he had climbed up onto the hood of the car to get a better look. What he saw was diabolical.
For whoever had carried the body out here and nailed it to the wood had also dumped a container of blood over what remained of the corpse. The plastic container, an Imperial gallon in size, was lying on the ground and Mitchell could make out streaks of dried blood on the body in among the wet ones.
2:36 a.m.
The phone beside the bed rang and wrenched him out of sleep. He reached for it quickly, fumbling in the dark, hoping that he would catch it before it woke his lover up. He yanked the receiver from its cradle before the second ring. There was a mumble from across the bed as he spoke in a whispered tone.
"Hello," Jack MacDougall said, glancing at the clock.
"Sergeant, this is Constable Ron Mitchell. University Detachment. I don't think you know me."
"I don't," MacDougall said frowning. Then he waited.
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir. I hope it's the right decision."
MacDougall felt like telling him that for his sake he hoped so too. "Well," he said.
"We've got another body. One without a head."
The Sergeant threw back the covers and sat up on the bed. "Where?" he demanded, abandoning the whisper.
"The Museum of Anthropology. Nailed to a totem pole."
"Where are you, Mitchell?"
"I'm right at the scene."
"Well, you stay right where you are. I'm on the way. You guard that area with your bloody life. Nobody goes near it. Nobody, you hear. You report directly to me."
"Yes, sir." Then Jack MacDougall hung up.
The Sergeant was already off the bed and halfway into his clothes—same blue blazer and crest, same gray slacks—when there was the squeak of bedsprings and a sleepy voice from the sheets. "Is something the matter, Jack?"
"We've got another body. This one's worse." "Oh God no. Want some coffee?" "I haven't got time, love. One quick phone call and then I'm out the door."
"Will I see you later? Spend another night?" "I hope so," MacDougall said, glancing at the bed, taking in the gymnast's body outlined beneath the covers. Chances were good that body would perform in the next Olympics. "I hope so, too," Peter Brent said.
Ottawa, Ontario
6:11 a.m.
When Commissioner Francois Chartrand put down the phone, he carried his cup of coffee through to his study overlooking the Ottawa River. There he lit a Gauloise and stood smoking in contemplation in front of the double-glazed window. Off to the east the first faint light of predawn was advancing slowly to engage in battle with the silver beams of the moon. A wind down from the Northern Tundra was whipping up the metallic waters that flowed before him, while waves of Canada geese flying in V formation slipped across the pale orange lunar surface above. Finished with the cigarette, Chartrand lit another.
The Commissioner was a stout man who had struggled for most of his adult life with a recurring weight problem. At one time he had also tried to control his habit of chain-smoking, but quickly found that fighting a double front was beyond all human effort. Besides, he enjoyed cigarettes.
Chartrand was the sort of man born to be Commissioner, for he was a natural leader. His face was nondescript—short hair cut high above the ears in military fashion and balding at the crown, sparse restrained eyebrows, an easy mouth, soft perceptive eyes—and not in the least threatening. Chartrand gave orders by advising you of his opinion and asking if you could help. He took you into his confidence—or at least seemed to—from the very first moment you met him. No one likes to be told what to do and Chartrand would no more think of doing that than asking you to help where your help wasn't needed. And yet no matter what happened, if he was involved he always assumed complete responsibility for the outcome. No sloughing off of blame, no sacrificing of those who gave him aid. He was the sort of man who commanded voluntary respect.
As Chartrand stood now in front of the window
For whoever had carried the body out here and nailed it to the wood had also dumped a container of blood over what remained of the corpse. The plastic container, an Imperial gallon in size, was lying on the ground and Mitchell could make out streaks of dried blood on the body in among the wet ones.
2:36 a.m.
The phone beside the bed rang and wrenched him out of sleep. He reached for it quickly, fumbling in the dark, hoping that he would catch it before it woke his lover up. He yanked the receiver from its cradle before the second ring. There was a mumble from across the bed as he spoke in a whispered tone.
"Hello," Jack MacDougall said, glancing at the clock.
"Sergeant, this is Constable Ron Mitchell. University Detachment. I don't think you know me."
"I don't," MacDougall said frowning. Then he waited.
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir. I hope it's the right decision."
MacDougall felt like telling him that for his sake he hoped so too. "Well," he said.
"We've got another body. One without a head."
The Sergeant threw back the covers and sat up on the bed. "Where?" he demanded, abandoning the whisper.
"The Museum of Anthropology. Nailed to a totem pole."
"Where are you, Mitchell?"
"I'm right at the scene."
"Well, you stay right where you are. I'm on the way. You guard that area with your bloody life. Nobody goes near it. Nobody, you hear. You report directly to me."
"Yes, sir." Then Jack MacDougall hung up.
The Sergeant was already off the bed and halfway into his clothes—same blue blazer and crest, same gray slacks—when there was the squeak of bedsprings and a sleepy voice from the sheets. "Is something the matter, Jack?"
"We've got another body. This one's worse." "Oh God no. Want some coffee?" "I haven't got time, love. One quick phone call and then I'm out the door."
"Will I see you later? Spend another night?" "I hope so," MacDougall said, glancing at the bed, taking in the gymnast's body outlined beneath the covers. Chances were good that body would perform in the next Olympics. "I hope so, too," Peter Brent said.
Ottawa, Ontario
6:11 a.m.
When Commissioner Francois Chartrand put down the phone, he carried his cup of coffee through to his study overlooking the Ottawa River. There he lit a Gauloise and stood smoking in contemplation in front of the double-glazed window. Off to the east the first faint light of predawn was advancing slowly to engage in battle with the silver beams of the moon. A wind down from the Northern Tundra was whipping up the metallic waters that flowed before him, while waves of Canada geese flying in V formation slipped across the pale orange lunar surface above. Finished with the cigarette, Chartrand lit another.
The Commissioner was a stout man who had struggled for most of his adult life with a recurring weight problem. At one time he had also tried to control his habit of chain-smoking, but quickly found that fighting a double front was beyond all human effort. Besides, he enjoyed cigarettes.
Chartrand was the sort of man born to be Commissioner, for he was a natural leader. His face was nondescript—short hair cut high above the ears in military fashion and balding at the crown, sparse restrained eyebrows, an easy mouth, soft perceptive eyes—and not in the least threatening. Chartrand gave orders by advising you of his opinion and asking if you could help. He took you into his confidence—or at least seemed to—from the very first moment you met him. No one likes to be told what to do and Chartrand would no more think of doing that than asking you to help where your help wasn't needed. And yet no matter what happened, if he was involved he always assumed complete responsibility for the outcome. No sloughing off of blame, no sacrificing of those who gave him aid. He was the sort of man who commanded voluntary respect.
As Chartrand stood now in front of the window
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