The K Handshape (32 page)

So much for sensitivity.

“It’s odd she would say, ‘tickling.’ Doris told Grace that her assailant stroked her.”

He loosened his tie. “Why is it always so frigging hot in these places? I suppose you could be right, God forbid. It could be the same chappie doing his cute number. Disgusting, if you ask me.” He licked his lips. “I’d ply my arse for a bottle of beer right now.”

“Do you want me to get you a coffee or a glass of water? It isn’t daylight yet.”

A swift stab to the fat gut but he was impervious. “Don’t forget, I’ve been up all night. It’s a nightcap I’m talking about.”

I bit my tongue. “I’ll say goodbye to them.”

I went back into the apartment and Franklin was at my heels.

“Hello, ladies. Detective Sergeant Franklin at your service. I hope Detective Morris has been treating you well.”

They both eyed him in astonishment.

“Very well,” said Dr. Cowan.

I turned to Grace while Franklin stared around the apartment.

“I think we’re done for now, Miss Cameron. Would you like Mrs. Cheevers to get hold of your sister?”

She looked quite wretched but she managed a smile. “Perhaps that would be best. I don’t suppose you can spare a strong young officer to take me there, can you?”

Franklin’s voice suddenly escaped the leash and he practically bellowed at her. “Of course I can. Don’t you worry about a thing, he’ll make sure you’re all tucked up safe and sound.”

I wondered how a frail elderly woman could help but worry when she had faced down a man trying to break into her apartment and heard the anguish of her dear friend’s rape, all within two days. I wished we had a platoon of muscular officers to take care of her until the end of her days.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Franklin and I went down to the lounge.

“We’ll need to change the locks on the outside doors immediately,” he boomed at me. “And try to track down every key that has been issued. I don’t want this pervert coming back here.”

Statistically, the chances were low that would happen. Typically, rapists and killers prowled, not returning to the same building immediately. But it wasn’t unknown and I was all for protecting these residents in any way we could.

“Let’s see what the supers have to say,” said Franklin.

The couple in question were sitting side by side on the couch in the lobby. They were no spring chickens themselves. He was clad in blue denim overalls and she was wearing what would have been called in the fifties a house dress, flowered, loose, and even from where I was, didn’t look too clean.

Franklin introduced both of us. Neither of them moved from the couch but eyed us warily. When the man spoke his voice was surly and aggrieved. I hoped this was merely pseudo-aggression from fear and not evidence of utter callousness.

“The wife and me have got our work to do. I hope you’re not going to keep us long.”

“As long as it takes,” said Franklin with what I’d have to call a wolfish grin.

He held out his arm to indicate they should come into the office and reluctantly they stood up and went in. As they went by me, I
was hit by the smell of stale cigarettes and booze with a powerful overlay of garlic.

They’d hardly sat down when Franklin launched into them. I might have felt sorry for them as Franklin was treating them with an abruptness that bordered on rude, but they gave back in kind. Mr. Desjardins did most of the talking and spoke belligerently. He had no idea how many keys were in circulation, could be hundreds. Residents were always losing their keys. Beside that, they handed them out to family members. Yes, there was a master key which opened both the outside doors, front and back, and the individual apartments. He was always being called out because some dippy old lady had forgotten her key. Being a super meant you had no life at all. Always at their beck and call. There were actually two master keys. One never left his side. He pulled out an enormous key ring, which jangled like Marley’s ball and chain. The social worker had the other. Mrs. Chester or Chesley or something. When asked if he had checked to see if the building was secure last night, he answered vehemently that of course he had. He always did, eleven on the dot. All was snug as a bug in a rug, he’d swear on his mother’s grave. Unfortunate choice of words. His wife popped a piece of raw garlic into her mouth, and realizing I’d noticed she grinned at me. “Keeps away colds,” she said. Not to mention people, I thought, and it’s a great cover for whisky breath.

