In the Shadows, page 9
Boucher ran across the street, hopped into his car, backed out carefully, for St-Martin was a busy road. He never saw where the cop went. His nerves bucked and jerked. He drove slowly, trying to avoid treacherous potholes on St-Martin, and finally turned into a strip mall. He took his phone and found a C. DiMaggio on Favreau. He also found two other DiMaggios, one on 7th Street, Laval, and another in suburban Blainville. He fired the engine and drove onto Highway 13 and got off at the Ste-Dorothée Power Center. He took rue Samson to 100th Avenue, turned right on Ninth and drove down to 7th Street. He sat in the car a few houses away from the one that interested him. The home was in the middle of a block, a quiet little white-brick bungalow with an immaculate lawn. He grabbed the steering wheel when he realized all the curtains were drawn. If this was the mother, had she already been warned?
Boucher hadn’t noticed that a neighbor had opened his front door, walked out unsteadily with a cane, staring at his car. “Neighborhood Watch! The old fart must be ninety!” The old man definitely had a bead on him. He took one last scan of the house. Had that curtain moved? Boucher saw that the old man’s wife had joined him, walker and all. He wasn’t going to sit and wait for a patrol car. He had what he wanted, to a degree. He had the phone number, but he couldn’t use his phone to call. A visit had been the best route but that was lost. Boucher started the car. Surely the old man didn’t have the eyes to pick up his plate. He wasn’t going to take that chance. Boucher backed up on 7th and turned right out of harm’s way.
Lena DiMaggio was eighty-eight years old. Although she might get flustered, she was a tough cookie with a quick mind. There were times Carmen admitted her mother had the better stamina. When old Anton alerted her about the car, she had already seen it. She had been on the lookout since Carmen’s call. “I knew he was there, Anton. I have called the police, but I don’t know what help they can offer. He didn’t really do anything, but I’m very nervous for Carmen. You didn’t happen to see the licence plate?”
“Lena, it’s good for me that I even see the car.”
“I have to go, Anton. I must call Carmen.”
Carmen listened. “I told you, Mom, you should have come to stay with Caitlin and me.”
“No. Leave my house and my things with my bad knees? I can’t. I am so afraid, I never sleep now. I’m still in my nightie.”
“I wish I could be with you, but I can’t take the chance. Anthony will have to take over for me until I decide what I can do. I’ll call him as soon as we are off the phone. He’ll sleep at your house tonight.”
“You’re frightened, Carmen, just like me. You have to do something. What if that officer had come to my door?”
“I told you not to answer the door for anyone you don’t know.”
“I’m not young like I used to be. I have the years with me. I am very scared.”
“Let Anthony sleep over tonight or go stay at his house.”
“They’d drive me crazy in a day! Just a minute, please, I have another call. Let me get back to you Carmen.”
“Mrs. DiMaggio, I am with the police. I need to speak with your daughter. I just want to talk to her …” Boucher slammed the one pay phone he’d found back into its cradle. “The woman hung up on me! Since when do people hang up on the police?”
“Oh my God! Carmen, that was the officer.”
“Mom! Take some deep breaths. Watch your heart. I am so sorry. What did he say?”
“He said he wants to talk to you. He has a family, he said.”
Carmen fought to keep the tears from her mother. She bit her index finger before she could answer. “I have a plan, Mom. Try to stay calm till Anthony arrives. I’m fine.”
“Oh dear, the police car just pulled into my driveway.”
“Mom, is it the same cop?”
“No, the car door says Laval police.”
“Mom, before you answer the door, do not tell the police that the prowler was the cop after me. Just say your neighbors called you about a prowler. Do you get that, Mom? Me being a witness to the shooting cannot get out! Mom?”
“I hear you, Carmen. Just a prowler, just a prowler. My doorbell is ringing.”
“Keep me on the line while you speak to him.”
