The Vault

by Karen Long

  Eleanor tapped her pen against her teeth and considered.

  Mo leaned back in his seat and stared with interest at the coffee maker. “No one uses arsenic in embalming processes either. It’s way too dangerous. Seems like the sort of practice that took place last century. Apparently, they used to use it on taxidermy specimens, brushed against fur or feathers it stopped mite and bugs attacking.”

  “Coffee?” Eleanor asked, standing up. “So, if I wanted to embalm Giselle, what would I need?”

  “Decaff.” Mo swivelled his seat around. “I’d say you’d have to have a gurney of some description.”

  “Why not just a table?” asked Eleanor replacing the filter paper.

  The door opened and Laurence walked in. Mo nodded at him. “Because there’s blood. You pump in embalming fluid and the displaced fluid has to run out. That’s messy. You need sides to a table and preferably one that can be hosed down easily.”

  “Want a coffee?” asked Eleanor. “We’re just discussing what our perp would need to embalm Giselle. Mo suggests a gurney.”

  Laurence shrugged. “They managed okay before we had stainless steel.”

  Mo nodded, “True. Some sort of tubing set-up so he can get the embalming fluid in. Maybe a pump?”

  “Gravity works, you don’t need anything too complicated,” responded Laurence, wiping out his mug and handing it to Eleanor. “Privacy. This isn’t something you can do if other people live with you… I’m assuming.”

  “Knowledge. He needs knowledge of how to find and mix the chemicals, the proportions. How to position the body so that it remains rigid in that pose? I think we are looking for someone with an intimate knowledge of the embalming process. Maybe he’s worked in that industry before,” said Eleanor watching the steady trickle of coffee.

  “So, we’ve got a guy who knows something of the industry, lives alone and has resources,” said Mo taking his coffee. “Happy to do some more calls this afternoon. What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to get another snake identified,” she replied.

  “Where’d you get it?” asked the heavily spectacled owner of Past Present, on King Street East. She turned the snake carefully over and peered between the vertebrae. “Very nice,” she purred. “Do you have a price in mind?” she looked at Laurence.

  “Can you tell us a little bit about what we’ve got?” asked Eleanor.

  The woman sighed, as if resigned to it being unobtainable. “I’m not an expert on Victorian toys but I suspect it’s mid-nineteenth century and most likely British. There’s been a recent interest in wooden toys but mostly the mechanised ones and as it’s a limited supply market they tend to go quickly. This is simple but really nicely constructed… looks as if it’s made of walnut, which would have been expensive even then.” She turned the snake back again and examined the metallic clasps that held the joints together. “These are brass and I’m not seeing much wear on them. I don’t think this was ever played with. If it was, it wasn’t for long and there’s nothing to indicate it was thrown into a toy box. This was looked after.”

  “What’s it worth?” asked Laurence.

  At this the woman smiled. “I’d give you a hundred dollars for it.”

  “Do you know of anyone who specialises in these sorts of toys?” asked Eleanor.

  “They won’t offer any more than I did.”

  “I’m not selling,” replied Eleanor bluntly. “I’d like to know more about these toys.”

  “Well, you could ask Lester Byers four doors down. He’s a bit of a collector,” she answered tartly.

  “Thank you for your time,” Eleanor replied.

  Lester Byers was slightly more generous in his offer of one hundred and twenty dollars but provided little more in the way of historical information. What he did say that piqued Eleanor’s interest was that the Head Curator at the city museum, was known to specialise in everything to do with childhood.

  “Shall I head for the museum?” asked Laurence, as he slid the car into the traffic.

  “No, Winston Street off the Expressway,” she replied, as she finished reading the text message from Mo. “We are going to visit a Mr Marcus Baxton, who was forced to close his business premises when a series of unpleasant and criminal activities were discovered.”

  “Ok and what business was this?”

  “Baxton’s Funeral Home,” she replied.

  “Ah.”