Franklin brought up the homeless man Mrs. Moseley had encountered in the lounge and the two young men the super had tossed out of a lunch. “Them,” said Desjardins with contempt. “Two Russkies in need of a meal. Or so they says but they left pronto when I read them the riot act. As for the old rubby Mrs M. met up with, his brain was too pickled for him to be a danger to anybody. Even sober he could hardly stand.”

Franklin asked them about Mrs. Salamonica.

“Before our time,” answered Mrs. Desjardins. “We came here in July of this year.”

“Who was the superintendent before you?” I asked.

“Some fellow did it with his boyfriend.” Mrs. Desjardins managed to convey her distaste of that relationship. “It’s a thankless job and they want blood and won’t pay enough to keep a dog alive so there’s a big turnover. We took the job but probably
shouldn’t have because all that vacuuming aggravates his back. But there you go.”

“Were you both in each other’s presence all night?” Franklin asked. They stared at him blankly, not realizing the implications of the question.

“We was asleep if that’s what you mean. We watched some television until about eleven-thirty then we went to bed and didn’t stir until we was woken up by this officer.”

I was inclined to believe them. Mr. Desjardins didn’t fit the description that Doris had given to Grace Cameron. You couldn’t pretend that kind of post-binge befuddlement and the man who had molested Doris was not drunk. I did wonder about the disinfectant smell but thought it would not likely be confused with alcohol.

That was about it. Mrs. Desjardins in particular was morbidly curious about what had actually been done to Doris but Franklin was tight-lipped. I forgave him a lot for that.

Finally we dismissed them with strict instructions to bring in a locksmith as soon as possible. Franklin wrinkled his nose in disgust before they had even closed the door.

“Jesus wept, where did they find those two? I wouldn’t want a relative of mine living here.”

I certainly agreed with him. The one solid piece of information the Desjardins had given us was that it was pathetically easy to gain access to the residence.

Edith Cowan, bless her heart, had sent down more tea and a plate of toast and jam for us. Franklin had ordered in two large pizzas with everything but my stomach still said breakfast and the toast went down nicely.

The next three hours were difficult. Franklin had assigned another young female constable to sit in on the interviews and keep a second set of notes for me. Most of the residents were women and even though I tempered what I said, there was no way to avoid telling them that Doris had been assaulted. She had been well-liked and the shock and sorrow of her death and the circumstances surrounding it were overwhelming to many of the residents. Fortunately, Mrs. Cheevers had worked quickly and
efficiently and family members, anxious, hassled, began to arrive. I was glad when several of them decided to whisk away their elderly residents.

We took names and addresses and noted who had keys. Nobody had reported a lost key but once again it was obvious that there were possibly dozens in circulation. I was rapidly ruling out stranger rape. Our bad guy was somewhere in this circle, however wide it might appear.

My last interview was with Mrs. Cheevers. She had actually anticipated the matter of the keys and came with a file folder containing names of residents and next of kin, previous superintendents, home care workers, social workers, anybody who had access to the building as far back as three years ago when she said they’d had new locks installed that were considered safer. This was an invaluable list and I handed it over to Franklin. He riffled through the sheets. He looked miserable but who knows if it was just him thinking about his bottle of cold beer.

“This could be like catching fleas on a black dog. But I’ll get some of the guys onto it. Do you want a copy?”

“Sure.”

I thought he was hoping I’d cast my eye over it and magically come up with a name. Save him a lot of work.

“You never know, these funny cases might be connected.”

“Funny cases?”

“You know, raping old ladies, killing deaf girls.”

The coroner hadn’t thought Deidre had been sexually assaulted but I didn’t feel like going into that with him.

He yawned, hardly bothering to cover his mouth. “You know where to find me if you get any insights. Whose got your other case?”

“Ed Chaffey.”

“He’s a good man. We’re in the same bowling league.”

I wondered if I could talk Ed into dropping a bowling ball on Franklin’s foot.

I decided to have a look around a bit more before I left. Grace had asked, “Why Doris? Who would want to hurt an old lady?” Unfortunately victims can be any age. There was one notorious case that I’d studied as part of my training. It had occurred in the United States, where a man preyed exclusively on elderly women who all lived in one particular apartment complex. He’d gone undetected for a long time.

