The Ambitious City (9 page)

He took out his cellphone and called the dispatcher. “Betty, forget the paramedics. Send the coroner and the crime scene team. We need at least a half-dozen uniforms here to comb the area.” He looked over at Vertesi, who had slid or been pulled down the wall by the woman, now sobbing on her knees and slamming her hand on the walkway. “And send someone over to care for the mother of the deceased.”

“We’re on it, Mac. Sorry about the snafu with directions. We still haven’t figured out how that happened.”

Looking down at the body, he realized she couldn’t have been saved, but still he was angry. It had taken him twelve minutes to get to the scene, to find only two uniforms and Vertesi. MacNeice put his cell away. He called up to Metcalfe, who was busy taping off the stairs. “You were first here. Did you see anyone near the body?”

“Yes, sir, the mother. Those kids were on the stairs talking tough, but they didn’t want to get any closer. The mother, though, she was all over the body, weeping and wailing, until Vertesi pulled her away. That was it.”

“Don’t touch that railing. We’ll want to get prints from it, and from those kids below. A team will be here shortly to do the work. Get their names and addresses, what time they got here, what they saw, and check that they haven’t been snapping pictures with their cellphones. I don’t want her image all over the Internet. Get them to erase any you find and let them know they’ll be charged if any do show up. You know the drill?”

“I do, sir. Sorry for the confusion.” He hustled down the stairs, tapping Chang on the shoulder as he passed by.

“Chang, get over there and relieve DI Vertesi,” MacNeice said. “Watch her hands. We don’t want her seeing a way out of this horror by using your service weapon on herself.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

Vertesi, clearly shaken, made it across the road. Straightening
his tie and adjusting his jacket, he said, “Thanks for that. You know, when the dust settles on this, sometime I’d appreciate some advice on just how I should have handled this.” His eyes had welled up.

MacNeice put his hand on Vertesi’s shoulder. “No problem.”

Looking down at the body of the young South Asian woman, MacNeice studied the neck wound again. It was deep, and the flesh had separated in a wide gash. “Backhand …”

“Sir?”

“Upward … a backhand upward slash. See how deep the entry wound is at the collarbone? It went clean through from there to the back of her neck on the left.” MacNeice made the motion with his hand. “He’s a right-hander, if it’s a he.”

“This shit’s always a he, sir.”

On the stomach, the four puncture wounds were each almost two inches wide and precisely placed.
Symbolic gesture
, MacNeice thought, as he squatted to look at them more closely. “Pregnant?”

“You think?”

“While there could be other reasons to stab a woman in the stomach, I can’t think of any, especially after you’ve already killed her. Did she have a bag?”

“A small floppy backpack. The mother has it.”

“Good. We’ll need to take that.”

Neither of them noticed the sirens till they were almost beside the scene. Suddenly the birdsong soundtrack of their discussion was replaced by flashing lights,
whoop-whoops
and whining sirens.

A forensics team of three appeared, carrying their shiny metal cases and wearing their orange Tyvek suits. Two had already put on their face masks. They stopped just short of the scene. The oldest, perhaps thirty-five, put down his case and approached the two detectives. “What can you tell us, sir?” MacNeice nodded towards Vertesi.

“Not much. She was turned over by her mother.” Vertesi looked in the direction of the woman and Chang, who was holding on to her and seemed to have calmed her down. “She was the one who found her.”

The forensics guy turned away from the mother to focus on the corpse.

MacNeice was still looking down at the girl. Ants had started to crawl over her face. Her eyes were open, glassed over, and appeared to be gazing sideways, as if expecting to see someone coming up the hill. “No rings on her fingers,” he said.

Chang now had the woman sitting on the stoop of a nearby house. MacNeice noticed the young cop looking over at him and nodded to give him assurance that he was doing fine.

“I’ll go see if we can learn anything from the mother. Does she speak English?”

“Yes, sir, though she was mostly screaming.”

He walked slowly across the street. As Chang stood up to greet him, the woman went limp and slumped weeping onto the stoop.

“Thank you, Officer Chang. Stand by in case we need your help.”

