Tejgi thought about this for a moment. “But I never see you kiss Grandma Bimal,” she said. “Don’t grandmas and grandpas kiss?”
This, of course, provoked laughter around the table.
“My child,” Mr. Singh said, “there is much more to love than kisses.”
Mr. Singh chuckled at the thought of his granddaughter’s silliness as he lifted the first bundles of newspapers from the stack in the lobby. Today’s edition was heavier than usual because of all the inserts advertising foolish Valentine’s Day specials. Mr. Singh removed his knife, cut the plastic cord around the top bundle, and opened the first newspaper. A few gaudily colored brochures spilled out onto the floor.
The Times of India
wouldn’t carry such nonsense, Mr. Singh thought as he bent down to pick up the mess.
The Globe and Mail
, which seemed to consider itself the paper of record for Canada, was an odd publication. There were many proper articles about Canadian politics—mostly the goings-on in Ottawa—and international affairs, but then there were so many pieces written by journalists about their own personal experiences: sleeping in a tent in the snow (why, Mr. Singh wondered, would one bother?), finding a babysitter so the writer and her husband could go to a restaurant for the first time since their child was born (where, Mr. Singh wondered, were the journalist’s parents?), and even, to his utter shock, an article by a female journalist about purchasing a bra and the shape of her own breasts. That one Mr. Singh quickly hid in the wastebasket.
Most surprising was the coverage of the trial of Mr. Kevin. Since the gentleman’s arrest in December, Mr. Singh had been astounded by the number of articles written about the case.
Mr. Singh glanced up and saw the concierge, Mr. Rasheed, stationed at the front desk. He had a copy of the
Toronto Star
spread out before him. The
Star
, which considered itself less intellectual and more of a “paper of the people” than the rather gray-looking
Globe and Mail
, had even more coverage of Mr. Kevin’s matter.
“What have they written about Mr. Kevin this morning?” Mr. Singh
asked as he took off his heavy coat—the coat Bimal was still insisting he wear each day of the winter, no matter the temperature—and draped it over a chair.
“They’ve found Mr. Brace’s first wife,” Mr. Rasheed said. “She owns a restaurant up north in a small town. There’s a photograph of her.” He turned the paper slightly, to afford Mr. Singh a better view.
“Mr. Kevin likes to cook as well,” Mr. Singh said, curling his head to look. It was a grainy photograph, obviously taken from some distance, of a handsome-looking older woman wearing a long winter coat. She was walking across a snow-covered parking lot filled with trucks and snowmobiles.
“According to this article,” Mr. Rasheed said, “Mr. Brace met his first wife when he was a young journalist in England.”
“England? I had no knowledge he lived there,” Mr. Singh said as he studied the woman in the picture. “Perhaps that is where he learned to drink tea properly.”
“It says she was a student at Oxford.” The concierge moved back half a step as Mr. Singh got closer.
“And what was she reading?” Mr. Singh tilted his head to get a better look at the photo.
“Botany. Worked in the Royal Gardens for a year before she came home and started a family. Brace told a magazine interviewer years ago, ‘It was love at first sight for me. I never thought she’d be interested. She was surrounded by all these geniuses.’”
“These articles are such a waste of time,” Mr. Singh said, reading the caption under her picture.
Mr. Rasheed opened the paper to the middle section. There was a two-page spread about Mr. Brace and his first wife, complete with family photos and highlighted quotations.
Mr. Singh checked his watch. He was a full minute behind schedule.
“It’s a large story today,” Mr. Rasheed said, digging into the article with gusto.
“Idle gossip,” Mr. Singh said. He shifted his weight to his back foot and lingered for one last moment, looking at a photo of the
young Mrs. Brace. She was certainly attractive. Mr. Kevin, on the other hand, looked awkward.
Just then the concierge drew in a quick breath. “Oh my. One of their children was taken away.”
“Let me see,” Mr. Singh said, shifting his weight again.
“Their oldest,” Mr. Rasheed said, reading quickly. “The only boy. He was autistic. Could not speak.”
“This is most unfortunate,” Mr. Singh said. In the photo Mr. Kevin was quite tall. He had his arm around his first wife, who was much shorter. Two young girls stood in front with big brown eyes just like their father’s, looking right at the camera. Beside Mr. Kevin was a thin boy almost his height who had his head turned to the side, looking off into the distance.
