None So Blind (25 page)

The arson investigator glanced over with a grin. “And I from them.” The rest of the basement was dotted with little yellow evidence markers, and a large plastic bin sat on top of the foundation wall. It already contained several tagged containers.

Green pulled on some rubber boots and ventured closer. “Find anything interesting?”

“Shards of glass, exploded cans, charred lids, piles of tools. The whole kitchen is down here too, the stove and fridge nearly intact. It’s all interesting to me as a record of their daily life, which was messy. Someone sure was a pack rat. But who knows what’s relevant?”

“Welcome to the world of crime scene investigation,” said Green with a laugh. “What about the remains, Jeff? Can you tell me anything yet?”

Synes began to dance excitedly about his skeleton, gesturing. “From the narrow pelvic bone and his height, I’d say definitely adult male. He’s medium height, femur length suggests five ten to six feet, but I can be more exact later. Your pathologist will have a fine set of teeth, although not pearly white, to make an ID. Judging from the wear on the teeth, as well as traces of osteoarthritis in the joints, I’d say middle-aged, but again, once we get him out of here, cleaned up, and into the lab, we can tell more.”

“How long has he been there?”

“Oh, not long. There is still soft tissue especially on the underside. This was a body, not a skeleton, when the fire occurred.”

“Can you tell how he died? Heat, CO
2
poisoning, smoke inhalation?”

“That’s beyond my realm of expertise, but Keller here says most fire victims die trying to get to an exit. On the stairs or on the way to a door, not curled up in a corner —” He pointed to part of a charred staircase on the far wall, “at the opposite end from the means of escape. Besides …” he paused and squatted on his haunches beside the skull, “this guy’s got a great big crack on the back of his skull.”

Green peered closer. Even from the edge of the basement wall he could see the jagged bone. “Skulls often explode during a fire from the heat of the brain inside,” he said.

“Ah yes, but this …” Synes traced the lines of the fracture. “This was not caused by a force pushing outward. See these edges? The skull was splintered inward.”

“Could some bricks or a beam have fallen on him?”

“Nothing heavy enough in the vicinity. Except this.” Synes pivoted to point to a large, blackened rectangular block.

“What’s that?”

“A lid from a toilet tank. But there’s no toilet anywhere near here. The bathroom appears to have been upstairs.”

Green swore softly. “So someone hit him with it.”

“Well, lots of heavy things fell through into the basement. It’s possible the toilet did.”

“I know this house. The bathroom is not in this corner of the house. This didn’t land here by itself. This was deliberate.”

Synes grinned. “You want to step on Alexander MacPhail’s toes, be my guest. I’m not going there.”

Green left him and the other investigators to their work and walked to the edge of the crime scene, where he peeled off the heavy boots with relief. Even without the fire, the rising heat of the June morning was sweltering. Once he could breathe freely, he phoned MacPhail to update him and obtain direction.

He was on the phone thirty minutes, first with MacPhail, then with Neufeld and the Ident Unit. He was just discussing plans with the East Division duty inspector to deploy a mobile command truck when he spotted a black pickup truck driving up the road toward the site. As it drew closer, he recognized Marilyn at the wheel. She veered onto the verge at the end of the lane and climbed out, gaping with surprise at the sight of all the extra officials swarming over her land. He hurried down the lane to steer her away but she struggled to peer over his shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s still an ongoing investigation, Marilyn. The premises are still off-limits.”

“I know. I just came to see whether I could pick up my car. I mean, if it isn’t damaged by the fire.” She eyed the SUV that still sat in the middle of the lane, streaked with ash and water stains. “It looks okay.”

He studied her closely. Her face was ghostly white and she vibrated with restless anxiety but her eyes and speech were clear. There was no hint of alcohol on her breath. Did she know that a body had just been discovered in her basement? Had she come to see for herself whether the police had found it, or had she really just come to get her car? If so, where was the additional driver?

“Marilyn, I know the waiting is difficult but let’s leave the experts to get on with their work. Is there someplace we can go to grab a coffee in the meantime? Maybe at your friend’s place? I have a few more questions.”

