Middlemen, page 9
“Where was the body before the fire started?”
“Face up under the right side of the pile; two shots to the face.”
“Head or feet pointed to the edge?”
“Shoes, actually. Expensive shoes.”
“His body angled one way or the other, or ninety degrees from the edge?”
“Not angled, more or less at ninety degrees. What are you getting at, Mac?”
“I don’t know. I just think it makes sense to consider . . . if you’re going to kill someone and leave them here — why here, why like that?”
“A ritual or symbol?”
“A consideration.” MacNeice lifted Jack back into the car and helped him settle. “Stay here, boy. I won’t be long.” When he turned back to Aziz, she was smiling.
Around them, firefighters were busy dismantling the auxiliary lighting and rolling up hoses. Turning to Aziz, MacNeice asked, “Wasn’t there something else?”
“Yes, human remains entangled in the oak’s roots, and a metal object that looks like a crescent moon embedded in one root.”
“Let’s go there first, give these people a chance to clear up.” They stepped over and around the charred oak limbs. The leaves that remained identifiable disintegrated underfoot. When they stood at the divide of the trunk, MacNeice was taken aback. “This thing was massive — five feet or more in diameter? That hole goes down six or seven feet . . . an incalculable loss.”
“Crew chief from vfd said everyone in Vineland knows this tree. People come here for their wedding photos. He’s a landscaper in his off time; says it’s a white oak, more than three hundred years old.”
“A noble tree cleaved by heaven . . .” MacNeice whispered, laying his palm for a moment on the inside of the trunk, likely one of the first times its core had felt a human touch. “It fell toward the view . . .” He climbed the torn trunk and looked down to see an elegantly shaped metal smile emerging from a root. Partially caked with mud and ash, its form gave it away. “That’s a gorget. Romans wore them to protect their necks in battle. But much later it was used to identify officers and offered no protection at all. Worse, for a sharpshooter, the gorget was an ideal target.”
He brushed the metal clear and used his Maglite to illuminate the surface. “Come close. Can you see it?”
She climbed up beside him and held on to his shoulder for balance, “Not really.”
He redirected the beam to rake across the metal. “How about now?”
“Yes,” she said, excitedly. “But what is it?”
“A royal coat of arms.” He tried to free the gorget, but the root held it fast. “Where are the remains?”
“Down to the left.” Aziz climbed over the broken trunk and straddled the exposed trench. “Right there, between those two large roots; it’s a jawbone.”
MacNeice knelt on the split trunk. Emerging from the earth, with most of its teeth intact, was a lower jaw. He scanned the ground around it, but the skull and body, if there, remained hidden. MacNeice stepped off to the side and gazed out to Lake Ontario. The sun had found the port side of a lake freighter heading for Dundurn Bay; the curls of its wake were etched in sunlight.
“Judging by the teeth, the owner may have been fairly young,” Aziz suggested.
“Probably . . . assuming that’s his gorget, an almost full set of teeth is remarkable. Back then, dentistry relied on a set of iron pliers.”
“A soldier, then? Buried by comrades or family. But a sniper would’ve taken the gorget as a trophy, no?”
“Yes. And he wouldn’t have taken the time to bury him.” MacNeice turned back to Aziz and smiled. “Not the worst place to greet eternity . . .” Looking down at the jaw, he added, “If it’s from the early 1800s, Sheilagh Thomas, the professor from Brant University, should come in. She helped us a few years ago.”
“That’s the forensic anthropologist who took a shine to you . . .” Aziz said teasingly.
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.” MacNeice shook his head and walked off through the maze of oak branches to the woodpile. The sweet-and-sour smell of burnt flesh, mixed with that of the still steaming and crackling tree, intensified with every step.
While the firefighters had removed the blackened trunks partially covering the body, the remainder served as a barricade a few feet away.
Hands folded peacefully over its stomach, the body was precisely perpendicular to the ridge. The details of the face were reduced to a black crust, the lipless mouth framed by exposed teeth the colour of nicotine. There were two entry wounds, one above the left eye, the other below. “The first round rendered the second unnecessary . . .”