“They split up soon after the boy was taken away,” Rasheed read.
Mr. Singh nodded. “As a chief engineer on Indian Railways, I met many families. A child like this could be a great hardship,” he said.
He picked up his papers and made his way across the lobby, now a full five minutes behind schedule. How difficult it must have been for Mr. Kevin, Mr. Singh thought as he stepped into the elevator, a man of so many words, to have a son who could not speak.
T
his traffic is unbelievable, Daniel Kennicott thought as yet another light turned red without his being able to make a left turn through the intersection. He shook his head in disgust. A few years earlier, when the Forensic Identification Service—FIS, as everyone called it—outgrew police headquarters, someone got the bright idea to move it way the hell out in the suburbs. So here it was, on the northern part of Jane Street, home of endless gridlock.
The reason for the traffic nightmare was frustratingly obvious. About thirty years ago, just as the immigrant population in the city was surging, the politicians of the day stopped building subways. Smart move.
While he waited for the light, Kennicott looked over at a strip mall to his left. There were seven stores reflecting as many different nationalities. He read some of the signs:
TROPICAL FRUIT; EAST AND WEST INDIAN GROCERIES; GOLDEN STAR THAI AND VIETNAMESE CUISINE; MOHAMMED’S HALAL MEAT; JOSE’S HAIR STUDIO;
and the inevitable $
CASH BOOTH, CHEQUE CASHING, PAYDAY LOANS, WIRE MONEY OVERSEAS.
Although he was born and raised downtown, when he became a cop Kennicott found a great affection for the people he met who were stuck in these godforsaken suburbs. Making the city work almost in spite of itself.
At last he pulled into the FIS parking lot, between a roti place and a McDonald’s. The roar of the highway just to the north hit him as he
got out of the unmarked Chevrolet he’d signed out from the homicide squad. Could anyone have picked an uglier location? If some TV producers ever wanted to do a show called
CSI: Toronto
, they sure wouldn’t film it here, Kennicott thought as he walked into the workmanlike gray building.
“Hey, good morning, young man,” Detective Ho said as he strolled out to greet him at reception. “I’m all set up,” he added, ushering Kennicott into the fingerprint lab. It was a rectangular room with a long steel workbench on one side. Above it a shelf held bottles filled with different-colored powders and a collection of feather brushes. On the opposite wall sat a big machine that looked like an open-window oven, with a number of racks inside. There was a cheap-looking white kettle at the bottom, with a white extension cord dangling out. And at the end of the counter was a smaller, boxlike machine.
Square in the center of the bench was a clear evidence bag, with red letters marked on the outside:
DECEMBER 17, KEVIN BRACE, PARALLEL BROADCASTING CONTRACT, SEVEN PAGES, DET. HO.
Detective Ho’s signature was in a little box.
“For fingerprints you have two choices,” Ho said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He pointed to the big ovenlike machine. “This is the Ninhydrin oven. I call it my slow cooker. Takes about two hours, and we’ll be able to see the prints with the naked eye.”
“What’s the kettle for?”
“Steam. Keeps the oven moist. We could also hold the pages over the steaming kettle to develop them.” Ho opened a widemouthed plastic container, poured a light yellowish liquid into a rectangular tray, then used a pair of rubber tongs to dip each sheet into the tray.
“What’s the other option?”
Ho pointed to the box at the end of the counter. “This little baby, our DFO oven. I call it my print microwave. Takes just twelve minutes. Bakes at exactly one hundred degrees Celsius, two twelve Fahrenheit.”
“What’s the drawback?”
“We need an alternate light source to view the prints,” Ho said, picking up a piece of orange plastic and holding it to his eye like a Boy
Scout leader with a magnifying glass. “I just go in there,” he said, pointing to a little booth in the corner that Kennicott hadn’t noticed, “flick on the orange light, photograph the prints, and download them onto the computer at my desk. Easy.” Ho looked very proud of himself.
“Let’s use the DFO. Faster the better,” Kennicott said as he reached into his briefcase. “I brought you an extra copy of the contract.” He knew Ho would be curious to read it.
Ho loaded the wet pages into the little oven, then grabbed the document from Kennicott.
