A Dream of Death (3 page)

Something had triggered him. We had no evidence that he
searched the residences so it must have been in plain sight. He had either
hidden it or taken it with him.

Unless it was something she had said.

But would he still have killed her then?

To protect himself, perhaps.

There was no sign of a struggle. It must have been something
he realized after she was dead. Something on the nightstand where he put the
knife.

I opened the drawer and found a positive pregnancy test.

So he killed in the dark. The lights came on only after the
victim was dead to facilitate his morbid removal of the victim’s flesh.

I looked back at the body and saw what I had seen before, a
slim, blonde haired female. Five and a half feet tall give or take and no more
than a hundred-twenty pounds. Lying down, there were no outward signs of
pregnancy and likely none while standing either. She was still in her first
trimester, only far enough along to have taken the first test.

“I’ve got the info you wanted.”

I jumped at the sound of Red’s voice, so lost in my
investigation that I didn’t hear him hammering his way up the stairs. Graceful
he was not. I closed the drawer before I turned around.

“No registered long guns, not that he has to anyway.
Self-registering gun registry at its best. Why pay to register firearms you
don’t legally have to register?”

I gave Red a simple look, one that said quit waxing
political and get to the point.

“A Sig Sauer P229, standard issue. Looks like he bought
himself one for some off-duty training.”

“He’s got it on him,” I said. “Where is he now?”

Red looked surprised. “He was sitting on the back deck with
his Sergeant, smoking a pack and drinking a beer last I saw him. We haven’t let
him back in since we got here.”

“Let’s go,” I said, already on my way downstairs.

I exited out the patio doors behind the dining room table
and walked out to the deck, bathed in the faint glow of dawn. A young man in
civilian clothes sat beside an older man in a St. Thomas police uniform, three
chevrons on his shoulders.

“Constable Franchini?” I addressed him as an officer,
providing him with something solid to grasp onto. He leaned forward and nodded.
“My name is Lincoln Munroe, I’m a detective with Western Region.” He nodded
again.

I watched him like prey watches a predator. He sat in a
patio chair with a curved mesh back, quite comfortable by appearance, yet he
leaned forward away from the back of the chair. It wasn’t a comfortable
posture, sitting in that manner took more effort than leaning back or all the
way forward. He sat with his arms against his sides, elbows beyond the vertical
line of his back, barely moving his left arm as he lifted his beer and smoked
his cigarette, both held in the same hand, a technique I doubt I could master.
The right arm, the arm facing me, stayed fixed.

That’s where the gun was.

I considered drawing my weapon on him but decided against
it. He wasn’t looking to harm anyone other than himself or the man responsible
for the murder of his wife.

“Derek,” he said after a slight pause, a swig and a haul.
“No Constable, I’m done with the force.”

I didn’t ask, not wanting to contribute to his feelings of
hopelessness. I didn’t have to ask.

“Sworn to protect and serve. Fuck that. Couldn’t protect
her. None of you fucks could either. We’re a joke, garbage men. We wait for the
mess to be made then we come along and clean it up.”

There was nothing I could say to that. Policing is largely
reactive, and the proactive work we do—drug busts, prostitution stings, and the
tips we act on—rarely relate to murderers.

“Derek, I need you to give me the gun.”

He jerked his head toward me and his right arm moved further
back, trying to cover what I hadn’t needed to see.

“It’ll be easier if you give it to us, Derek. You won’t use
it on yourself. Maybe you wanted to, but your beliefs won’t allow it.” The
Bible was his, I knew it now. “We have a team of detectives on this guy. You
won’t find him before we do.”

His eyes turned to his feet, tears forming. “What do I have
to live for? She’s dead, she’s fucking dead and she was...”

He cut himself off, unable to say the word he had barely had
time to absorb.

“I know.” I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder.
“You won’t kill yourself, I know that Derek. And if you kill him, you’ll spend
the next twenty-five years in jail. Not a good place for a cop to be. We’ll
catch him, I swear to God we’ll catch him. Now please, give me the gun.”

I slid my hand from his shoulder and placed it in front of
him, breaking his line of sight. He reached his right hand back and removed the
pistol from his waistband, placing it on my open hand with the same gentle care
used when passing a sharp knife. His Sergeant sat there, mouth agape.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Derek said, his head still hung
low. “I don’t want them knowing I’m weak.”