While the clothing on the front of the body had disintegrated, under the hip bones, the legs, and the arms, a suit, shirt, and trousers remained intact. There the exposed flesh was seared salmon pink.
“The right shoe wasn’t torched . . . its laces are as he tied them,” Aziz said.
“Fiza, put your doctorate to work here — agree or disagree with my early morning, where’s-my-coffee thesis.”
“Ah, the coffee; you would’ve hated it. Right, I’m listening.”
MacNeice smiled. “We’re not dealing with crazed killers. While it would simplify things if this was the crew from the forest, the weapon is different, the body didn’t vanish, it was laid out here to be discovered. The forest was amateurish; this is professional.”
“Agreed on all points, but one.” She turned to him. “We agree the other was botched; John Doe was likely the intended victim when the unfortunate Dr. Moore appeared. But the play could still be the same; the puppet master’s simply using new puppets.”
“Any thoughts about where the first two might be?”
“Not yet. But it’s human nature: if you’ve made a total bollocks of your first effort, you go overboard with the second.”
“Meaning?”
“Those first two bodies have vanished forever. It’s the only way the puppet master saves face.”
“We’re making a lot of assumptions — it might have been a spur-of-the-moment decision — but then how would you entice someone into a forest in the middle of the night while carrying a shotgun?”
“Precisely; it was premeditated. Whether their strategy was poor or they hadn’t done site research to be certain they wouldn’t be interrupted, they had to adjust on the fly. In contrast, this was executed perfectly — laid out under the trees . . .” Aziz shrugged.
“Save for the lightning. And yet, after a day in this heat, the smell would definitely bring the cops.” MacNeice drove his hands into his pockets. “Whoever did this knew he’d be found.”
[23]
Richardson stood in the road in her distinctive linen coat. Hands on hips, she took a deep breath and exhaled. “Apart from that familiar pong, Detectives, this is divine.” Swinging an arm slowly in front of her as if to claim the horizon, the chief pathologist continued. “And yet, even a splendid view can come to this . . .” With that, her reverie evaporated. “While Junior pulls our kit together, let’s see what you’ve found.”
MacNeice suggested they first check the older remains and pointed to the base of the fallen oak. Richardson was wearing sturdy oxfords and, despite being much older than him, she marched across the field, easily negotiating the heaved divots, her eyes remaining focused on the split trunk.
“They’re on the far side, Mary; you’ll have to climb over. Watch yourself.”
“Hah. You mistake me for a city girl, Mac. This is heaven to me — my bones jump with a familiar joy.” She climbed up the base of the trunk and dropped down to the other side. “Oh my . . . how lovely.”
When they reached her, Richardson was already squatting beside the metal crescent. “Do you know what this beauty is, either of you?”
“A gorget?” Aziz answered, giving MacNeice a nudge.
Richardson swung around to her. “My, aren’t you the dark horse, Aziz. Yes, you are correct.” She turned back, leaned closer, and spit on the exposed crescent. Taking a tissue from her pocket, she began rubbing. “There. That’s better.”
“What do you have, Mary?”
“The regimental engraving — see here.” She moved her hand away. “VII TH above that wreath, and below it, GREN — Seventh Grenadiers. The other side will have the regiment’s name, though someone will need to be careful extricating it.”
Aziz was amazed. “I’m surprised it’s so shiny, like silver, now that you —”
“Spat on it, yes. But while like silver, this one is not. This is gilt brass . . . applied with mercury, a process called fire gilding. Appropriate, given the circumstance.” She touched the piece affectionately. “Of course, that centrepiece is the coat of arms of George III . . .”
Richardson’s English accent was educated but decidedly not posh. And while her manner could be brusque, MacNeice assumed that must be due to the accumulated weight of four decades as a pathologist. Her accent contrasted with Fiza’s, which was softer, more lyrical. “Posh,” she would say mockingly.