Any hope that her mother would get rid of the officer quickly evaporated when she began to tell the officer her age. He complimented her quick action. Then she complimented him for his efficiency. Carmen left teeth marks on her bottom lip, waiting for the call to end. She let go of her lip when she heard her mother wish the officer a good day. As soon as Carmen heard the door close, relieved, she shouted into the phone. “Good work!”
“A wonderful man. He has three sons.”
“I heard, Mom.” Carmen hid her exasperation. “Do not open the door for anyone but Anthony. I’ll call you in an hour.”
“I haven’t been able to read my Gazette or do my WonderWords either.”
“Go and lie down, Mom. Take it easy.”
“How can I?”
“Try for me. I told you I have a plan.”
“I’ll use the sofa. I want to keep an eye out.”
“Alright.” Carmen nodded to Caitlin who had listened in. “I can’t hide any longer. I can’t think at work. I can’t sleep. Now I have Mom to worry about. I have to call that detective. She was fair, you said.”
“It’s too late now. I’ll make the call for you, tomorrow first thing. You take the phone and explain.”
“I have to get to work.”
“Half an hour late, Carmen. You have to come forward, before the worst happens.”
Chapter Eighteen
In the kitchen, sitting across from one another, Damiano ate leftover barbeque with Jeff. Apparently their son Luke was busy studying for his last exam. “And you believed him?”
“It’s chemistry. He’s shooting for a perfect score.”
“That’s different. Luke has the head for math, like you. My whole day went south, and I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice was almost a squawk, and Jeff knew when to back off. “I won’t sleep tonight. I should sleep in the guest room because I want to be at the division early.”
“I’d rather have you with me, but I understand. Toni …”
“Not to worry about pills – I need my wits about me tomorrow.”
Tuesday night, Damiano saw two-ten, three-nineteen, and three fifty-two. She gave up on sleep and stood under the shower at four thirty. At six, she was alone in her office ready to figure out the stalemate with Matte. Instead, Damiano stared at the fourteen files that Chief Donat’s secretary had piled on her desk. She wasn’t just the interim chief of Major Crimes; she was in charge of all six floors: Homicide, Narcotics and Domestic Violence, all of it. She sat down, lowering her chin and drawing out the lines in her neck. The full burden weighed down on her. She thought of the mountains of paperwork that would tie her to that desk, the stress of the work and the loss of her freedom. She hadn’t worked for her lieutenancy to become a petty bureaucrat and old before her time. Damiano had intended to bring Matte along with her and dump some of the stress and most of the paperwork on him. Matte was a natural with notes, better than a computer because he had a good head.
Instead, he had become a threat. Damiano kept a book of quotes in her night table and remembered one she particularly liked: Lewis Carroll had said, “It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” What Pierre had said to her, he couldn’t take back. Had all his resentment been festering for years? How could she ever trust him? The bitter truth of his words struck her like a bullet. She had to figure something out because she feared Pierre as much as she needed him. She hurried through the files, noted what she felt should be done and left her comments on yellow notes affixed to each file. On her way out, she deposited the files with Donat’s secretary and told her to make note of all calls, but hold them while she was at the morgue. She intended to turn off her phone. The crime scene was a sacred place. The victim deserved her full attention.
She arrived at Parthenais, the Montreal city morgue, before eight. Calling in favors from the senior pathologist wasn’t something she wanted to do just yet. Instead, she filed in with the early birds through the scrutiny of metal detectors that Pierre Elliot Trudeau International Airport would envy. She called Pathology, and an assistant sent the chief coroner’s private elevator up for her. The elevator was used by grieving families when they came in to identify bodies. On the way down, Damiano leaned against the elevator wall as a new surge of fear ran up her back. When she stepped out, she felt unsteady, wounded by Matte and the truth he had thrown in her face. She would lose her partner and perhaps her job if he filed a report. Lost, too, was what she’d thought of herself. She decided to wait for him at the elevator.