MacNeice sat down beside the mother and touched her shoulder gently. “May I have a word with you? It’s very important that we speak …” The woman’s head was still on her arm and she didn’t respond. There was dried blood on her hands and on the side of her face. “Do you speak English?” He waited, looking over to Vertesi, who was standing several feet away.

“Of course … Yes, I do,” she finally responded. Her voice was hoarse and sounded as if it came from deep in her chest. She rolled over and sat up, staring at the scene unfolding on the other side of the road.

“I’m Detective Superintendent MacNeice. You’ve already met my partner, Detective Inspector Michael Vertesi.” He glanced
Vertesi’s way. “We’re here to find out what happened to your daughter—she was your daughter?”

“Yes, my only daughter. Her name is Taaraa, it means … self-luminous in Hindi.” She slapped her hand softly on her face and kept it there for several seconds as she rocked forwards and back. From the amount of blood on her dress and jacket, anyone would think she was seriously wounded.

“I’m deeply sorry for your loss, but …” He waited for a minute or so for her response.

“I know. You must.” From the pocket of her jacket she took out a gingham handkerchief and wiped her face several times. The dried blood didn’t budge, except in the tracks of her tears.

“Do you know who did this to Taaraa?” he asked.

Several moments passed. It appeared to MacNeice that the woman was struggling to find something to say. “Do you know—?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“What is your name, please?”

“I am Radha Dutta. My daughter’s name is Ghosh, Taaraa Ghosh.”

“Is there a number we can call to reach your husband, Mrs. Dutta?”

“He is away today. I am alone.”

“Was Taaraa in school, or working?”

“She was in college—Dundurn Nursing College. She will graduate next spring.” With that she slapped both hands to her face, holding it on either side as if to keep it from exploding. The tears ran down, but she’d dropped her handkerchief. MacNeice picked it up and gently touched her shoulder before handing it to her.

“Do you live nearby, Mrs. Dutta?”

“We live on the mountain, not far from the top of the stairs.”

“Were you with your daughter when it happened?”

“No, I was to meet her here. We were going shopping. Taaraa
lives in an apartment on Wentworth, near Cannon. We always meet here on the landing.”

“Did she share the apartment with anyone?”

“Yes, another nursing student, a Canadian girl. It’s 94 Wentworth.”

“Do you have any other relatives in the city that we might contact for you?”

“No, no relatives.”

“Can we call your husband?” MacNeice watched her face. She looked away, up the road to the mountain, and answered so softly that he had to ask her to repeat what she had said.

“He’s looking for work. He went to Oakville. Aadesh was let go from the steel company. He’d only been there six years.”

“When did they let him go?”

“In February.”

“That must be hard for the family. It’s a long time to be out of work.”

“It is hard. But … we are Bangladeshi.”

“Mrs. Dutta, there will be people here shortly to take care of you. Detective Vertesi and I need to find your daughter’s killer. We have to take her bag with us, though it will be returned to you.” She nodded as he snapped on a glove and picked the bag up by a strap. Vertesi took the small backpack. “We’ll need to speak again, but for now, my deepest condolences for your loss. I promise you, we’ll do everything in our power to find the person who did this to her.”

MacNeice told Chang to stay with the mother and went to speak to the forensics team, who were now hard at work.

“Anything for us?” he asked the lead Tyvek.

“The knife had a blade roughly an inch and a half wide and likely six inches long—two of the stomach punctures broke through on her back. She’s been turned twice. She hit the ground after the initial assault, landing on her back. That’s when these were done.” He pointed down to the stomach punctures. “Then he—I assume it was
the perp—turned her face down. After that, the mother turned her back over again. The pathologist will confirm all that. Oh, and she had this in her hand.” He held up a plastic bag with a small crumpled note in it. “A shopping list, by the looks of it. Food mostly, but she was going lingerie shopping as well.”

“Where’s the heel from her right shoe?” MacNeice asked.

“Haven’t found it. To be honest, I hadn’t noticed it was missing—and I’m surprised you did, given that her foot is almost hidden by the other leg.”

