Blackfly Season

by Giles Blunt

  “Which happened first?” Delorme asked. “The bullets or the bat?”

  “Oh, he was shot first. About this there can be no question. Cranial bone has been crushed into the entry wounds.”

  “Was he dead when they went at him with the bat?”

  “Well, one could happily argue one side or the other of that particular question. There are plenty of factors to back either opinion. But at the end of the day, I must tell you honestly that I do not know. Myself, I would venture to say that the assailant shot his victim first. The first bullet barely entered the brain. The second crashed into the right optic nerve. Balance, vision, hearing—all would have been immediately affected. Indeed, the damage is catastrophic, but with these apparently low-powered bullets, not necessarily immediate. Angle of impact indicates the victim was still standing for at least one blow of the baseball bat.”

  “So maybe in frustration,” Delorme said. “When he doesn’t fall down, the guy goes at him with the bat.”

  “That would be consistent with what I see here. Eminently so, Detective.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Cardinal turned to Weisman. “Who’ve you got over in ballistics?”

  “Fellow named Cornelius Venn. He’s very good. Have you worked with him before?”

  “You’ll love this guy,” Cardinal said to Delorme. “I’ll let you ask the questions.”

  Christian good guy, Delorme thought when she first saw Cornelius Venn, with his yellow bow tie and his sincere-looking glasses. One of those characters who appear on your front step with a bible and a grin the size of Lake Nipissing. Sort of guy who’d stop to help you fix a flat and would know the cheapest place to buy hot dogs for the cookout.

  Cardinal introduced Delorme.

  “Your bullets are extremely mashed up,” Venn said. “There’s only so much you can expect.”

  “I’m not expecting anything,” Delorme said, “except that you’ll give it your best shot. I’m hearing good things about you.”

  “Really? They’re just being pleasant, I’m sure,” Venn said. He was bent over his comparison microscope, adjusting the focus. “Everybody’s always so pleasant. What are they going to say? ‘Here’s Cornelius Venn, our worst firearms examiner’?”

  Delorme wondered what Venn did in his spare time. She had a feeling it would involve machines, not people.

  She glanced at Cardinal, but he just rolled his eyes.

  “Ahem.” Venn coughed primly into a handkerchief, as if he were tubercular. “You have two.32-calibre bullets here. One is mashed beyond recognition and no use at all for anything.” His tone suggested they shouldn’t have bothered bringing such shoddy goods to his attention, even if they did transport them in a dead body.

  “The second one is only partially destroyed, and I’m just now attempting to see if I can get something worthwhile out of it.” He adjusted a knob, turning the bullet under his lens.

  “Yes, it’s not completely useless. I’ll just adjust my magnification a little to cut out some of the clutter. Later, I’ll give you a printout in a form you can understand.”

  As if it’s astrophysics, Delorme thought. Guy thinks he’s working for NASA.

  Venn spoke into his microscope, his voice tinny. “Six left-hand grooves.”

  “Do you have enough bullet to measure them?” Delorme said.

  “Your impatience will do nothing to enhance my performance, Detective.”

  “It was just a question, Mr. Venn.”

  He glanced up at her, the microscope’s light forming twin reflections in his glasses. “It was a question designed to put me on the defensive.”

  “Actually, it was a request for information.”

  “Yes, it was. Implying that I’m not intelligent enough to realize that information is what you are here for.”

  Delorme glanced at Cardinal, but he gave her no help.

  Venn returned to his microscope. “I’m getting a land-to-groove ratio of one-to-one-plus. Grooves are zero point five-six; lands are zero point six-oh.”

  He gave no sign that any of this information was familiar.

  “Colt Police Positive, right?” Cardinal said.

  Venn swivelled around in his chair as if noticing Cardinal for the first time. “Among other possibilities.”

  “Well, why don’t we cut to the chase and just compare it to the bullet they took out of our Jane Doe last week. Can you do that?”

  “Did you bring the case number?”

  Cardinal opened his briefcase and pulled out a form. He read the number and Venn went over to a shelf full of little plastic drawers, the kind home handymen use to store doodads. He pulled one out, extracted the bullet that had been taken from Terri Tait’s skull and stuck it under the left-hand lens of his microscope with a bit of beeswax.

  “As you know, Detective, it could also be from a J.C. Higgins model 80.”

  “Thank you for informing me,” Delorme said. “What I really want to know, though, whenever you’re ready to tell us—and don’t let me rush you or anything—is whether it’s the same gun. The lands and grooves and even the twist aren’t going to tell you that on their own, right?”

  “Oh, my. Go to the top of the class,” Venn said. He adjusted the left bullet, then the right. After a moment, he said, “The thing about the Colts is, they have distinctive skid marks, the marks made when the round is chambered. In any case, I can tell you right now it’s the same gun. Take a look for yourself.”

  He rolled his chair aside and Delorme bent over the eyepiece.

  “Focus,” he said. His damp fingers pressed her hand on the knob. Delorme tweaked it and the image went from soft to crystal clear. The incisions and scallops in both pieces of lead lined up perfectly.