“You’re not,” I said, then dropped the magazine from the
pistol and racked the slide back, ejecting the chambered round. “You’re human.
There’s not a man out there who wouldn’t think of taking his own life after
finding what you found, and quite a few who wouldn’t have been able to stop
themselves.”

The tear were flowing faster now, dripping onto the wood
beneath him and beading on the freshly sealed surface.

“Take some time,” I said. “Get some sleep. I’ll need you at
the station this afternoon. Here’s my number,” I said as I slipped him a card.

I handed his Sergeant the gun and magazine then pointed to
the round on the ground in front of me. I lowered my voice, hoping Derek
wouldn’t hear me. “Make sure this gets secured and keep an eye on him,
alternative is taking him to the hospital under the MHA.”

A nod was all I needed. The Mental Health Act allowed police
to apprehend a person and transport them to the nearest psychiatric facility if
they were deemed to be a danger to themselves or others. Derek’s grief and response
to it were natural, he needed to be with people who cared about him not stuffed
in a small room awaiting a psychiatrist. As long as someone stayed with him, I
wasn’t worried.

A familiar voice from behind me let me know Kara was here. I
briefed her on the details and the inevitable question came, the one I had been
asking myself.

“Why the guilt?”

“I don’t know.” I looked around as if hoping a clue would
present itself. “Maybe he or his wife couldn’t have kids, maybe he lost a baby,
maybe-”

“Maybe he just likes kids.”

She had a point. None of the murders had happened in homes
with children. The first victim had kids but they had long ago moved out.

“Pro-lifer?”

She cast a glare of pure stupidity in my direction. “A
pro-life murderer?”

“You’d be surprised how many people who are pro-life are
also for the death penalty.”

Kara appeared lost in a tailspin of faulty logic. “We’ll
figure it out once we catch him, I guess.”

All I could do was nod and hope it happened soon.

Kara and I spent two hours scouring the crime scene while
getting in the way of the Forensics team, who in turn got in our way. I didn’t
expect to find anything. We never had and I knew little had changed. What we
were looking for was evidence of the one thing that had changed, the lipstick
message. The killer had taken the lipstick, presumably the victim’s, with him
when he left.

The thought crossed our minds that the killer was a female,
purse carried, lipstick inside. But nothing pointed to this. All of the
profiling that had been done pointed to a male. Female serial killers were a
rarity and those that existed weren’t keen on targeting women. But regardless
of our beliefs until we knew for certain that the killer was male we couldn’t
rule out that we were chasing a woman. Or perhaps a couple? The physical force
required to subdue the women was more in keeping with a male, as was the
brutality of the killings. But what if the male had an accomplice?

Questions that we couldn’t answer filled our minds and conversations
both at the scene and in our office following our return to the detachment,
fresh beverages and lunch in hand.

“It has to be a man, everything points to a male.”

Kara was certain, and while I strongly agreed with her, I
held onto my doubts.

“Prove to me that Sasquatch doesn’t exist.”

“I can’t. I just know it doesn’t.”

“Why?”

“We would have discovered it by now.”

I smiled. The argument of skeptics. Not that I believed that
cryptids—the Sasquatch, the yeti, the chupacabra—roamed the earth. I just kept
asking myself, how can we prove that something doesn’t exist? I didn’t believe
in a higher power but believed in the possibility that one existed if only
because it had not been proven not to.

“We have no evidence. How can we rule out a female killer with
no evidence to the contrary?”

“I just . . . have a feeling.”

“Good,” I replied through a mouthful of tea. I swallowed
harder than I should have and started coughing. Red faced and eyes filled with
tears I composed myself. “Hunches are important, you’d be surprised where a
hunch can take you. Just don’t let it blind you from other possibilities.”

Kara nodded, unable to speak due to her laughing at my
misfortune as I began coughing again.

With only a slice of pizza left in the box and no takers
amongst us, I closed it up and moved it to the very corner of my desk. The
single piece of pizza was the only thing that held it in balance.

I tore the top page of my calendar and revealed the page
below it: June 8, 2011—remuneration; payment or reward. I doubted I would find
a way to use that one today.

“Twelve forty-two,” Kara said aloud, a habit of hers I was
still getting used to. “Derek will be in at fourteen hundred for his
interview.”

I nodded, thinking of the pain he must be in and wondering
if his healing process had even begun. How could it? The love of his young life
lay on an autopsy table, and the home they shared was under police guard and
taped off with a yellow line.