  Winston Street looked as if it had been created by a set designer, as a backdrop for a movie depicting life ‘on the edge’. Half of the houses were derelict and boarded up and the rest had the starved quality that was the stamp of social deprivation. Eleanor could only assume that the city no longer provided trash collection, due to the mountains of garbage that were strewn across the overgrown yards and cracked walkways. Only the truly desperate or afflicted took lets in this neighbourhood. Eleanor took out her badge and walked up to the front door and rapped. A curtain twitched in the downstairs front window. She waited for thirty seconds before knocking again, “Mr Baxton this is DI Raven and DC Whitefoot, we’d be grateful if you’d open the door voluntarily.” Laurence shot her a questioning look, to which Eleanor shrugged one shoulder.

  “He’s not here,” came a voice from behind the door.

  “Then we’ll come in and wait for him,” Eleanor replied. There was a heavy sigh from behind the door.

  “He’s not done anything wrong,” said the voice, rising in pitch.

  “Perhaps your neighbours might know where your son is Mr Baxton?” she said. A shuffling sound preceded the sound of a chain being drawn through a channel and a lock being twisted open. An elderly man held the door open with one hand and rested his weight on a hospital-issue walking stick. He was heavy and grey, with stooped shoulders and a startled expression. “Come in,” he hissed, taking a quick glance at the house opposite.

  Despite the humidity, the interior of the house was relatively cool and dark. Eleanor breathed in slowly through her nose. Mr Baxton led them down a corridor narrowed by precariously stacked towers of tins, toilet rolls, catering sized tubs of coffee and powdered milk. A bicycle was squeezed between the stairwell and the supplies. They stepped into a small room containing two leather-backed armchairs, a glass coffee table and a couple of bookcases, over-stuffed with books and magazines. Like Mr Baxton the room seemed uniformly grey, the only colour provided by a stuffed macaw, its blue and red feathers dulled by years of accumulated dust. He lowered himself painfully into one of the chairs. “Is your son here?” asked Eleanor firmly, looking around the room.

  The man looked as if he was considering his reply but nodded. “He’s in his room.”

  “We need to speak to him,” said Eleanor.

  “He’s done nothing wrong. That can’t happen anymore,” he whispered. A sudden movement from behind Eleanor caused them both to spin round. A curtain between two bookcases was pulled back and Tyler Baxton stepped into the room. He was mid height, with an oddly elongated skull, pale skin and eyes, and a noticeable overbite.

  “We are investigating a case at the moment, which you may be able to help us with,” said Eleanor calmly.

  “He can’t!” blurted Mr Baxton, “I sold the business thirteen years ago and he hardly ever leaves his room!”

  “An embalmed body has been discovered and it appears to have been sexually abused,” Eleanor said bluntly.

  Tyler began to shake his head wildly. “No! I’m not allowed anywhere near them. Am I dad?”

  “Them?” asked Laurence.

  Tyler’s eyes flicked from Eleanor’s to Laurence’s, a line of sweat appearing on his upper lip. “The dead. I’m not allowed near the dead.”

  “Mr Baxton do you have a cellar here?” she asked.

  “No!” he yelped, struggling to his feet. “You’re not looking round this house without a search warrant. I know our rights and you’re fishing!”

  Eleanor looked at him calmly. “I can get a search warrant Mr Baxton and be back with marked vehicles and a
CSI van. All of which will be of interest to your neighbours, I imagine.”

  Laurence watched the little colour in his cheeks disappear and noted his sudden change of breathing. As a former doctor, he registered with growing alarm the physical changes that could indicate a potential heart attack. He leaned across and put a supporting hand on Mr Baxton’s elbow. It was as if the man had been electrocuted.

  “I don’t need your help!” he hissed, gasping for breath. “I need you to leave us alone.”

  “I’m sorry sir,” said Eleanor in a quieter voice, “but Tyler lost the right to privacy when he invaded that of the bodies that had been placed in your care.” There was a long silence punctuated by Mr Baxton’s laboured breathing. Slowly he sank back into his chair.

  “If your son is unconnected to this case then you have nothing to fear,” said Eleanor more softly.

  “I swear, I ain’t been near a dead body since I got out,” said Tyler desperately. “I swear!”

