Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (10 page)

“Try to find the will—it may be important.”

Important to her too—Ms Simpson had not moved her to the bottom of the list, and she didn't like her current status. She'd do her own digging.

From Rhona's point of view, Hollis remained a suspect, and she intended to follow up on the information Hollis had provided. But it was time to attend Paul Robertson's autopsy at the Municipal Hospital.

After she'd parked, she hurried to the rotunda and followed the main concourse thronged with patients and staff before she turning into the basement corridor leading to the morgue. No sign directed those unfamiliar with the building. Whether patients or professionals, no one wanted a reminder the hospital dealt with death as well as life.

In the autopsy room, the pathologist, a bustling woman in her mid fifties, nodded a greeting. Dr. Victoria Axeworthy loved
the scientific precision made possible after death. Apparently she'd returned to medical school to qualify as a pathologist after three years spent in general practice had soured her on the imprecision of the human species. Hang nails identified as life threatening crises and far advanced invasive cancers as small discomforts had taught her humans could not define their own condition. As a pathologist, she catalogued the evidence presented by the mute, uncomplaining corpse, analyzed it and identified the cause of death and a thousand other relevant and irrelevant facts.

Victoria ordered her surroundings and set everything she needed at hand. From experience, Rhona remembered Victoria talked in the third person as she dissected, removed, siphoned and bottled.

The examination began as Victoria dictated a description of the body: “A male Caucasian of middle years in good, no, make that, very good physical health. Not overweight, but well developed.” She continued from visual inspection and notation through the opening of the body and ended with a minute examination of vital organs. Throughout the examination, she noted her observations with precision and care. She said, “The healthy pink tissue of the lungs indicates the subject probably never smoked and worked in a relatively pollution free environment.” After she had removed and examined a section of lung, she observed: “A long knife entered the body, followed an upward trajectory, and collapsed the right lung before it punctured the heart and caused death. Such a wound was not self-inflicted.”

Rhona risked a question. “Would it have taken great strength?”

The pathologist's hands didn't stop as she answered. “No, a reasonable amount, but more important, whoever did this probably had a good knowledge of anatomy.” Her voice took
on a resonating timbre, as if she were addressing a class at the medical school. “Theoretically, many people possess the skill to kill this way, but there's a tremendous gap between knowing how and actually doing it. From the angle of the thrust, I'd say he was a right-handed person.”

Dr. Axeworthy continued the autopsy. The whole performance, and it was an admirable exhibition of skill and confidence, gave Rhona no other useful information.

“Thank you, Dr. Axeworthy. The body may be released. I'll tell his wife,”

On her drive to police headquarters Rhona chain smoked two cigarettes before she parked in the underground garage, locked the car and walked through the ranks of private vehicles, unmarked cars, police cars and paddy wagons to the station's caged entrance. Police vans drove into the cage where the police, surveyed by video cameras, removed the prisoners to the holding cells under the station.

She continued past the cells and stopped at the vending machines lining the lower hall for a coffee, double-double, and an O'Henry bar. In her office, she threaded her way through four regulation beige filing cabinets, an old wooden table crowded with computer paraphernalia and a second tall spindly table with a slide projector directed at a pulldown screen. She set her coffee down on a Formica topped desk and sorted through the contents of her “in” basket.

An envelope of marathon pictures attracted her attention. The lack of fingerprints on the handle of the knife had suggested the perp had worn gloves. Not knowing if runners commonly wore them, she'd requested file pictures of marathons. A quick skim of the clippings confirmed her suspicion that gloves and lightweight jackets, particularly in Ottawa in May, were not unusual. Early on, she'd given a
constable the task of scrutinizing each waste basket along the route, looking for discarded gloves. If the searchers retrieved them,
DNA
traces would help convict the murderer.

In the afternoon, she'd interview Staynor. No doubt a butcher could slice and chop with the best of them. For lunch, she sorted through the Glebe possibilities, dismissed one flashy Chinese and two upscale Italian restaurants as too expensive and settled on Turkish Delight, a cheap café located next to Marshalls, a smoke and magazine store. Because she liked to read while she ate, she stopped first at Marshalls—famous not only for the quantity and variety of magazines but also for the number of winning lottery tickets it sold—and bought the daily paper.

Front-page coverage of the murder dwelt on Robertson's support of radical causes and on the murder weapon, a black handled boning knife. She turned from the front page to the death notices and read that donations to City church, the
AIDS
hospice, and St. Mark's refugee fund were requested in lieu of flowers. Had the Christian gay community appreciated Robertson's flamboyant campaign on their behalf?

When she'd finished the last buttery flake of phyllo dough soaked in honey, she licked her lips and shivered with pleasure. Warm and well-fed, she was prepared to absorb and assess the truths, half-truths and lies people would tell her.

Her interview with Simpson left Hollis angry, jittery and ready for action. She punched in Marcus's number.

“Hi, it's Hollis. Are you busy? I'd like to come over and talk.”

“I haven't laid eyes on you for ages. And, suddenly, it's imperative for you to visit this very minute? You haven't even been in my new apartment.”

Immersed in her own problems, she hadn't considered how her request might sound. Before she could apologize, he spoke again in a different tone.

“I'm sorry. You must be really upset. I can't imagine why you want to see me, but you're welcome. I'll make coffee.”

On the drive to his new apartment, she thought about their friendship and its beginning years before, when they'd met as two outsiders in an introductory photography course in the fine arts department at the university.