“Hey—now, this is a contract I would’ve signed,” he said as he read through it. “A million bucks, a limo, sixteen weeks’ holiday. Don’t have to work Mondays. And our boy Brace didn’t sign? Now, there’s your motive for murder.”
“What would that be?” Kennicott asked. Playing the straight man to Ho’s comic act was always the price of admission.
“Insanity,” Ho exclaimed. “You’d have to be nuts not to take a deal like this.”
Fifteen minutes later they were back out at Ho’s desk. There was a computer screen on one side and a filing cabinet on the other, packed to the gills with stacks of papers. A large aquarium took up about a quarter of the desk space, with three colorful fish inside.
“Meet Zeus, Goose, and Abuse,” Ho said, motioning toward the fish. “English is the world’s craziest language. Three ways to spell the same sound. My poor grandfather. Paid the poll tax to come to work on the railroad, didn’t see his wife for fifteen years, and could never spell a damn thing.”
Kennicott smiled. He noticed that Ho’s backpack and briefcase were stuffed underneath the desk.
Ho clicked on his computer; downloaded the pages, the fingerprints now clearly visible; and printed them out. He already had copies of Katherine Torn’s and Kevin Brace’s prints on his desk. Brace’s were on the file from his arrest, and Torn’s from the autopsy. He found a round, stand-up magnifying glass among the mess and peered over Brace’s prints.
“Hey, take a look at this, young man,” he said, moving to the side so Kennicott could look into the glass. “See that line through Brace’s left thumb? It’s an old scar. Notice how the skin has puckered up around it.”
Kennicott looked through the glass. He could see the old injury very clearly. “When Brace was about twelve years old, his father slashed him in the face with a knife,” he said. “Could it be that old?”
Ho’s usually rambunctious voice softened. “The skin never forgets. Defensive wound. Probably tried to stop the knife with his hand.”
Kennicott looked up from the glass. Ho was flipping through the contract. It was seven pages long.
“Notice how there aren’t many prints on the inside pages? People usually only handle the front and back pages,” Ho said. He demonstrated as he flipped through the contract.
“Makes sense,” Kennicott said.
“I found two other prints.” He went to the last page. “Down here, beside his signature line. See the big smudge? Not a finger. We call it a writer’s palm.” Again he demonstrated, pretending he was holding a pen in his hand. “You often see these where people sign things. I’ll bet that’s Mr. Moneybags. Howard Peel. It’s right beside his signature.”
“That makes sense too,” Kennicott said.
Ho went back to the front page. “This is a different print. It’s also on page three. Near the part about the million-dollar salary. Take a look.” Ho put the magnifying glass on top of it.
Kennicott leaned over. “There seem to be two semicircles, not just one,” he said.
“Hey. Very good. Those circles are called whorls. When you get two together like this and going in opposite directions, it’s called a double loop whorl. About five percent of the population have them.”
Ho put the print on his scanner and sent it to a central database. In about a minute he got back a list of the ten most likely hits. There were no names, just numbers. He printed out the page.
“I’ve got to go to storage and pull these ten fingerprint files. Then
I’ll come back here and check each one manually. Stay here. Just don’t feed the fish.”
Kennicott was glad to sit quietly for a few minutes. He watched the fish swim in slow, rhythmic circles. Around the room, identification officers were working at different desks, transfixed by their computer monitors. As they worked, many ate from colored Tupperware containers. A box of cold pizza sat on a black filing cabinet in the corner.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Ho said, barging back in. “I’ve got a hunch I’ve found something. You’re going to be plenty surprised. But protocol is, I check all ten before I say a word. So, lucky you, my lips are sealed.”
“Promise?” Kennicott was tempted to ask. Instead he just nodded.
Ho took out each file and began going back and forth with his magnifying glass between the prints on file and the prints on the document. He worked quickly, his big body over the small magnifying glass, dropping files on the floor once he was done with them. He was mercifully silent for a few minutes, but it didn’t last.
“You can have all the technology in the world,” Ho said when he got to the eighth file. Kennicott noticed that he didn’t drop this one on the floor, but put it on his desk. “But this is still a very human process.”
He examined the last two files, and at last he lifted his head. He picked up the file from his desk with his meaty paw and waved it gleefully.
“Found a match,” Ho said, passing the file over. “Hey, are you in for a surprise.”