  “Nice,” Delorme said. “Very nice. Thank you, Mr. Venn.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No thanks,” Delorme said. She couldn’t help smiling, even if he was a jerk. “I think that’s it.”

  “Then thank you for using the Centre of Forensic Sciences and you have a wonderful evening.”

  Later, when they were back on Highway 400 heading north, Delorme said, “What’s with that Venn guy? It’s like he studied all his life to be a dork.”

  “I don’t know what it is that happens to ballistics guys,” Cardinal said. “But it sure happens fast.”

  People claim to do the long drive back to Algonquin Bay in under three and a half hours, but they’re lying. To get from downtown Toronto to Algonquin Bay takes four hours minimum. By the time Cardinal was heading up Trout Lake Road toward home, he was thinking he would allow himself exactly one beer before bed; he didn’t like to have more than that when Catherine was away, as it tended to depress him.

  When he and Delorme had finished with ballistics, he had badly wanted to drop over to Catherine’s hotel; the Delta Chelsea was not far from the forensic centre. But he had been faced with a conundrum. If Catherine were at her best, of course, it would be no problem for him to show up. But she was treading rocky terrain, just now, feeling his protectiveness as persecution, and his showing up unannounced might be exactly the wrong move. In the end, he had decided against it, but now he wondered where she was and what she was doing. In her hotel room, he hoped, watching TV. Or on-line with her laptop, trolling eBay for bargain lenses.

  His cellphone rang, and it was Larry Burke; he was on guard duty at the hospital. His voice was tight, full of nerves.

  “I think you’d better get up here,” he said. “Seems our redhead friend has disappeared.”

  28

  BURKE WAS WAITING AT the front door of the hospital, looking glum, when Cardinal arrived.

  “How did this happen, Burke? For God’s sake, this girl is in danger.”

  “I know that. But nobody told me she was a flight risk. I was supposed to be careful about who I let in, not worried about her getting out. It’s not like she’s being held here on a charge or anything.”

  “Tell me what happened.”


  “Nothing happened. She’s had the run of the ward since she got here. Everybody loves her. She comes and goes as she pleases. The first couple of times I was a little nervous, but she always told me where she was going and she always came right back.”

  “Where did she say she was going this time?”

  “She said she was going to visit one of the other girls on the ward. She’s done that before. Girl named Cindy in 348.”

  “And you didn’t go with her?”

  “She didn’t want me to. Bad enough she has to be in here when she’s not really sick, I figured give her some privacy. Like I say, nobody told me she was a flight risk. There was no reason to worry about her taking off.”

  “If she has taken off. How do we know she hasn’t been kidnapped by whoever tried to kill her?”

  “Nobody saw zip. If she was taken against her will, there would have been a commotion.”

  “Did she have any visitors?”

  “Nope. Not one.”

  “Let me borrow your radio.”

  Burke handed it over. Cardinal buzzed the station and told the dispatcher to put out an all-points on Terri Tait. He gave a description and switched off.

  “Did you ask everyone on duty? You’re sure no one saw her leave?”

  “I asked everyone. Nobody saw her.”

  “At least she’ll be easy to spot with that flaming red hair. Did you talk to the girl in 348?”

  “Yeah. Name’s Cindy Peele. Didn’t get much.”

  “I’ll talk to her again. Why don’t you book off now.”

  “You blame me she’s gone AWOL?”

  “I blame myself. I should have warned everyone to stay close.”

  Cardinal went up to Terri’s room. The bed was rumpled, but didn’t look slept in. He opened the closet. Her few clothes were missing.

  Cardinal went down the hall to room 348. A girl wearing headphones sat listlessly propped against her pillows, watching TV. Her dirty blond hair needed washing, and there was a small white cuff of bandage on her left wrist. She didn’t look away from the TV when Cardinal entered; he walked in front of the screen and pointed to her headphones.

  “What!” She snapped at him as if he had been plaguing her for weeks.

  “Would you take the headphones off, please, Cindy?”

  She pulled the headphones down so that they hung around her neck. Her face was an exaggerated sketch of annoyance.

  Cardinal introduced himself.

  “This is so bogus. Why can’t people just leave me alone?”

  “This isn’t about you. I just have a few questions concerning the young woman down the hall.”

  “Like I’m her twin sister or something.”

  “She visited you a few times, didn’t she?”

  “So what? Are you going to arrest me?”

  Anger radiated from the girl in hot waves. Cardinal was reminded of Kelly’s teenage years. Catherine had been in hospital for most of them, and he had had to suffer his daughter’s virtuoso command of the negative emotions on his own.

  “Why did she visit you?”

  “Hello-o. She was probably like totally bored. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “What did you talk about with her?”

  “Nothing. Life. She was trying to cheer me up. As if.”

  So much rage in one so small. Cardinal estimated Cindy’s height at about five-four. Slight build. Very similar to Terri Tait, maybe a little bigger.

  “Did she tell you anything about herself? Where she was from? Where she was going?”

