’s arm and tugged her in the direction of the Doll House. “Let’s go see how Jen is making out.”
“She’s probably stressing over every detail,” Kaitlin replied.
“Then she’ll be happy. Come on.”
20
TASK ROOM THREE was quiet and, for that, Detective Mockler was grateful. Alone in the room, he could go nuts on the white-board, spit-balling ideas and drawing connections without having to explain anything to Odinbeck or Hoffmann. He was just warming up when Sergeant Gibson poked her head in the door.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Throwing stuff at the wall. Seeing what sticks.”
“No, this criminal background check you ran. Clarence Napier?”
He turned his face to stone, suppressing his surprise. How did she find out? “Just following up a lead. Like all the rest.”