Cut to the Chase (18 page)

She booted up her computer. Online she discovered Slavic Studies departments in all three universities. Not that familiar with the city, she located a city map in her backpack, unfolded and spread it on the kitchen counter. York was north and west of the city centre, far from the last subway stop. She could drive there, but why do that when both the University of Toronto and Ryerson were subway rides away? To park anywhere downtown was not only difficult but hideously expensive. Before she could change her mind, she called U of T.

“We often get requests like that,” a sympathetic receptionist responded when she'd explained the situation. “Come in this afternoon. Professor Andrnovich has a class at one and a tutorial at four. He should be in his office by two thirty. I'll tell him you're coming.”

What would the paper say? Would it give her another lead?

* * *

Wednesday morning. Rhona wandered into her kitchen and appeased her sullen cat, Opie, with treats before she prepared for the day. She chose a charcoal pantsuit and black cowboy boots with red trim, slapped on a modicum of makeup, grabbed a black car coat as the weather woman promised a chilly wind, and this was the day they interviewed Preacher Peter.

Homicide hummed with activity, and Ian already sat ensconced behind the usual pile of paperwork.

“Ready for the good preacher?” Ian asked. “I ran his name through the computer, but nothing came up. If I'd used fingerprints, I'd likely have found a file.”

“Too true,” Rhona agreed as she readied herself for work. “I don't suppose knowing his background is important just yet. We'll see how he responds to our questions. I can't think of any reason he'd murder the men, but you never know and he fits the bill.”

“How's that?” Ian leaned back, ready for a discussion.

“Men would trust him. Whoever did the killing was known to and not feared by the victims. If he's messianic, he may believe he's on a mission to recover lost souls and eliminate those unwilling to follow his path.” The theory sounded good to Rhona.

“That's not so far-fetched. Thousands of people have lost their lives in the name of religion,” Ian agreed.

After more than an hour's desk work, they drove to Preacher Peter's storefront operation.

The wind, scuttling a downtown city street's trash against the shabby storefronts, added to the dishevelled rundown air. The harsh morning sun highlighted flaking paint, peeling posters, and dirt on Queen Street's premises. Tired and dispirited, the street awaited the white painters. When the bell over the door tinkled to announce their arrival, Peter emerged from the back room.

“Right on time,” he said. “What can I do to help?” While his words indicated his willingness to cooperate, his hooded eyes, hands folded over his chest and his stiff posture told a different story. He didn't ask them to sit down.

Throughout her career, Rhona had learned to compensate for her stature. She wasn't about to allow this human skyscraper to loom over her. “Please sit down,” she said, indicating the row of chairs.

Peter didn't move.

Rhona waited. “Perhaps we should conduct this interview at the station?” she said conversationally.

“That won't be necessary,” he said and sat, carefully positioning himself with his back to the sun streaming through the dirty glass storefront windows.

Rhona remained on her feet, moved to minimize the light's effect and dug out her notebook. Ian too continued to stand.

“Now, for the record, what is your legal name?” she began.

“What difference does that make? I thought you wanted to ask me questions about my congregation.”

“We need to know something about you as well,” Ian said.

A long pause. Rhona realized, as surely as if he'd spelled it out, that this was a man with a record. His nickname hadn't checked out, but his fingerprints surely would. She'd bet money on it.

“Peter Graves.”

“How long have you run this storefront operation?” Rhona didn't call it a church.

“About a year.”

“And before that?” Ian said.

“I was in...” a pause, “Montreal.”

Archambault prison perhaps.

“We're investigating the men murdered in this neighbourhood. Since you're out proselytizing every night, you may have seen or heard something that would help us,” Ian said.

Again Ian had used a word she wouldn't have expected. Apparently Peter hadn't either, for he blinked at “proselytizing”. But he'd understood the rest of the question and gave a good imitation of a man reflecting seriously.

“I talk to many troubled souls trying to bring them to Christ,” he said in the deep and sonorous tones they'd heard the night before. “Trying to help them find their way out of their sinful lives into the light and blessing of the Lord's grace and forgiveness.” He eyed them to see how his spiel was being received.

