“All I can tell you right now is we have found some body parts that may belong to the victims who were discovered out at Trout Lake. We don’t have any identities, and because of that, we don’t know who might have wanted to kill them. Even when we do identify them, you know the drill-you’ll have to wait until we’ve notified next of kin.”
A barrage of questions. Were the victims really American? What was the crime scene like? Had they found the heads?
“We have just as many questions as you do at this point.”
“Will you be bringing in the OPP?” They always asked this, every time there was a high-profile case, as if only a police force of province-wide heft could handle it. They always asked and it always irritated him.
“I don’t see any need for the OPP.”
They shouted more questions.
Cardinal held up his hands as if pressing back a billowing sail. “That’s all for now. When I know more, you’ll know more.”
He pushed his way past them and hurried toward his car. A woman came up behind him. She was small, her blond head just level with Cardinal’s shoulder.
“Detective, could I just talk to you for a minute?”
“Talk all you want.” He kept moving toward his car, the woman following.
“I want to ask about the other scene, not this one. It’s extremely interesting that the victims were beheaded-and the knife still in the man’s back. It’s all so theatrical, so high-profile. Aren’t you worried about copycats or false confessions?”
“I appreciate your concern,” Cardinal said. “We’ll still be able to eliminate false confessions. I can’t say any more just now.”
“And suppose, God forbid, you should get a copycat?”
Cardinal stopped and turned to face her. “Are you hard of hearing? I said I can’t talk to you. What is it with reporters?”
Her response was a single, slow blink. She had grey eyes, very wide set, that gave her a look of imperturbability. A quick smile, then: “Now that you have heads, are you able to make an ID?”
“I didn’t say heads.”
“I can do the math, Detective.”
“What paper are you with, anyway?”
She took off a leather glove, reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to Cardinal. Donna Vaughan. New York Post. “The card’s out of date. I’m not actually with the paper anymore. I’m freelance.”
“Why is a reporter from New York interested in a murder in Algonquin Bay?”
“I think you’ll figure that out pretty quick. I’m working on a story-not for the Post, for someplace national, hopefully-a story that’s taking me all over. And I think maybe we could help each other. Did you get anywhere with the tire tracks at the Trout Lake scene?”
“We’re running down a lot of leads. It takes time.”
“And the footprints?”
“Like I say, we’re following up a lot of threads.”
She looked him up and down. “Maybe I was wrong. It doesn’t look like you can help me at all. Thanks for your time.”
Cardinal got into his car and switched on the ignition to warm it up. He pulled out his notebook and started jotting down a list of calls he had to make. Ms. Vaughan pulled up beside him in a tan Focus and rolled down her window.
Cardinal pressed the button on the armrest.
“You know, Detective, I bet I know more than you do at this point.”
“For instance?”
“For instance, the identities of the victims.” She flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her brows were dark, and the contrast gave her eyes an added intensity. “Their names are Lev and Irena Bastov. Russian extraction, but they’re both U.S. nationals.”
“Uh-huh. And how would you know that?”
“The story I’m working on? It’s about the Russian mafia-and please don’t spread that around, because I’d kind of like to stay alive.” She drove away before her window was finished closing.
7
“We know who they are,” Delorme said when Cardinal arrived in the squad room. “We’ve got IDs!”
“Let me guess,” Cardinal said. “Lev and Irena Bastov.”
Delorme looked deflated. “How’d you find out?”
“Doesn’t matter. How’d you find out?”
“Woman up at the fur auction called in a missing person. They were staying at the Highlands Lodge. We should head up there right now.”
“Let Ident get started on their own. We’ve got the autopsy this morning. Just give me a minute and we can catch the next plane-I’m not driving on the 400 again.”
Cardinal sat at his desk without removing his coat, pulled out the business card Donna Vaughan had given him and dialed the New York Post. It being Sunday, there was no upper management available, but Cardinal finally got connected to an editor.
“Donna Vaughan? Yes, she used to be on staff here.”
“Why did she leave?”
“I can’t discuss anybody’s work history, Detective-too likely to end up on the wrong side of a lawsuit. I can confirm that she was on staff and that she left about a year ago, and that’s it.”
Cardinal had googled Donna Vaughan as they spoke. Several stories popped up with her byline, mostly about fashion.
“You coming or what?” Delorme was standing beside his desk, looking annoyed.
–
They caught an Air Canada flight to Toronto and arrived at the morgue a little early. Cardinal made a few calls, but Delorme just sat staring at the row of wellington boots lined up on a high shelf. A list of funeral homes and phone numbers was tacked up next to the door, and a hand-lettered sign above the sinks said Caution: Chlorine + Ammonia = Poison!
Eventually the door opened and Dr. Elmer Spork was saying hello and introducing his assistant, a petite, intense woman named Tranh, who was about half his height. He took off his sports coat and threw on surgical scrubs and a plastic apron. He didn’t look anything like you might imagine a pathologist would look. Although he must have been fifty, he had curly blond hair and the youthful, robust air of someone who has just won a game of tennis. A memory stick dangled from a cord around his neck.
The two bodies were already laid out in the autopsy room, with the heads, which had been flown down earlier. “We put them through the X-ray this morning,” Dr. Spork said. He snapped on the light boxes, and ribcages, femurs and arm bones lit up. “As you can see, we didn’t pick up anything unusual. No blade or bullet fragments.” He snapped off the light again and went over to the male body.
“I have a dumb question,” Delorme said. “How do you know a particular head belongs to a particular body? How do you know there isn’t some other corpse somewhere minus a head?”
Dr. Spork pointed to the neck area. “Skin tone is the first thing we go by. As you see, we have a perfect match here. Also, the width of the neck. Again a perfect match. Plus, we already took blood samples from each part and we have a match in blood types. That’s not definitive, but we’ve sent the samples to the lab for DNA analysis. But the crucial thing, at least with well-preserved bone and tissue, is the matching trauma.”
He tipped the head neck-up, and Delorme’s stomach did a half turn. One minute the body looks like a young woman, then he’s turning the head upside down without moving the trunk.