With my years in homicide I knew enough to remark at the
stupidity of my prior thought. The family of a murder victim would not be able
to begin their healing process, until the killer had been brought to justice—be
it rotting in a pine box or in a jail cell.

Another detective had been tasked with speaking to the
victim’s parents and younger sister, informing them of the death and trying to
gather any information they could. Dupuis had been born and raised in London,
where she met Franchini at a college party. They hit it off, began dating, he
became a police officer, she an accountant. They decided to move south of the
city, closer to Franchini’s work and away from the high taxes imposed upon
Londoners. It was a move that led to her death. Her family could offer very
little: she had no enemies, no jealous ex-boyfriends, no one who would want to
do her harm. They couldn’t begin to understand it, they didn’t want to.

“I want you to do the interview,” I said.

“Are you sure? I’m more for interrogations, I don’t know if
I’ll be able to handle a grieving widower.”

“Trust me, Kara, you’ll do fine. I wouldn’t give it to you
if I thought you’d screw it up.”

“Thanks.” There was the smile that could brighten our dank
little corner of the world. It had become a rarity although I could not say
that I smiled more often, the weight of this case was bearing down on us both.
Perhaps it was time for two titans to shrug.

* * *

I had sent Kara off with a pat and the back and some words
of encouragement then sat staring at the new set of pictures for almost an
hour. I walked down to the interview room and listened to Kara and Derek
talking. Both were crying, going through the box of Kleenex left on the table
like someone was going to take it away. Maybe I’d been an ass for sending Kara
in there, even though I knew she could handle it and that it would make her a
better investigator. She was strong. No one could have survived that interview.
I picked up another box of tissues, knocked on the door then entered and
apologized for my intrusion. I put the box on the table then leaned into Kara.

“I can take over,” I said in a whisper.

“I’m fine,” she told me and gave a near imperceptible wave
of dismissal. Since I wasn’t needed, off to the cafeteria for another green tea
and some lunch.

“Lincoln,” I heard George say, “empty seat.” He pointed at
the seat to his left, ignoring the fact that of the six chairs at the table
only his was occupied.

“In a minute.” I walked to the line to wait for my food. A
few minutes later with an egg salad sandwich and a fresh tea in hand I sat at
the table across from George.

He asked the dreaded question. “How’s it going?”

“Another killing, you probably heard.”

“Yeah, cop’s wife, eh?”

I nodded. “Kara’s interviewing him right now. I got one of
the many detectives we have lying around to scribe it.”

“Watch the video later or read the Cliff’s notes?”

“Both, probably. I just can’t wrap my head around this guy.”

George nodded at me to go on. Our usual banter.

“The first victim, Jennifer Louise McEachern, neé Patterson.
Born July seventeenth, sixty-three, Brandon, Manitoba. Moved to London in
eighty-one, went to UWO and Althouse to become a teacher. Taught high school
until for twenty years, then took a job as vice-principal at East Elgin High
School in Aylmer.”

“South of the city like the rest of them.”

I grunted agreement. “She and her husband, Brent, moved to
Port Stanley. He works at Ford Talbotville. Was going to retire early when the
plant closed its doors this summer but I figure he won’t go back. Kids are out
of the house now, empty nesters.”

“So he found her?”

“Came home after a night shift putting Crown Vics together.
Saw her car and figured she was staying home sick until he found her in bed
with half her neck missing.”

“Fuck.”

My thoughts exactly.

“Pronounced at the scene at 7:51 a.m. You should hear his nine-one-one
tape, poor guy can’t get a word out.”

“What’d she look like? Typical blonde?”

“Not at all. White, homely—big nose, thin lips, narrow eyes,
round face—short and heavy. Greying brown hair in a bob. Forty-seven but looked
older, you know the sun worshiping type, wrinkles and spots.”

“Not your usual serial killer victim then. Nothing sexual?”

“Nope, told you that before. Nude when he found her but
never slept nude. The clothes she was wearing when he left for the night, yoga
pants and an old t-shirt, were never found.”

“What about the second one?”

“Daphne Maria Villanueva, born in Bogota, Colombia, December
twelveth, eighty-five. Colombian minister father and a Canadian missionary
mother. They moved back here a year after she was born. They wanted to get away
from the violence, give her a safe place to grow up.”

“I bet they’re second-guessing that move now.”

Stupid comment but the one almost everyone would make. It
was the truth and it would plague them for the rest of their lives.