“I'm sure you do, but that isn't what we're asking,” Rhona said.

“I wish I could help, but even if someone had confided in me, I wouldn't be free to share that information with you. Professionally, what a minister hears is confidential.”

“A minister,” Rhona said drawing out the word. “Tell us what denomination you belong to and where you were ordained?”

Peter's chin rose. He contemplated them as if to take their measure as adversaries. “My calling was personal and direct,” he stated flatly.

“In that case, there is no clerical privilege. You are an ordinary man like other men and are required to share any information you may have,” Ian said.

Peter's eyelids lifted. He produced a wide-eyed guileless stare and sighed, “I know nothing about the murders. No one has told me anything that might be useful to you.”

Checkmate. Probably a matter of principle not to tell the police anything. They would have done better not antagonizing him. How to regroup and enlist his help—that was the question. Time to try.

“I can see that even if you had heard something, you wouldn't want to share it if someone had spoken in confidence. We've heard that you have a real connection to your flock, that you empathize with them,” Rhona paused. Empathize had not been the right word. “Are you familiar with the details of the crimes?”

“As much as anyone sees on TV,” he said, his voice noncommittal.

Rhona leaned toward him and lowered her voice. She wanted him to feel he was privy to inside information. “Not one of the victims put up a fight. This is remarkable, isn't it?”

Preacher Peter unconsciously mimicked her forward-leaning stance and lowered his voice. “It is. I didn't know that.”

“What do you think it means?” Rhona continued.

The tall man rocked back and raised his eyes to the ceiling, perhaps hoping for heavenly inspiration. “Whoever committed these terrible crimes knew the men, and they knew the killer. It was someone they trusted or didn't fear.”

Rhona too leaned back and smiled at him. “Exactly right. You know this community well. What sort of person would that be?”

Head cocked to one side, hands clasped in front of him, Preacher Peter said, “A social worker, a church volunteer—someone who helps in the community. I can't think of anyone in particular, but,” he stopped and his gaze moved from Rhona to Ian and back, “the men in my mission are frightened. Some have chosen God and prayer to save them from this murderer. I would like to be able to tell them that I am helping. I will ask for their help.”

“You will contact us if anyone tells you anything or even says they're suspicious of a particular person?” Ian said, handing him a card as they prepared to leave.

“That was useless,” he said as they walked along Queen Street.

Rhona pulled her coat close, glad that she'd brought it. The chill wind reminded her of winter's approach. “We'll see. There's no doubt he's a fraud, but since we stopped asking him about his background and gave him another reason to look good in the eyes of his congregation, he might help. Meanwhile, we won't write him out of the script.”

Earlier that morning, Rhona had supplied the provincial police force with Danson's name and the license number she'd obtained from the leasing firm. They had found the info about the car in the apartment. Back at her desk in the overcrowded homicide department, an OPP memo awaited her. She showed it to Ian. “The OPP's answer,” she said.

“That was fast. What does it say?” Ian said.

Rhona scanned the report. “Two days ago, the parking attendant in a Niagara Falls hotel worried about a silver Camaro parked in the garage for almost two weeks. When he called the hotel front desk he found that no one had cited that license plate when registering. The manager phoned the police and provided the vehicle's license plate number.” Rhona waved the paper. “Even more odd, when the police arrived, they found the car unlocked. A parking ticket marked Monday night, a ring of keys and Danson's wallet were in the glove compartment.”

“Strange,” Ian said.

“Moreover, there was no luggage in the car.”

“Raises interesting questions, doesn't it? Did Danson flip across the border and melt away into the good old US of A?” Ian ticked the fingers of his left hand with his right index finger. “Since we hadn't issued an APB, he wouldn't have had a problem getting across.” He lowered his hand, frowned and made a notation on the pad in front of him. “Is his passport in his apartment? Since his ID was in the glove compartment, he couldn't have crossed without a passport. If he did, why did he leave his wallet and ID?”