  “She said she was from like B.C. or Vancouver. Whatever. She was studying acting. Totally wants to be famous—like who doesn’t. Mostly she asked questions.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “She’s like, Where do you live? How many brothers and sisters do you have? What do your parents do? And I am so not into it. She’s like, Do you have a boyfriend? And I’m like, As if.”

  “Did she tell you why she’s here in Algonquin Bay?”

  “No.”

  “Did she tell you what happened to her?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t ask about the bandage on her head?”

  “Bandage?”

  Of course not, Cardinal thought. You didn’t even see it. No one else exists in your world.

  “She did ask to use my cellphone. And I let her. Said she didn’t have one, and the hospital phone wasn’t working.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last night. Around seven.”

  “Do you know who she called?”

  “No way. Some Vancouver number. She asked first if that would be okay. I didn’t care.”

  “Was it a man or woman, do you know?”

  “I’m not a snoop. Soon as she started dialling, I put the headphones on.”

  “Did she say anything about planning to leave here? Where she might go?”

  “Nope. Why are you so, like, after her? What is she, like a total criminal mastermind or something?”

  “We’re not after her. We’re trying to protect her.”

  “I hate being protected,” the girl said, as if people were constantly forcing their protective services on her.

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Couple of hours ago.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Hospital nightgown thing.”

  She could have hidden her other clothes underneath that, then gone and changed somewhere else.

  “What happened?”

  “What do you mean, what happened? She came in, made a little chit-chat. And left. I didn’t know she was going anywhere. Why would I care?”

  “We need to know who she called. May I look at your cellphone?”

  “It’s right there. Knock yourself out.”

  Cardinal picked up the phone from her night table. It was seashell pink with a tiny sticker that said Do Not Enter. He pressed the memory button and a list of numbers appeared on the tiny screen. There was only one with the Vancouver area code.

  “Is this the one she dialled?”

  Big shrug. Bored eyes. “Search me. I fell asleep.”

  Cardinal made a note of the number.

  “You fell asleep while she was here?”

  “There’s not like a whole lot else to do in this place.”

  “Have you checked your things? Are you missing anything?”

  “No, I’m not missing anything.”

  Cardinal opened the closet. There was a denim jacket, bell-bottoms, cargo pants and a couple of T-shirts on the shelf.

  “My hoodie,” she said. “Bitch took my hoodie.”

  “Hoodie?”

  “Long-sleeved T-shirt with a hood. Dark blue. That total bitch. That thing was expensive. I’m gonna kill her.”

  “You may have to get in line.”

  “That total LOSER.” The pale hands slammed down on the bed.

  “Listen, Cindy,” Cardinal said. “I’m sorry about your clothes, and I want to thank you for your help. I hope you feel better soon.”

  “As if.”

  The girl clamped the headphones over her ears, banishing him.

  In the corridor, Cardinal pulled out his own cellphone and dialled the Vancouver number. A snippy, synthetic voice informed him that service at the number had been suspended.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the nurse on duty. “How many women’s washrooms are there on this floor?”

  “The patients’ rooms all have their own washrooms,” she said. She looked scarcely older than Cindy, minus the incandescence of rage. “Or did you mean public washrooms?”

  “Public, yes.”

  “There’s two. One right there.” She pointed to a door across the corridor. “And another one by the elevator.”

  Cardinal showed her his ID. “I’m looking for your patient Terri Tait. I need to check both those washrooms. Will you come with me?”

  The nurse went to the closest washroom and knocked loudly on the door. She pushed it. “There’s no one i
n here.”

  Cardinal went with her into the white glare of tile and porcelain.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I’m not sure.” There were only two stalls. He checked both of them. “Will you show me the other one, please?”

  He followed her down the hall to the elevator area. Once again the nurse knocked loudly on the door before pushing it open.

  Cardinal opened the first stall. Nothing. Then the second. A patient’s nightgown and robe hung from the hook on the back of the door.

  The nurse bent down and picked up a narrow strip of paper, a patient’s ID band. “I guess they never changed her tag,” she said.

  Cardinal took it from her. It still read Jane Doe.

  Back in the car, Cardinal called Delorme at home. There was a clatter on the other end of the line and then Delorme’s sleep-husky voice saying hello.

  “I woke you. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t sound sorry.”

  “I’m not. Terri Tait has disappeared from hospital.”

  Delorme’s voice cleared. “Abducted, you think?”

  “Looks like she just borrowed some clothes and snuck out. Of course, it’s possible someone picked her up in the parking lot. Did we ever hear anything back from the Vancouver police?”

  “Nothing. But I got a social insurance number. I’m waiting for employment records.”

  “So we still don’t know if she has relatives in this area.”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “I’m thinking it’s possible she’s spent time here before. That she has someplace to go, people who will take her in. If we do the footwork, we’ll find the place, find the people.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?”

  “I’ve got a phone number to follow up on. Someone she called from the hospital.”

  “Local?”

  “Vancouver area code, but it could be a cellphone. I’ve already put out an all-points. That red hair of hers, somebody’s bound to spot her sooner or later. In the meantime, I’m going to bed.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Trout Lake Road. Coming back from the hospital.”

  “Do you ever wish you did something else entirely? Something unrelated to police work?”