Corkscrew (17 page)

He sniffed. "Well, you're the copper an' all that. If you think it'd be smart, I'll go make some coffee." He turned, then paused. "Got time for a cup?"

"Please," I told him, and he left. I pressed the start button, and the rock video mercifully died. There was a black-and-white flutter, and then the tape began, no titles, no credits, just action.

It was the kind of action I'd seen before as a young marine on liberty in San Diego. A pretty, hard-faced girl was undressing. She turned to the doorway and put her hand over her mouth. A man came in and began to undress, and she started to get excited, and away went the familiar pornographic story. At nineteen I had found them exciting. Now it just looked ugly. I flicked to fast forward and endured the howling of the rock video for thirty seconds before trying again.

They were still together, and I was about to fast forward again when suddenly the camera moved, revealing the open door. A young man came through it. The man on the bed stood up, and then the scenario changed its sexual orientation.

I was looking at it, horrified, not at the action, it was as false in its own way as the girl's seduction earlier. Then I heard Jack Wales's chirpy English voice behind me. "Stone the crows, Chief. You said it was gonna be rough, but this is really rough."

I stood up and pressed the stop button, then the rewind. "It could get a lot rougher, Jack," I told him quietly.

The rock video thrashed around us like a storm, and I flicked the volume down. There was no doubt about it. The boy in the second sequence was the same one who had autographed the picture for Kennie Spenser. Reg Waters.

Chapter Thirteen

Jack was holding two cups of coffee, and he collected himself and handed one to me. I thanked him and sat down on the couch.

Jack cleared his throat harshly. "Where'd you get that tape? I mean, they got some pornie stuff in Parry Sound; nothing serious, you know, but hot. But, I mean . . ." His voice died away, and he took a slurp of his coffee.

"Like I said, it's evidence. If you can forget you saw it, you'll be doing us both a favor."

I sipped my coffee, and my stomach growled, reminding me how long it was since the Mexican food with Freda. I glanced at my watch. Quarter to eleven. Ideal timing if we wanted to raid those bikers and search their camp. They would be awake but off balance from the beer plus the uppers they would be taking to stay awake. It would take a couple hours before I could get a search warrant. I corrected myself—before the OPP could get a warrant. The bikers would be woozy by then, vulnerable.

Jack pumped me, glad I was there. I was more exciting than The Cotton Club. "Sure, I won't say anything, Chief, you know that. But what's it evidence of? Is somebody in town selling this stuff?"

"Yes." It was simpler than the whole answer. "You don't know their name, but it's all got to be kept quiet." Especially the fact that I had appeared on his doorstep with the tape two hours before the police could officially raid the biker's camp, but he didn't have to know that, either.

He gave up on playing detective. Instead, he started telling me about pornie shows he had seen, in the British army, in Hamburg after the war. He described them lovingly while I sipped coffee and nodded and thought about what had to be done.

I set down my cup, and stood up, and retrieved the videotape. "Well, I have to report this. Thanks for the coffee and the use of the machine, Jack."

He stood up with me, smirking. "If you wanna go through the whole thing or if you've got any others, feel free. I mean, anytime, eh."

"I doubt it, but I'll keep it in mind. Meantime, thanks again." I went ahead of him, out to the front door. A station wagon with a canoe on the top was pulling in. "Your lucky night," I told him. "Here's another customer."

"Good. Then I can put the sign off and watch the rest of the movie in peace." He slipped behind the counter of the office as I went out, passing a tired-looking young man in the doorway.

There were two OPP cars outside my police station. I parked beside them, leaving Sam in the car, and went into the office. The two detectives were behind the counter with a new OPP uniformed man. The guard had changed; the kid had gone off shift. The constable looked up officiously. "Yes, sir, something we can do for you?"

I nodded to him and spoke to Kennedy, who was sitting at the counter, looking through the folder that contained my notes. "I've found a connection between the murdered boy and those bikers."

The uniformed man opened his mouth to speak, but Kennedy turned and looked at him, smiling blandly. "Just get the phone if it goes, okay? This is the chief of this place. You're in his office."