He refocused his attention on the task. “The jawbone’s on the other side of the roots, to your left, but we haven’t disturbed the ground to search for the rest of the remains.”
Aziz wondered aloud as they climbed over the root, “Out of interest, Doctor Richardson, how did you know that was a gorget?”
“Ah, well, somewhere in the heap of stone where I grew up, we had one, and the corresponding sword, to boot. They belonged to my great — I always lose track — my paternal grandfather, nine or ten greats ago. He fought in the Napoleonic Wars. My father would let me put the gorget around my neck and go off to the barnyard to terrorize the chickens with my sword . . . While I’ve never had authority issues, our chickens certainly did.” She manoeuvred around the exposed trench. “My brother has that farm now, but I doubt he’s been in the attic in years.”
She squatted down, this time with her gloves on. She picked up the jawbone and studied it carefully, turning it over, checking the remaining teeth to see if they were loose. “You see here?” She pointed to the narrow tips at either end of the jawbone. “These are the temporomandibular joints . . .” she put a free finger on her own jaw just under the ear, to indicate where they connect. “They’re held in place by the masticatory muscles, elastic bands that allow you to —” she opened and closed her mouth “ — jaw, jaw, jaw.” Turning the bone on its side, she continued, “Now, the muscles are obviously lost, but what’s interesting is that where the jaw rested, well, both ends are relatively clean . . . My hypothesis is that when this magnificent tree was destroyed, the mandible was wrenched from its resting place on the skull.”
“Should Junior start digging?” Aziz asked.
“No . . .” Richardson laid the jawbone down and stood up. “Much as he’d enjoy that, we must remain in our millennium . . .” She turned to MacNeice. “You’ll recall Dr. Thomas, the forensic anthropologist from Brant University?”
“I do, yes.”
“This will make her very happy. I’ll call if you like, or you could . . .”
“No, I think you’ll be able to describe it best.” MacNeice felt Aziz’s eyes on him.
“I’ll assume a patrol car will remain on site until she arrives. We can’t have a coyote wandering off with that mandible, can we.” Not waiting for an answer, Richardson continued. “For now, Junior will rig a tent over the upturned root ball. Luckily, there’s no shortage of logs with which to secure it.” Richardson looked out toward the lake and sighed. “Shall we press on?”
As they approached the woodpile, Junior appeared, garbed in a hazmat suit and carrying two large cases. MacNeice and Aziz stood back as Richardson took close-up photographs of the corpse, paying particular attention to the head wounds. When it came time to roll the body over onto a clean white plastic sheet, she suggested the detectives turn their attention back to the view.
Richardson provided reportage. “His trousers, what’s left of them, have fallen away. There’s one back pocket . . . empty but for a small piece of paper . . . if you have an evidence bag?”
“I’ll get one from the car,” Aziz said.
“No need. Junior will put it in one of ours.” Together they laid the upper torso down. As it sank, a wheezing sound escaped from the blackened mouth. “Internal gases at work . . . very unpleasant.”
Handing the bagged slip of paper to MacNeice, Junior said, “Looks like a Wi-Fi access code.”
“Dr. Richardson, could you remove the right shoe? It may be traceable.” Aziz made the request without turning around. “If you could bag that as well, please.”
They stood with their backs to the action. MacNeice watched Jack, his head on his front paws, which were draped over the Chevy’s open window. Aziz looked off to the lake.
“Brioni; not cheap . . .” Junior said, bagging the shoe.
“No need to look, but I have his head in my hands,” Richardson said. “Impossible to say which round came first. The entry above the eye exited through the parietal bone. The other, through his cheekbone, jettisoned the back of his skull. But those remains aren’t present.”
“He wasn’t shot here . . .”
“Correct. Forensics will comb this field. If they’re nearby, they’ll find them. I believe the weapon was a high-calibre handgun with high-velocity rounds.”
“His age, any other details?”
“Possibly midforties; could be younger. We’ll learn more back at the lab. Junior, measure his height — he’s Caucasian, roughly a hundred and seventy pounds, and fit.”