  “Then let us take a look round, with you and your son’s permission, and we can register your co-operation and begin the process of elimination.”

  “No!” spat Mr Baxton, his chest heaving. “You get your warrant and bring the cars with lights and horns blaring. You can block off the whole street, for all I care. You’re not doing this to us again!” His energy spent he sank back into his chair and clamped his jaw tightly shut. Tyler looked away from them, focusing his gaze on a corner of the room.

  Eleanor sighed, “I am truly sorry that you wish to take this particular path to proving your son’s innocence.” She nodded to Tyler and handed him a card. “If you would like to contact either myself or my partner, please don’t hesitate to call on this number.” She made a step towards the door and stopped, studying the macaw. “What a beautiful specimen. Is this your work?” she asked neither man in particular. It was greeted with silence. Suddenly, Eleanor ran her left hand slowly over the bird’s head and down its back. “He could be alive.”

  Nothing further was said, so Eleanor and Laurence made their way out of the house. As they stepped into the brilliant sunshine, closing the front door behind them, Laurence noted that her left hand was balled up.

  “Have you got a ballistics test kit in the trunk?” she asked quickly.

  “Should have, why?”

  “Drive round the corner and then swab my hand,” she said, as she stepped into the car.

  “Not sure I’m getting this,” said Laurence, pulling away from the kerb and turning into a small cul-de-sac.

  Slipping on latex gloves, Laurence broke the seal on the sample tubes and, using a swab, swiped it thoroughly over her palm and fingers. “We think the parrot was shot?” he quipped.

  “Well he may have been but I’m running this through as an arsenic test.”

  Laurence looked at her with interest.

  “Susan picked up high levels of realgar and orpiment, which are –”

  “– Arsenic compounds,” he interrupted. “You’re thinking that Tyler used arsenic as a preservative, when he embalmed Giselle?”

  Eleanor shook her head and wiped her hands thoroughly with a sterile wipe. “I’m not thinking anything that certain. If there’s arsenic on that bird it makes Tyler more interesting but nothing about his personality indicated organised. From what Mo said, he was convicted of having intercourse with at least twelve female cadavers prior to their burial but after their embalming.”

  “Classy,” replied Laurence starting the engine.

  “Tyler denied having carnal knowledge throughout the trial, two appeals and his subsequent seven-year sentence, even though there was ample DNA evidence to contradict that.”

  “Seven years? Seems a little steep for a quick bonk with the dead,” replied Laurence, pulling onto the Expressway.

  Eleanor raised her eyebrows and looked at him. “Apparently he got very attached to one of his victims – the twenty-five-year-old victim of a drug overdose – and kept her in one of their cold rooms.”

  “For how long?” said Laurence incredulously.

  “Two months.”

  “And no-one noticed?”

  “I don’t have all the details but it appeared that when the coffin was exhumed it was found to contain weighted sand bags.”

  “He sounds like our number one suspect,” said Laurence confidently.

  “Mmm,”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m not. Let’s get a little more information on him. I’d like to find a reason to bring him in for questioning but first I’m going to get Ruby Delaware to draw us up some profiling points.”

  “Have you got any open cuts on your hand?” asked Laurence.

  Eleanor took a quick look. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Good, don’t want you as Exhibit B do we?”

  “This is absolutely divine!” Isabel Drake beamed as she ran her fingertips along the wooden snake’s spine. “Wherever did you find it?” She twisted a lock of titanium white hair behind her ear and readjusted her glasses. “I’d put this chap at round about 1870 or so. It’s in tremendous condition, hardly a scratch on it. British and…” She stopped for a moment and contemplated. Eleanor waited.

  “Funnily enough the museum bought up a toy collection from an independent gallery about two years ago.” She gently placed the snake on her desk, walked over to a large bookcase, ran a finger along the spines and selected a catalogue. Flicking through the pages she stopped and after a moment or two passed the booklet over to Eleanor and Laurence. “See, very similar aren’t they?” Eleanor looked at the columns of thumbnail photographs and saw what Isabel meant. There were at least six wooden animal toys, all in similar condition, all made of the same dark wood. A crocodile and lizard had the identical brass clasps that articulated the toy. “I’d say that your snake may possibly have been created by the same individual or company. Would you leave it with me for a few days?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s not possible but I’ve got some photographs I can leave with you,” said Eleanor. “If this toy is part of the same collection or by the same toymaker, what would that mean?”