“Maybe he had documents for a new identity,” Rhona said.

“Could he have rendezvoused with someone and taken on a new persona?” Ian said.

“We could also hypothesize that he threw himself over the falls, couldn't we?” Rhona said.

“Or did he leave the wallet and the keys as red herrings designed to mislead?”

“Wouldn't that be a stupid thing to do? Wouldn't it lead us to ask the very questions we're asking?” Rhona said.

“It's a puzzle, isn't it?” Ian tidied the papers in front of him. “Should we call his sister and tell her?”

“First, let's interview the hotel staff, scrutinize his wallet's contents, and see what keys he left behind.” Rhona glanced at the clock. “Less than two hours to Niagara Falls. I'll okay it with the boss, and we'll cruise over.” She eased to her feet—favouring her hip. “Before we go, I'll see if the Niagara Falls police or the OPP have fished any unidentified bodies from the river in the last two weeks.”

“I'll make copies of Danson's photos,” Ian said.

Leaving Toronto on the Queen Elizabeth Way, they veered left outside Burlington, arced over the Burlington Skyway and drove towards Niagara Falls. White-capped Lake Ontario lay on their left and an undulating line of almost continuous subdivision snaked along on the right. Ian waved at an expanse of raw bulldozed land staked out for a new one. “When I was a kid my family had a spring tradition of driving to the falls and enjoying the blossoms. In those days, the developers hadn't gobbled up acres and acres of prime agricultural land. There were miles and miles of orchards and vineyards. I can still hear my mom oohing and ahing and making my father stop several times for us to pile out and inhale the wonderful smells. Can you imagine brilliant sunshine and warm air saturated with perfume? I've never forgotten it.” He sighed. “And now? All that beauty and wonder replaced with cookie-cutter housing. Why did we accept this,” he waved again, “as progress?”

“People have to live somewhere,” Rhona said.

“Maybe, but whoever allowed those greedy developers to do this should be held responsible? Maybe thrown in jail?” He laughed. “Maybe that's extreme, but it was beautiful.”

“I never saw the blossoms, but the end products, the peaches and pears, were good too,” Rhona said. “It isn't all gone. Still many wineries around here. Some of the world's best wine comes from Niagara.”

“It won't last long,” Ian said gloomily. “The developers will buy the land.”

“I hope not,” Rhona said. They negotiated their way through the town of Niagara Falls and located the hotel without difficulty. Rhona showed Danson's picture to the young man at Sunny Crest hotel's front desk. His name tag identified him as Brian.

“Do you remember checking this man in on Sunday evening two weeks ago?” she asked.

“I don't, because I wasn't on duty. If you leave the picture, I'll make sure the other front desk staff see it,” the young man said. As he spoke, his prominent Adam's apple shot up and down and his head bobbed. He gave the impression he was eager to be helpful and excited to have an interruption in the day's tedium. “If he registered, especially if he was alone, Jenny or Corinne would remember him,” he said. “They're both single,” he confided, “and they notice the single guys, although you can't always tell these days.”

Other than looking for a wedding ring, it was hard to imagine how the girls separated single from married. Certainly Rhona didn't find it easy. Never mind, she felt sure that Brian would do his best to determine if Danson had registered.

“How far away are the falls?” she asked.

“An easy ten minute walk. That's one reason people like to stay here. Enjoy,” he chirped as they left.

Outside the hotel, listening to the distant thrum as thousands of tons of water crashed over the drop, Rhona felt deeply disturbed by her reaction to the fall's pull. If she stood above it, she knew she'd have to fight a compulsion to throw herself into the turbulent water. “Could have been a suicide,” she said “Even though the police forces don't have any unidentified DOA's at the moment, they don't always find jumpers' bodies. I suppose they get trapped under water in the rocks at the bottom.”

At the nearby police station, they introduced themselves, and the front desk clerk smiled at them. “We've been expecting you.” She buzzed them in and made a call. “A constable will be here in a minute to take you to the evidence room.”