“Almost.” Putting his other glove on, MacNeice walked back towards the stair, looking down among the weeds, rocks and gravel. There was nothing at the foot of the stairs to suggest she had fled that way, but at the edge of the first landing he found the heel wedged between two large rocks. Picking it up, he tried to recreate what had happened. Ghosh above on the landing, sitting on the bench waiting for her mother, gazing up the stairs, unaware of someone coming up behind her. Confronted, and realizing she couldn’t get past him and couldn’t outrun him up the stairs, she took the only escape available and scrambled under the railing, dropping to the ground, where she lost the heel of her shoe. He turned and looked down the gravel road that led into the brush. Why didn’t she run out onto the road? Panic, perhaps. He’d caught her just of out of view of the houses and the traffic.

He was studying the broken heel when Vertesi approached. “How does a guy get away from a scene like this? He must have been covered in blood,” he said.

“It was calculated; he worked it out in advance.” Like most people, she was probably pretty unobservant as she walked about. While her killer waited, the railway hut obscured the view from the north and the forest and bush provided cover, and not many cars took the access road in the middle of a summer afternoon. It was over in a minute or two, then he drove away, up or down the hill.

MacNeice turned to Vertesi. “Where did he park the vehicle? Make sure they cover this hill and look out for fresh tire tracks. Also, he may have thrown the knife away. They’ve got to search all the way up and down, both sides.”

“Yessir.”

“Contents of the backpack?”

“Her keys—with a rape whistle attached, a wallet, credit cards, fifty-seven dollars, some change, her hospital ID, lipstick and lip balm, a notebook—looks nursing-related, a few other incidentals, but no cellphone. I went and asked her mother about it, and she said Taaraa never went anywhere without her BlackBerry. She also said the drawstring on the bag was open when she got to her. I’ll get it in for prints.”

He handed Vertesi the heel. “Put a couple of uniforms to work knocking on doors and then get down to Dundurn Hospital. We want their video footage—interior and exterior—anywhere that Ghosh might have been.”

“No problem. I’ll also get the names of everyone we need to interview and call Williams in to assist.”

MacNeice saw two women from the grief-counselling unit arrive and park on the side of the road. When they got out of their car, Metcalfe pointed them towards the mother.

“I’ll be at 94 Wentworth,” he said to Vertesi.

S
OME OF THE
modest century homes on Wentworth had fared better than others. Built close to the street, there was little of anything natural to screen them or provide curb appeal beyond the maintenance of porch and windows. With its red-brick addition, number 94 stood out. The punched-out box erased any of the hard-won charm the neighbouring homes had managed to retain. It was 7:28 p.m. when he heard the second-floor apartment doorknob turn. He had climbed the old flight of stairs and was standing in front of the door when a young woman with an open face and loose blonde curls opened it. She was wearing a baggy Dundurn sweatshirt, basketball shorts to the knees and tangerine flip-flops. Not expecting to see someone already at the top of the stairs, she was startled and instinctively stepped back.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m Detective Superintendent MacNeice.” He held out his card with his left hand and gently offered his right.

“I guess I didn’t have time to put on my door-opening face. I’m Wendy Little. Can I help you?”

“I’m here about your roommate. Wendy, can we go inside?”

“Uh, well, sure. She’s not here … The place is a bit of mess—I was just doing the cleaning.”

“I promise you, I won’t notice.” A lie, of course—he took in everything: the washing on the counter overflowing a yellow plastic basket, the dishes in the sink, the flourishing rubber plant on the windowsill, the posters on the wall—the most striking of which was of the Bangladesh parliament building. There were sweatsocks on the floor in front of the sofa, and a loose DVD lay next to the remote controls. The television, while not new, sat atop a DVD player and sound system. Wendy picked up the socks and offered MacNeice the sofa; she sat on one of the two blue canvas director’s chairs and then promptly stood up again. “I’m sorry, would you like coffee or tea? Or we have some pop …”

“I’m fine, Miss Little. Please sit down.” She did, tucking her blue and white shorts tightly against her legs the way girls do with a dress.

“Miss Little—”

“Oh, please, call me Wendy.” She nodded several times as if to emphasize her approval of the familiar.

“Wendy, your roommate, Taaraa Ghosh—”

“Has something happened to Taaraa?” She stood up again.

“I regret to inform you, Wendy, that Taaraa is dead.”