“I told you everything yesterday.”

“Something new has come up.”

Her gaze shifted from his impassive face to the activity behind him. Her breath quickened. “I hate to keep imposing on Laura. She’s been very helpful, but now that Julia is there too, it’s really a lot to ask.”

“Fair enough, but —”

“And I do need to get her truck back to her. Can’t the questions wait?”

He was still angry at her and at her constant obfuscation. With a firm hand, he gripped her elbow to steer her aside, but she pulled free. In exasperation he abandoned subtlety.

“Why didn’t you bring Laura or Julia back with you if you were coming to pick up your car?”

“Why?” She looked puzzled, then gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry. I — I guess I’m rattled.”

“Why?”

“Why? I told you why. I told you what I did. What more do you want?”

“Have you or Julia heard from Gordon?”

“No, but that’s not unusual. Gordon has always … disappeared for days, even before Jackie’s death. He’s like his father that way. Drugs, alcohol, tomcatting, most likely. Until he’s had his fill.”

“Do you remember his friend Erik Lazlo?”

She looked genuinely surprised. For a few seconds she gazed vacantly at him. “Erik? Of course I remember Erik. Jackie’s boyfriend. The kids were all friends together growing up, and Gordon and he were in a band.”

“Do you know if he and Gordon stayed in touch?”

She looked genuinely baffled. If she was the one Lazlo had spoken to, she was hiding it well. “Oh, I don’t think so. I think there was a rift. Over Jackie, or Julia … Most of Gordon’s friendships fell apart during the trial. He wanted to put all those days behind him. I think we all did.”

“Did Gordon mention that he’d heard from Erik recently?”

Marilyn frowned as she searched his face for clues. “I don’t see what Erik’s got to do with any of this — Rosten’s suicide or this fire or Gordon.”

“Because he phoned your house twice. Once before Rosten’s death, and again the morning after. That call lasted seventeen minutes, so someone talked to him. Was it you?”

She swayed and thrust out her hand to steady herself. She shook her head as if trying to make sense of the news.

“Julia?”

“Julia wasn’t here. Besides, she wouldn’t have given him the time of day.”

“Why?”

“She thought he was shallow and manipulative. She’d gone out with him a short while herself, and she told Jackie she was wasting her time. I guess — I guess it must have been Gordon he spoke to.” Her brows knitted in worry.

“It’s essential that we locate Gordon, Marilyn. Where might he have gone?”

She stared at him and frank fear gradually widened her eyes. “You think something’s happened to him, don’t you? That’s why —” Her gaze swept behind him to the buzz of activity at the fire site. Before he could stop her, she had covered half the distance to the police cordon. Close enough that she could glimpse the search in the basement below.

He dived for her arm and spun her around. She struggled and thrashed, shrieking. “What is that? What have you found?”

Resolutely silent, he wrestled her back toward her pickup. “Marilyn! Go back to Laura’s and wait. I’ll be there as soon as I can. But we need to find Gordon, so if you think of anything, please call my cellphone.”

She was still ashen and she stumbled a little as she climbed into the truck. To his dismay, he saw a pair of media vans speeding up the road and he swore loudly at the power and speed of modern communications. He was running out of time to keep this latest death quiet. Marilyn herself might find out by turning on the latest afternoon talk show.

He watched her with concern as she tried three times to manoeuvre the truck in a circle back the way she had come, stomping on the brakes and gas alternately so that it bucked like a wild horse. Belatedly, he wondered whether he should have had someone drive her home and stay with her in case the news hit the airwaves, but he reassured himself that the distance was short and Laura was waiting for her.

In any case, he had a far greater worry on his mind. He had to get an alert out on Gordon Carmichael as quickly as he could.