“Five foot eleven, Chief.” Junior pressed the button and the metal tape zipped noisily into its shell.
[24]
By the time Clarence woke up at 10:14 a.m., he’d thought of another way to handle the current situation.
The best way to survive was to make himself indispensable. That sounded simple enough, but it took him the rest of the morning to figure out how to go about doing so. Once he had, he immediately headed to the client’s office.
Approaching the door, he walked with a distinct lift in his step. No question, meeting One and Two had been challenging. Within seconds their banter had overtaken his and he felt tiny in the back seat. Clarence had convinced himself that he was only a smartass around incompetent people, and he’d been surprised to discover that other men willing to kill for money weren’t always stupid. After all, Clarence killed for money, and he wasn’t. Even his father, who despised him, would have to admit he was clever. Useless, sure, but clever.
He stood at the door to the inner sanctum, took a deep breath — knocked twice — and entered the black room. Inside, he crossed swiftly to the desk and offered his hand to his client. “Sir, it went very well. What’s next?”
The client tucked in his chin and studied Clarence; he was wiping his hands with a tissue. “You seem . . . a changed man, Mr. Blow. How do you account for that?”
“Thanks to you and your brother, sir, we have two professionals. So I’d like to propose that we expand the business.” He sat down and gently slapped the arms of the chair to emphasize his point.
“I gather you haven’t heard the news today?”
“What news?” The old fears began to surface; Clarence held them at bay with a smile.
“Lightning struck a tree out in Lincoln; that tree hit some other dead trees, and the whole thing went up.”
Clarence felt the man’s gaze burrowing a hole in his skull, but he remained calm, waiting for what was coming next.
“You see . . . they found a body under the burnt trees. It’d been shot twice and was burned, but not completely.”
Clarence surrendered to an emotion rising in his stomach, something he knew would only get worse if he tried to stifle it. It came out as a chortle that might have been mistaken as gas, but in seconds he was laughing hysterically. Gaining control of himself, he took a deep breath, wiped the tears from his eyes, and pulled himself up in the chair. “What are the chances? That’s as Canadian as a puck in the teeth.”
“So you’re not concerned?” The client leaned forward on his elbows. “Clearly you find the situation hilarious, but you also see how it’s unfortunate?”
“Unfortunate, sir?” His eyebrows shot up with incredulity. “Not at all. What they’ve found is a dead man with two holes in his head. He had no identification on him, and his features are probably gone. I think it’s genius. When you call in a lightning strike to finish the job, that’s divine intervention — but don’t ask me to repeat it.”
“Well, frankly, I’m impressed by your confidence. I’d assumed you’d be contrite, prostrate with failure . . . But I think I see why you’re so ebullient, though I wouldn’t have gotten there on my own.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” He let the acknowledgement sink in before adding, “It’s important that the money be in the accounts by three p.m. I’ll take mine, assuming you have it ready?” He waited for the nod, and when it came, he continued, “Can we discuss how to expand our enterprise?”
“Frankly, I need a moment to adjust my opinion of you, Blow. The money has already been transferred, and yours is here.” He sat back in his chair. “Tell me, Clarence, how you think our enterprise works.”
Hearing his first name lowered Blow’s heart rate but didn’t slow his mind. “You have contacts. The contacts have problems that require solving. I provide the solutions. With our new hires, I can provide the solution to your satisfaction. Your contacts don’t know I exist. Our new hires don’t know you, I assume. And neither I nor our new hires know your contact. Finally, the target doesn’t know any of us . . . though presumably they know why they were targeted.”
“Succinctly and accurately put. Go on, son.”
Being addressed as “son” disarmed him. Clarence turned an emotional moment into thoughtful consideration about how to proceed. “Sir, a great accountant keeps the ‘for your eyes only’ information in his head — not on computer or in a file folder. There isn’t and never will be a record of our transactions. With that assurance, you can expand your network with confidence.”