  “It would mean that you have a very unique item on your hands.”

  “Which might make it easier to trace?” Eleanor inquired.

  Isabel nodded. “It might.”

  “Is it possible that this item could have been taken from the museum?” asked Eleanor.

  “Goodness, I can’t say no for certain but I’m sure to about ninety-nine percent. The museum has on display about thirty to forty percent of its artefacts at any one time. The rest are in one of four places, either on loan to other museums or the education department, all of which is highly traceable. Generally there’s a paper trail that could circle the earth!” she said lightly. “The rest is either in the workshop being conserved or studied or in the vaults.”

  “How safe are these vaults?” asked Laurence.

  “We’re not Fort Knox but only qualified personnel has access, due to the value of much of the items held there. Most of it is irreplaceable rather than of monetary value though.”

  “The snake didn’t appear in the catalogue,” said Eleanor pointing. “Does that mean it couldn’t have been part of your collection or just part of the display?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll check the inventories and talk to my colleagues and get back to you over the next couple of days.

  “Does the museum have, to your knowledge, a collection of human skulls?” asked Eleanor as an afterthought.

  “Hmm, we were willed a small private collection of medical curiosities, comprising mainly of skeletal abnormalities. They’d been used as teaching aids by the Ontario Medical Examiner in the fifties and sixties.” Isabel said as she searched her bookshelf. “Here you are. You’re welcome to keep both of those catalogues as I seem to have a couple of spares.” She handed Eleanor a small dun-coloured booklet. “Off-hand I couldn’t place where the majority of the specimens are but it shouldn’t be difficult to locate them if you nee
d me to.” She looked at Eleanor with a polite but time-aware smile.

  “Thank you for your time Dr Drake, it’s much appreciated.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asked, ushering them towards the door.

  “Would you happen to know if your restaurant serves iced tea?” said Laurence pointedly.

  “I do believe that to be true,” Isabel replied warmly.

  While Laurence wolfed down an impressive mound of restaurant fare Eleanor studied the catalogues. Tapping a finger against a page, she turned the booklet round so he could see it. A small black-and-white image of two tiny conjoined foetal skulls, was displayed below that of a twisted vertebra and a pocked and eroded syphilitic jawbone.

  “I think I’m going to run this past Parminder and Dieter. Neither mentioned that they were conjoined though…”

  “Yeah but that’s a temporal join, if they were placed on a table you wouldn’t know,” Laurence replied.

  Eleanor checked Parminder’s number and called. After several rings it jumped to her message box. “That’s the third time she’s not picked up. Wonder why not.” As she lowered the phone it began to vibrate.

  “Why the fuck do you never pick up your cell?” bellowed Marty. “I’ve left you at least ten messages –”

  “Three sir to be exact,” butted in Eleanor.

  “I said, if this proved to be more than just a dead hobo it was to handled by Timms and Wadesky. I want you on bike crime and missing cats! Am I making myself clear to you? I’ve had several calls from your counsellor and she says, if you don’t attend this meeting she won’t endorse your bond. And no bond, means no detective!”

  “I am in the middle –”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck what you’re in the middle of. Get yourself to this session or hand in your badge. Have you taken this on board?”

  “It’s on board… sir.”

  Toby stood silently, to the left of the small bridge and watched with fascination as a small, lithe mink flitted in between the gaps in the stone bridge support. She had spotted him several minutes earlier but having determined he posed little threat, had continued with her task of dragging the carp she had caught, to a higher level. The fish was, he believed, a bighead carp: one of the numerous invasive species that were systematically crowding out their native fauna. He was jolted from his reverie and the mink her catch by the noisy arrival of Parminder Kaur, on a bicycle.