B
rian
Sullivan was on his hands and knees on the floor, grunting as he tried to wedge his six-foot-two footballer’s frame under the computer table in the corner. Cables and cords snaked around him in a bewildering array and the computer tech was trying to direct him on which plug to plug into which jack. Sullivan felt his temper fraying.
Budget cuts
, he grumbled to himself.
Can’t even set up a decent incident room in this decade without doing half the work myself.

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Sullivan scrambled to extricate himself, bumping his head on the table in the process. Mike Green was standing in the doorway, taking in the scene without even a flicker of a smile.
Must be serious.

“I’ve just upgraded the arson to a major criminal investigation,” Green said. “Synes confirmed it’s a probable homicide.”

Sullivan listened to the details as Green summarized his discussion with the anthropologist. “The body’s on its way to MacPhail for the official word as we speak, but Jeff is pretty sure.”

“Middle-aged male,” Sullivan said. “Got a theory?”

Green ran a weary hand through his fine hair. “There may be some players we don’t know about, but I’m betting on Erik Lazlo or Gordon Carmichael. Both are AWOL.”

Sullivan sighed.” I thought this was my case.”

“That’s why I’m telling you. We need to get dental records on both those men without sending the relatives into a panic, so be as vague as possible.”

“Gee, I would never have thought of that.”

To his credit, Green managed a laugh. “Marilyn Carmichael is compiling a list of Gordon’s friends and hangouts.” Sullivan detected a furrow of worry in Green’s brow as he mentioned her name. This is personal, he realized, and Green was going to be a loose cannon.

“What else are you planning to do?” he asked. “Just so I know.”

“I’m going to talk to Dispatch about intensifying the search for Lazlo and Gordon. We need all eyes on this one. And then —” Green scowled with distaste. “The media have caught wind of the body. We need to have a credible response to contain the rumours.” His cellphone rang and Green glanced at the call display. “Neufeld,” he muttered, heading for the door. “The circus has begun.”

Catching Green’s urgency, Sullivan hurried to set up the equipment and assemble a team. Of sorts. The unit was stretched thin, with two detectives on leave, some assigned to tracking down Lazlo, and most of the others busy on the Rosten case. There better not be any more murders in this town for at least a month, he thought, or we’ll be borrowing from the janitorial pool.

Within an hour, he’d left the incident room in Sue Peter’s eager hands and headed out to Navan. As he drove, he formulated a plan. He’d never been to the village but suspected it was no different than all the other old farming villages scattered through the Ottawa Valley. Years ago, it would have been a bustling hub for the surrounding farms, founded by hard-working, God-fearing settlers fleeing the American Revolution and the potato famines of Ireland. It would have been bursting with mills, foundries, cheese factories, and shops. Now, it would be fading, with the old mills and factories boarded up or taken over by kitschy boutiques and art studios.

Big box stores and community health clinics in the nearby suburbs would have replaced the country doc and the old general store-cum-post office. But Sullivan had Googled dentists and discovered that there was still an office right in the core of Old Navan. It was there he was heading. His memory of his own Ottawa Valley hometown of Eganville was not a warm one, but that had more to do with his hard-drinking father and their hard-scrabble farm than with village life itself. He forced himself to approach Navan with a less jaundiced eye.

Eganville had had a dentist who yanked teeth and filled cavities in his office on the main floor of his own house, and although he had young associates who came and went, he had stayed on to practise his own ancient art well into his eighties, bartering a chicken or a fresh bass with those who couldn’t afford to pay. All eight of the Sullivan children had trooped through his office at one time or another.

Sullivan hoped Navan had a similar dentist who had tended the teeth of the Carmichael children. Thirty years ago, neighbouring Orleans would have been mostly cow pastures, and Navan would have been its own community.

He was encouraged by the sign posted on the front of a century-old house on Trim Road near the central crossroads. It was brightly painted in red and white and listed two dentists of the same last name, Dhaliwal. Old generation and new, with forty years of combined practice under their belt, he hoped.

There was a
LOSED
sign in the front window, but the interior was wide open behind the screen door, which he pushed open with a screech of hinges. Immediately, a young woman popped her head out of a back room. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her rich black eyes were partially obscured by stylish, thick-framed glasses.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a lilting Indian accent. “We’re closed until 2 p.m.”