The uniformed man gave a sick grin and turned away. Kennedy turned back to me, putting both hands on the countertop. "You've sure got a bee in your bonnet about those bikers," he said.

I took the folder from the counter and flipped to the photograph of the kid. "This kid, he's hanging around with them. I got my hands on a pornie they made. It's got him in it."

Now Werner got up from the desk where he had been writing in his notebook. "Coincidence," he said, but his voice was careful. He didn't disbelieve me. He needed convincing, that was all.

I pulled out the videotape. "This is the tape. The kid's on it. And there's a blond boy hanging around the camp where the bikers are staying. Might be the same kid. He's got something going with the head of the outfit. They were at it while the rest of the gang was in the beer parlor earlier on."

"You mean you wen' into their camp on your own?" Werner asked. He didn't wait for an answer. "You got some neck, fella." He grinned and hung on the obvious hooker. "But you won't have it long if they find out you were up there."

"They didn't. One of them had a video camera and this tape. I souvenired it, and the kid's on it. And another thing, he's also a friend of the Spenser boy, and we all know what happened to him. I figure the bikers did it."

"They could have," Kennedy admitted. "But murder's a bit heavy, even for them. I mean, they could have assaulted the kid and never given it a second thought, but killing him, that's not typical."

"I didn't say I had all the answers," I began, but Werner cut me off again.

"You don't. What you've got is a whole lot more questions." He laughed and then finished his sentence with the word "Chief" tagged on without irony. He had just wiped out my suspension. As long as these two were working, I was back on the case. That was good news.

"Well, there is one other connection. This blond kid—his name is Reg Waters. He's a grandson of the Corbetts, the people whose place was trashed."

"And?" Werner prompted.

"And my dog tracked the dead boy to a boat at their place."

All three of them were looking at me now. Kennedy spoke first. "This is getting complicated," he said. "Like, you say there's footprints in the Corbett place that looked like biker boots. Now we find their grandson hangs around with bikers. The dead kid knew him." He rubbed his hand over his hair wearily. "It's all so goddamn close I can taste it."

"Yeah, but where do we go from here?" Werner said.

"You know's well as I do we can't raid the bikers without some good reason. Otherwise some shyster'll throw us out of court."

"That's the truth," Kennedy said. "Even if we say we're looking for drugs or some such bullshit, we can't take their videotapes and we can't look at their boots even to see if the heelprint matches."

"I wonder if the kid was murdered in that cottage." I let the suggestion lie there, and we all looked at one another and thought about it.

"We won't know until we've examined the place," Kennedy argued. "Hell, I'm sick of waiting for the C.I.B. guys. Let's get up there and look."

"We need photographs. We can check for fingerprints later, but we need shots of the floor and the mess before we track all through there," Werner said.

Kennedy frowned. "Isn't there a photographer in town? A civilian?"

"Yes, guy called Carl Simmonds. He's helped me before."

Werner moved toward the flap on the counter. "Let's go get him outa bed and head up there."

"Let me use the phone." I came through the counter flap and picked up the phone on my desk. Carl answered on the third ring. "Hi, Carl, Reid Bennett. We need some photographic help in a hurry. Are you up to it?"

He was. I looked at the detectives and nodded. "Okay, so get your stuff ready. I'll come by for you in five. Thanks."

The others were waiting at the door. Their tiredness was passing, and they looked ready for a full night's work. They led the way to their car, but I told them no, I would go in my own, bringing Sam along.

"Sam?" Werner asked. "Who's he?"

"My dog," I explained. "He's completely trained. If we need some tracking done, he'll do it. And if we need backup, he's the equal of a couple of guys."

"Where's he been all my life," Werner sighed, and Kennedy laughed. They got into one of the OPP cars, and I got into mine and led them up to Carl's house. I stopped there, and as soon as I got out, he came out of the doorway, carrying his equipment, a camera bag and a tripod.

"What's the case?" he asked in a businesslike voice as he got in beside me.