“She went to Toronto for university, came back and took a
job at Victoria Hospital as an ER nurse. Got an apartment in Tilsonburg a few
blocks from her parents. Moved her Japanese trauma resident boyfriend, Daisuke
Takahashi, in a few months later.”

“What did mommy and daddy say?”

“Threatened to disown her. No ring and no vows make pious
parents unhappy. I should know.”

George laughed. “It was in-laws with you, eh?

“Which makes it worse.” In my case, it had even led to
pressure from the future wife as well. I had barely escaped having holy water
dripped on my forehead.

“Takahashi got home at 8:15 a.m. and found her dead. His nine-one-one
call is chilling. Perfect medical jargon in crisp, precise English, I don’t
even understand half of what he said. A bilateral incision, excision of flesh,
signs of strangulation. He knew the cut was postmortem, he saw the petechiae in
the eyes, conjuctivae I think he said, knew she’d been strangled. Even said it
was cause of death. Then he broke down and his accent appeared, he started
panicking and questioning who would do something like that.”

“He held together as long as he could, I guess. Maybe hoped
he could keep reality at a distance if he treated her like another patient.

“The rest of the call is in Japanese. I had it translated.
He tells her how much he loves her and then starts praying. He was still
kneeling beside her body when the first officer got there.”

“What about her?”

I knew what he meant. “Young, tall, slim and beautiful. Long
dark hair, Hispanic features, deep brown eyes and perfect teeth.” Her light
brown skin had shone under the florescent lights in the bedroom, giving an
ethereal quality to her final portraits.

Kara came up behind George, her eyes rimmed in red and
audible sniffles coming from her nose. I excused myself from George, told him
to call me if he thought of anything, and went back to the office with Kara.
Kara filled me in on the emotionally devastating interview.

It had gone as expected, with little information gained.
Franchini was working when, at eleven at night, he received a phone call from
Dupuis, a phone call that for a brief few hours changed his life forever.

“I’m pregnant,” was all she had said when he answered the
phone. There was a moment for that to sink in followed by a scream of joy that
startled the hell out of the elderly lady Franchini had been dealing with, a
poor old widow who was certain she heard someone trying to break in through her
balcony—on the eighth floor. Franchini apologized to her and carried on his
conversation with the young mother-to-be. They spoke only for a few minutes
before Franchini had to excuse himself to the prying questions of his
complainant, desperate for some good news to brighten her lonely life.

Franchini finished the call, convinced the old lady she
would be safe and to call nine-one-one again if she had any concerns, and tried
to return to his duties. It was impossible to focus on policing with thoughts
of painting a nursery, buying baby clothes and announcing the good news to all
who would listen.

A coffee and conversation with his sergeant, cruisers pulled
up beside each other in a desolate parking lot, had been enough to get
Franchini sent home, accumulated overtime being used to make up for the few
hours he would escape.

He rushed home, excited to wake Dupuis up and talk through
the night about what they would name the baby, how they would decorate the
room, would they find out the gender, and all the other questions first time
parents face.

He didn’t find her peacefully asleep.

He tried to resuscitate her, tried until the first ambulance
arrived but there was nothing to be done. Two lives had ended that night, and a
third had been destroyed.

We had nothing new to go on other than a timeline. The
coroner had estimated time of death at 1:30 a.m., two and a half hours after
Dupuis had made her last phone call. A more exact time would come after the
autopsy, but the coroner had never been off by more than a half hour.

The interview lasted two hours, countless details of the
life of the victim, her habits, her history, her dreams and fears, her family
and friends, her likes and dislikes, and yet none of it would help us. He had
picked her out of the blue and marked a total stranger for death.

“Go home, get some rest,” I said to Kara after we thanked
Franchini for his time, “you’ve earned it.” Franchini had arrived and left in
the company of his sergeant, now out of uniform. The Sergeant had taken my
words to heart.

“Thanks, Lincoln. Don’t tell anyone about my breakdowns in
there.” She couldn’t make eye contact with me, whether she felt she had failed
me or she was afraid of any human connection bringing back the tears, I
couldn’t tell.

“Policing is only about being tough when you have to be,
Kara. We’re all human, and sometimes a human touch and empathy are what are
really needed. You shouldn’t be anything but proud of how you handled that
interview.”

A feigned smile, no glimmer in the eyes. “Thanks. See you in
a couple of days.”

Hopefully not in the middle of the night. Twenty-two days,
then eight days. There would be more pictures on my desk before the week was
out.

A mandatory day off for us didn’t mean the same for the
killer.