Sullivan produced his badge, introduced himself, and asked to speak to Dr. Dhaliwal.

“I’m Dr. Dhaliwal. Do you wish me or my husband?”

Not forty years of practice after all
, he thought. “It doesn’t matter. I’m looking for dental X-rays that are probably twenty years old. For —”

“Ah, for forensic identification?” she asked, emerging from the other room. She was wearing a white lab coat but a chubby toddler was propped on her hip. “Oh dear. In connection with the fire?”

He should not have been surprised. No Internet was as efficient as the small town gossip chain. Reluctant to fuel it further, he didn’t reply. “Has this dental practice been in operation that long?”

“Not by us. We have only been here three years, but we bought it from a dentist who was retiring after many years. We still have many of his old records stored in the back. We have been gradually moving them to proper storage off-site, but we have been very slow about it.” She chuckled and planted a kiss on her baby’s cheek. “It may take a while to locate the file, but if you give me the name, I will call you when I find it.”

“Thank you. The name is Gordon Carmichael. If you find anything, I will get the necessary paperwork.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no! Not Mrs. Carmichael’s son!”

He nodded. “You know him?”

“Not him, really, but her. Such a lovely woman and so many tragedies. She welcomed us to the neighbourhood the day we arrived. Showed up with a big basket of strawberries and a bouquet of flowers from her garden.” She looked sad at the memory. “She said it would be wonderful to have a dentist here who didn’t spend half his days off fishing or tending his bees.”

Sullivan felt the pull of other demands. “We don’t know if it’s Gordon, but we need the X-rays for elimination purposes.”

“Of course, of course. And I can get those immediately because Gordon came in for a consult only last month. His teeth were very neglected. Poor diet, no regular dental care, those dreadful French cigarettes. He wanted everything fixed. It was going to be expensive but he said that would be no problem. My husband took X-rays at that appointment and I can get hold of them right away.”

“Thank you. I’ll get the official paperwork organized, and the pathologist’s office will be in touch about delivery shortly. Call me if there is a problem.”

They exchanged cards. “I will make sure these are sent before the day is out,” she said, hugging her child close as she bowed her head. “Poor woman.”

Green was in Neufeld’s office sitting around her conference table with her, the duty inspector, and the deputy chief. Neufeld’s office was practical and unadorned, and if she had any personal art, professional citations, or family photos to hang, she had not yet done so. The bookcase held neat rows of books arranged by subject and a single African violet sat on the table. It looked bedraggled. A small flaw in her orderly regimen, Green wondered, or had it just travelled across the country?

The group was reviewing the whole picture as well as results of the search for Lazlo and Gordon Carmichael, which were dismal. The alerts had gone nationwide: border crossings, airports, and train stations had been put on notice, but without any hints to narrow down the search, it was a daunting task.

A local OPP officer had been dispatched to the Pembroke motel with a photo of Erik Lazlo, but the night clerk roused from a deep sleep had been unable to confirm or deny the resemblance. The late-night customer had apparently worn dark glasses and a hoodie despite the hot night.

Numerous leads had tracked Gordon to assorted friends’ houses, but each had yielded nothing. The friend he was to meet the evening of the fire said he never turned up. Never called either, but that was Gordon. Likely a better offer came along.

“Staff Sergeant Sullivan has arranged for Gordon’s dental records to be delivered to the morgue, and I assume Dr. MacPhail has already lined up the forensic odontologist.”

Green paused, choosing his words cautiously. Alexander MacPhail had a distinguished reputation, particularly in the courts and among the senior police ranks, and Green had no wish to cast it into doubt. “I expect we will have an ID on the burn victim by tomorrow afternoon. After which, we should be searching for one man, not two.”

“For my money, I say we concentrate on this Lazlo guy,” the duty inspector said. “He’s gone to ground. He disabled his cellphone GPS and checked into a remote hotel in the middle of nowhere, wearing dark glasses at midnight for f— Pete’s sake. Actions of a guilty guy to me.”