I took the ever so slow elevator again to the second floor and just as I exited, I saw a couple of forensics leaving the apartment. They were androgynous in their white bunny suits, which covered everything except for the face. However, one of them pulled back the hood and shook out her long hair. She introduced herself as Sandy Zarowny.

“How’s it going?”

She shrugged. “It’s hard to say. The victim took a shower and the bathroom is pristine so there’s no joy there. We’re hoping for something from the wheelchair. Joanne’s pulled several good latents and we’ll check them out.”

The other person, a female, also now hoodless, nodded. “We’ve put a requisition in to the hospital to hold the clothes. We might be able to get something from them.”

“He got in no problem,” said the first woman. “There’s no scratch on the door jamb. There’s a screen on the windows and you couldn’t get up there anyway without a ladder. Either he had a key or she let him in.”

Doris had told Grace the man appeared behind her as she came out of the bathroom. She hadn’t let him in. However, she could have left the door unlocked, in which case his choice of her apartment might be random. He’d entered the first place he found accessible. On the other hand, it is quite possible he had a key and we were back to, “Why Doris?”

I’d been holding the elevator door for them and Sandy looked at it. She sighed.

“I suppose we should dust the panel but it’s going to be smothered in prints and it’ll be murder to get anything clear.”

A forensic’s job is not an easy one, that’s for sure.

“We were just going out for a smoke,” she said. “We’ll do it when we come back.”

I left them to it and walked down the hall. Doris’s apartment was next to the fire exit and the stairs. Had the rapist come that way? I’d guess he had. An elevator was too chancy. There was another apartment directly opposite to Doris’s. There was a pine wreath hanging on the door which said Bring on the Snow. A cheery snowman beamed out at the world. Gently, I turned the door handle. It was locked. I was about to knock but decided against it. Franklin was taking care of all of that.

I shoved open the heavy fire door and went into the stairwell. Dust bunnies filled the corners. Somebody had spilled coffee and left the Styrofoam cup on the stairs. So much for the Desjardins’s cleaning standards. I continued on down to the ground level. That exit opened directly into the backyard, currently drab and rain soaked in the November gloom. In the summer it must be a pleasant space for the residents to get some sun, but not now.

Unfortunately, all I could see was how private it was, how perfect for an intruder to enter unnoticed. A high wooden fence enclosed the area that was asphalt, and benches were grouped in a semicircle around a stone patio, in the centre of which was a fountain. Mature evergreens stood in each corner, and several iron bird cages hung from the tree branches. Near the gate was a Victorian lamp and tucked into one corner was a large yellow doghouse with the word
Nana
painted over the opening. I looked around and sure enough Peter Pan himself was poised nearby in the shrubbery, a finger to his lips as he prepared to lead a stony Wendy and Michael and Peter to Never-Never Land. I took a peek inside the doghouse but there wasn’t anything noteworthy that I could see, just a dry wooden floor.

I walked over to the gate, which wasn’t locked, and stepped through into an alleyway that ran parallel to the residence. A high brick wall, that looked as if it was at the end of somebody’s garden ran along one side, the residence fence the other. To my left was a ramshackle garage; to the right; was the alley, which ran only a couple of hundred feet past more garages before connecting with a wider one, which I assumed led to the main street. There was one light hanging on the wall near the gate but the glass was smashed. Secluded, dark, it was the perfect entry for a clandestine approach.

I didn’t have time to do more than a cursory examination but there were no telltale clues. No monogrammed handkerchiefs, no
conveniently bloodstained nail to give DNA. Nothing in the alley except the usual detritus you’d expect to find in a place nobody cared about: sodden newspapers blown up against the garage wall, discarded candy wrappers, a mound of cigarette butts near one of the garage, dog feces. Nevertheless it was an area that the forensics should examine thoroughly. There was no doubt in my mind this was where the rapist had entered. I went back to find the young smokers and tell them.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I’d just got into my car when my cellphone chirruped. It was Ed Chaffey.

“Chris, we’ve made contact with Sigmund Forgach.”