Four minutes later, he emerged in the clothes he’d worn yesterday. “I spent the night at the hospital.” His stubble added strength to his face, but his eyes were stained red and heavy. He looked at the floor when he finally spoke. “The one kind thing I will remember my father doing was rushing my mother to the hospital. Her speech is affected; she’s in and out of it, but the physician says she might make a good recovery.”
“I’m glad for you, Pierre.”
“Me too. My mother was always good to me. No matter what, she was on my side. I never get to see her much. My father dogs her side, even when she’s watching television, or shopping. It’s weird. He thinks he’s so strong, but she’s his rock. He hates being alone. And he thinks I’m the weak link in the family.”
“About yesterday, Pierre, I have a plan. You have time coming to you. Take the time to be with your mother. You can work the case with me from the outside. Officially, I’ll take on Stephen Galt. He’s a decent cop.”
“But he’s a homophobe and already working the fatal stabbing on Ontario Street. This is my plan. My father wants to stay with my mother and sleep at the hospital. It might be guilt. It doesn’t matter what it is. Mom’s not alone. My sister and I will share the nights if he needs a break. I work the case. You’ve never met Dylan. My name may never come up. No harm, no foul. If and when it does, I will recuse myself and take the fallout.”
“About yesterday …”
Matte raised his head and faced Damiano. “I was so angry with you, with Dylan, with all the shit I’ve done for you over the years that I struck out. I’m not a snitch. If I had been, I would have turned you in long ago for various irregularities. I felt, I feel you owe me a solid. Still do, but we are a team, just somewhat different now, porous I suppose. I don’t have many friends. I always thought you were one of them, although it’s irked me that you always believed you were the better cop. You’re not, you know. We’re good at different things. You earn the medals – I print the murder books. I figured out last night that you need me as much as I need you on this job.”
Damiano parried. “I always believed you had my back, Pierre.”
“I thought you trusted me. I remember reading that betrayal begins with trust. When I saw you waver, I lost it. Maybe it’s good we fought. At least, we’ll never be a comfortable cliché.”
Damiano received the message. She said nothing, but offered her hand. “Let’s go and see Belmont. By the way, you should see the files I have to work.”
“And?”
“I’ll need your help.”
“Of course you will unless you take a printing class.”
All talk stopped as they rounded the corner and stood outside the main examining room. The autopsy theatre was just behind it. An assistant pathologist appeared and ushered them into a small room used for lunch or breaks, with two tables and chairs. The only addition was a single sink. The assistant had no news. Damiano waited for her to leave before she spoke. “Pierre, did you ever meet any of Dylan’s family?”
“No, but I know that his father lives in Richmond, British Columbia, and his mother, Mississauga, Ontario. He had a brother, but I have no clue about him. I’ll do the search, but you should make the calls – that way I can stay off the radar.”
“I’ll make the calls after we have news from Belmont. I hope we have something soon. This place makes me uneasy.” Damiano would never admit to squeamishness.. Still, nausea was not the only reason she stopped attending autopsies. A weariness had come over her as she observed the work of scalpels, saws and scales. In the end, a victim is reduced to nothing more than a clue. That idea saddened Damiano and reduced her energy. She was lost in thought and didn’t see that Dr. Belmont had opened the examining room door, carrying his Thermos.
He was dressed in his usual spotless whites. The detectives knew he left his rubber apron behind when he came out to converse with them. He made a motion, from an old habit, to run his hand through his hair and settled on a temple scratch. What thinning hair he had on top of his head had been carefully combed. He didn’t want to appear foolish, possibly leaving a few hairs standing on end. He was a tall man with a slight stoop. His hands were long and slender, like a pianist’s. He must be sixty, Damiano thought. “Let’s sit in the examining room. This room is for pathologists and their assistants.” Since there were only two stools in that room, Matte stood. Belmont walked back to the theatre, and reached in for a plastic bag. “I thought you’d want these for the next of kin. I folded the clothes. The smaller items, a gold chain and a leather band, are in a smaller bag inside. You’ll send these to forensics.”