Neufeld pursed her lips and gave Green a questioning look.
Rebuttal?
she seemed to say. She was the one who would have to justify the resources, both human and financial, that were being thrown at this search.

But Green was not going to jump to conclusions, no matter how obvious they appeared. He’d made that mistake once before. “Or a frightened one.”

The inspector snorted. “Frightened of what?”

“Any number of things. Us, for instance. He’s been a suspect before and he doesn’t want to repeat that experience. According to his wife, he’s paranoid about privacy, which probably stems from that. Maybe he knew we’d find out Rosten was in touch with him, maybe he has no alibi for the time of Rosten’s murder. I know this guy. He’s not a hero. He’s not going to stand up and fight; he’s going to run.”

“Even the biggest cowards will fight when their backs are to the wall,” the inspector said. “Bashing someone’s head in with a toilet seat — that’s not planned. That’s grabbing the opportunity that presents itself and acting before you can think.”

Green had already reviewed that scenario in his head and considered a similar conclusion. It did seem like an impulse killing. If indeed the victim was Gordon Carmichael, then the killer must have decided on the spur of the moment that he had to die, perhaps because of something incriminating he’d discovered in that basement.

It made a good theory, except there was no toilet in the basement; therefore, unless the killer dragged the body downstairs afterwards to increase the chance of it burning, he must have brought the murder weapon downstairs with him. At this point, however, speculation was not the top priority for them. Locating the man was.

“I’m not discounting Lazlo,” Green said. “I just think it’s unwise to discount Gordon Carmichael either. Lazlo doesn’t have a pattern of impulsive behaviour, at least none that has brought him into conflict with the law. He’s got a few traffic violations on his sheet — seatbelts and cellphone use — and he was a victim in an assault case involving an angry husband, but other than those incidents, he’s never broken the law.”

“Maybe he’s just smart.”

Green inclined his head. “Could be. But I’m not taking any chances. We’re going to take a bath on the Rosten case as it is. The Ottawa police, the Attorney General, and the OPP are going to be on the hook for serious compensation to his family once the dust settles, and rightly so. We screwed up.”

The deputy chief frowned and the duty inspector opened his mouth to protest. Neither of them had been on the force during the original Jackie Carmichael case.

“I screwed up,” Green amended.

Support came from an unlikely source — Neufeld herself. “That was before we amalgamated the police services and before we had the major case management system to coordinate cases across jurisdictions. But you’re right, Mike. This is a mess. Both searches continue. It would be nice to know where to look, however.”

Green felt a rush of relief. He’d felt himself beginning to swing from a very thin limb. “We’ll question both sets of friends again. I have an officer combing through cellphone calls. Sooner or later something will break.”

He held on to that hope as the meeting wrapped up and he headed back toward his office. Descending the stairs, he almost ran headlong into Sue Peters on her way up to get him. Peters could be impetuous, but even she knew better than to interrupt the senior brass unless all hell had broken loose.

Perhaps the answer to his prayers. She clutched his arm, her voice an octave higher than normal. No apology, no preamble.

“Sir! You’re never going to guess who just walked in!”

Sullivan felt the sweat trickling down his spine as he walked up the lane to watch the Ident team sift through the basement debris. The human remains had been removed to the morgue and the Arson team had finished their examination of the site, but senior Ident officer Lou Paquette and his rookie partner had just begun, taking over the grid analysis that Synes’s students had set up.

Sullivan wanted to be thorough. If there were other clues left behind among the rubble and detritus of the family’s home, he intended to find it. Paquette was down on his hands and knees near the site of the body, grumbling loudly as he pawed through mush. Paquette was a battered, grey-haired veteran with thirty years on the force, now counting down the months to his retirement dream of fishing at the cottage. Unlike his colleague, Cunningham, Paquette relied on his intuition from thirty years and had no fondness for the dirty minutiae of crime scene analysis. Fortunately, his intuition was worth a lot.