Marcus, enthralled with photography and a prizewinner in several competitions, had not believed he could make a living doing what he loved and enrolled in a practical university program—physical education. Allowed an arts option in his second year, he chose the course to refine his skills.

Although painting obsessed Hollis, and she had a diploma from the Ontario College of Art and Design, she, like Marcus, had chosen a safer route, undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in history. Because she often used reference photos and slides, she took the photography course to improve her skill.

Isolated from the main stream of younger students, each of them delightedly identified a kindred spirit. Initially, they shared coffee and bagels, later, wine and cheap meals. The term progressed and their friendship deepened as they discovered how much they had in common. They remained connected after the course ended.

Three months earlier, Marcus had moved to the third floor of an old house converted into three apartments. Hollis had meant to drop round and bring him a house-warming present, but the weeks passed, and it hadn't happened. She rang the ground floor bell, climbed the painted brown stairs with the nailed-on black rubber treads and reached a glistening white door. A white cylindrical umbrella stand and its two black umbrellas contrasted with the dirty walls.

The door opened. Marcus, dressed as always in black, white and gray—polished black tassel loafers, black chinos, perfectly creased and belted, and a long-sleeved silvery gray collared shirt anchored with a black leather tie—waved her inside.

Each time she saw Marcus, she marvelled at the intensity of his navy blue eyes. His ginger hair, cropped and trimmed to military shortness, revealed small faun-like ears and complemented a fair complexion. The hand grasping the door was beautiful, with long thin fingers and cared-for nails. She'd always felt protective towards Marcus: his air of vulnerability touched her. But this time it was Marcus patting her back and offering sympathy.

“I'm sorry about Paul. You must be having a terrible time.”

“Not the greatest. Even though we were in the midst of divorce proceedings, it's been a shock. It was a terrible way to die.” Tears threatened. To distract herself, she removed her glasses and polished them on her sleeve. “It's been horrible.”

Marcus ushered her into the living room and left to collect the coffee. Hollis examined the white-painted, slope-ceiling room and catalogued the furniture: a black leather sofa and two chairs grouped around a square white coffee table; a white computer centre, a white filing cabinet; and two well-stocked white bookcases in which the books were as precisely aligned as soldiers on a parade square. Except for the book jackets, the room was starkly black and white. White shutters at the window, a hanging white Japanese lantern, and white rug contrasted with the black painted floor, black furniture and a score of black-framed black and white photos on the wall.

A notoriously bad housekeeper, she shuddered when she imagined the frequent dusting and vacuuming the black surfaces and white rug required.

Marcus carried in a black coffee pot and white china on a square black and white checkerboard tray. He set the tray on the table and poured two cups. Of course, he took his black—no colour allowed. She added a splash of milk, a cube of sugar and stirred, Marcus cocked his head to one side.

“Well?”

“The detective in charge of Paul's murder interviewed me this morning. She asked about you. I didn't tell her about your knock-down-drag-out battle with Paul, but other people must be aware of how much you hated him. I wanted to warn you.”

Expressionless, Marcus let several seconds elapse before he said, “Warn? Am I to assume you think I have something to hide?”

God. That was exactly what it sounded like. How could she have managed to be so tactless? “Of course not. But you did fight with Paul. At the manse before Christmas, I heard the two of you downstairs. I wasn't eavesdropping—you were shouting.”

“Why didn't you come down?”

“Paul hated interference. Later, I questioned him about
your visit. He said it was nothing to do with me, so I never found out why you were angry.”

Marcus steepled his long elegant fingers and contemplated the structure. “It wasn't a secret. For a year and a half, I've chaired a committee in our Church.” He paused. “It's a gay congregation.”

Hollis didn't comment that his sexual orientation wasn't news to her.

“They gave me the job of locating a mainstream church where we could meet in regular church surroundings with an organ and all the trappings. Our congregation was familiar with Paul's reputation as a man sympathetic to our cause, and we thought Paul might persuade his congregation to share their physical space. I warned them I'd had a run-in with Paul in the past and wasn't the best person to represent them, but they insisted.”

“I was away the weekend of the congregational meeting. What happened?”

“First, I'll tell you about the events leading up to it. The sorry story began after I phoned Paul and explained what we wanted. He said he'd lay the groundwork and organize an information session for his people to meet our representatives. He predicted that once they saw us as normal human beings—Christians anxious to worship in a Christian setting—the rest would be easy.” Marcus dropped his hands and contemplated them.

“Go on.”

“At the information session, the bigots stayed away and everything went well. Our success lulled us into a false sense of security. I'm sure you're aware that although the executive council runs the day to day happenings at St. Mark's, major decisions require the approval of a majority of the whole congregation. And, apparently, allowing our use of the church fell into the ‘major decision' category.”

His tense stillness told Hollis the subject continued to upset him.

“At the congregational meeting early in December, all hell broke loose. The smell of blood drew the bigots from their dark little caves. Like a school of sharks, they worked themselves into a feeding frenzy. By the time they'd finished, they'd pictured us as a crowd of slavering, AIDS-infected deviants intent on defiling the young boys of St. Mark's. It was horrible.”

“I can't even imagine what you must have felt like.”

“Many people from St. Mark's apologized. We felt used, felt Paul, familiar with the makeup of the church, should have anticipated the outcome. He could have spared us the pain and his congregation the division resulting from the decision. Of course the press
happened
to be there, and their coverage elevated Paul's image as our
enlightened
spokesperson. I steamed for a week or more before I mustered the nerve to charge over and let Paul have it with both barrels. The more I ranted, the cooler he became. I think I finally shouted, ‘someday someone will kill you'.”