Instead, Matte took the items and held them for a second before he put the bag on the floor beside him. “Not much left at the end is there?”
“There never is,” Belmont said. “You’ll have a copy of my final notes tomorrow. We’ve sent off the tox panel. The liver tests indicate the victim died sometime Sunday morning. The June heat precipitated the body’s breakdown, so I can’t narrow the TOD more precisely than Sunday morning. The nail clippings, fibers, and skin cells found on the clothes have been sent to the lab. The manner of death is asphyxiation. I did find petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. In clinical terms, the victim died from carotid restraint, anoxia, a type of chokehold in your terms. Such a fatal wound leaves few external markings. I removed the hyoid bone and examined the laryngeal skeleton. I have rarely seen such a clean fracture of the larynx. The victim had no chance. His airway was cut off. The angle of the fracture suggests the assailant was taller than the victim.
“Generally, in such cases, I’d find scratches on both sides of the neck, mostly from thumb scratches. The thumb is the strongest digit. These markings are made by the victim trying to fight for oxygen by loosening the hold. I find it curious there were none. There is a mustard bruise on the front of the victim’s neck, the location of the attack. Usually, a victim thrashes during such an attack; the irony is that he or she kicks out, away from their assailant in a fruitless attempt to escape. As pathologists, we’re left with very few injury clues that would assist us in our work.
“I’m not a detective, but I have to tell you this murder was committed with the precision of a scalpel. A hate crime normally involves a mass of injuries, an attempt to wipe out the victim. A jilted lover takes out his hurt with what we call steel-tipped vengeance. From what Dumont tells me, this crime does not have the earmarks of a random. From my examination, there was no evidence of sexual interference. If fact, there was no sexual activity in the last seventy-two hours preceding death. Most victims are murdered by people they know. This victim certainly appears to have known his killer. Otherwise, I’d have more to give you.
“In my medical opinion, the assailant knew how to kill. You might be looking at a cop, a fireman, a physician, a UFC fighter or a martial arts black belt. The list grows. You have a well-executed crime, detectives. The tox results will take a few days. I should get back to my work. Any questions?”
“Would you expect any bruising on the perp?”
“Perhaps on the inside of the forearm, but if this assailant is as smart as I believe he is, he’d have worn a jacket to protect his arm. In fact, you are dealing with a cold-blooded killer. This young man deserved a better fate. That’s my medical opinion, with a personal note. Such a waste.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish I were of more help. I did test for HIV. I should have results in five days.”
Damiano turned to Matte but saw no reaction, no sign of shock. When they were alone, she spoke up. “You’ll have to be tested, for your own sake.”
“Give me some credit. I have myself tested regularly.”
“Good.”
“I think you should commandeer a murder room. I’ll set up the wall. I have a photo of Dylan. I’ll begin the family search. We also have photos of the cast. It’s a start. I’ll have cast members I want to see at the division.”
Once they were back at the division, Matte found a room and began the work. “We need a second interview with Matthew Allen. Find out if people saw him around the stage. We already know he knew his way around Cleo’s. He appears for now to be the last person to see Dylan alive.”
“I agree. I have to collect my calls from Donat’s secretary. She didn’t approve of me blocking my calls. She’s a little martinet, that one! Such loyalty to Donat is admirable, but …. Doesn’t matter.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t take calls, Lieutenant. There was one very insistent caller, a Caitlin Donovan, a professor at Concordia.”
“How did she get my private number?” Damiano ignored the tutorial. In the future, if push came to shove, she’d push. She was the interim chief after all!
“I have no idea, Lieutenant.” Denise Roy, Donat’s secretary, emphasized the title.
Damiano recalled giving it to Donovan, but months ago. “Thank you for the good work. I see you’ve taken care of the files, too.” Damiano examined the office that was larger than the chief’s. She saw that Madame Roy made copies of, it appeared, everything. The walls in the entire office were filled to the ceiling with paperwork. The Green Party could build a solid case against wanton destruction of forestry.