"The homicide. The Corbett place was broken into, vandalized, and I found a heelprint there. We want to go in and check, but we need photographs of footprints in the mess on the floor."

"Fine. I've got a ruler in my bag to include in shots like that," he said. "I've been doing some reading since the last time I helped you, and I know that scale is important, so I'm all prepared."

"Good," I said briefly. "We need all the help we can get."

We drove in silence past the biker's camp where the fire was blazing again and men were capering around, drinking beer from bottles and listening to rock music so loud we could hear it over the sound of the car engine, from fifty yards down the road. I slowed slightly to look but couldn't see any women, or the blond boy I'd seen earlier. Probably they were all in the big tent.

I pulled up to the door of the Corbett place, and the OPP car pulled in behind me, switching off its lights as I got out and called Sam over the seat and out to sit beside the back door. I waited for the detectives and introduced them to Carl, who nodded briskly without speaking. Then I took out my flashlight and opened the door.

Werner and Kennedy came to the doorway and looked inside. They didn't comment on the mess. Trouble is routine to policemen. All they wanted was evidence. Werner saw the footprint first. "There, clear as a bell," he said happily.

"They have electricity," Carl said. "I was here once to shoot a wedding anniversary for them. They have lights, but you have to find the fuse box first and put the main switch on. Mrs. Corbett told me they switch everything off while they're away."

"You lead the way," Kennedy said to me. "See if you can find the fuse box and get some light on the subject."

It took a minute to locate the fuse box inside the closet beside the front door. I turned it on, then the kitchen light, and stood aside carefully as the others came in, keeping clear of the mess on the floor. Carl was the only one to comment on it. "This is disgusting," he said, and I saw Werner and Kennedy exchange glances as he hissed on the esses.

We watched as he got out his camera and a filter and then the twelve-inch ruler. He set it down carefully beside the heelprint and crouched to take two shots of the composition. He looked up quickly. "Got it. What's next?"

"Take some pictures of the whole scene," Kennedy commanded. "I want a record of what it looks like in case we close any doors or make any changes."

"Sure." Carl adjusted his focus and stood up, quartering the room with shots, then crouched and did the same thing from the level of his knees, below the top of the table. "There," he said brightly. "It's on the record."

Kennedy was rubbing his chin. "You know, that's the only print I can see. It looks like the guy who did it got right to the door, then threw the flour."

"That's the way the flour fell," I agreed. "It's as if it all came from this side of the room. But the empty bag's in the corner."

"We'll get it printed when the C.I.B. guys turn up," Werner promised. "Let's look around the rest of the place."

"You guys go ahead," I said, but Werner shook his head.

"No, you're in this, as well. Don't let that asshole Anderson upset you. You'll be reinstated as soon as the hearing's over."

"I hope you're right," I said. "This happened to me once before, and I ended up quitting."

"This isn't Toronto," Kennedy said. "The people here know what bikers are like, and they want them gone. They'll give you a medal for stopping one of them."

"We'll see," I said, but I felt better. I knew he was telling the truth. The commission would understand what had happened. And in the meantime, I could be back on the investigation. It felt good.

I led the way into the next room and switched on the light. It was a dining room. That was unusual for a summer cottage—most of them are less fancy—but Corbett's wife came from a family with money. She had inherited the house, a big old place like they don't build anymore. But now it was wrecked. The fine walnut table was split across, the pieces tossed aside, scarred with the crescent-moon indentations of kicks from steel-toed boots. All the plates had been pulled out of the antique breakfront and thrown against the wall, shattering a mirror and a picture of the Corbetts as they had been thirty years earlier.

Kennedy looked over my shoulder. "This looks deliberate," he said. "Look at that table. That was worked over by somebody with a lot to prove."

Carl was standing behind him, camera poised, but instead of taking pictures, he stooped and picked up a fragment of broken plate and turned it over. "Genuine Quimper. Antique, too. Beautiful. Just smashed, like that." He dropped the fragment and raised his camera to his eye as if it were a gun and the vandals were in his sights. I stood back, and he quartered the room, then stooped and did the same at floor level.