“Sorry. Can’t allow any unnecessary personnel on the scene.”
“First on the scene,” the younger one said. “We’re material witnesses!”
“Right you are, Inspector-if there’s a trial. But for now, you have to vamoose.”
As he and Delorme turned toward the back of the house, Cardinal said, “Let’s get someone to tape off the back perimeter. We don’t want any more CSI fans poking around.”
–
Ident arrived, and all of them-the two ident guys, Cardinal and Delorme-struggled into paper suits with rubber feet that would keep their influence on the scene to a minimum. Bunny suits, they called them.
“We’re lucky in one thing already,” Cardinal said. “We’ve got good footprints that haven’t been snowed on. Before we go in, we’re going to get photos and videos of all the tracks at the front door, the sides of the house and at the back. When we look back on this, we want to be a hundred percent sure what was here and what wasn’t.”
Paul Arsenault, the senior ident man, was switching on his video camera as he spoke, and his partner Bob Collingwood had the two young witnesses come out of the squad car and make fresh footprints, which he photographed under bright light. The boys co-operated in a state of solemn excitement.
When they had photographed everything up to the back door, Cardinal went in, followed by Delorme and the coroner.
“The heat’s off,” Cardinal said. “Owners would turn it down, not off-first big freeze, the pipes are going to burst.”
The dead, two of them, were seated at the dining room table, on opposite sides, fixed in the moonlight as if in conversation. Cardinal felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir. He turned on the lights and moved closer to the bodies, looking at one then the other. One male, one female, both hideously foreshortened, both dressed in beautiful fur coats, one sable, one mink.
“First thing,” Cardinal said, “we have a holdback.” He pointed to the knife handle sticking out of the dead man’s back. “Let’s keep the knife to ourselves for the moment.”
Various grunts of agreement from around the room. Collingwood took a few shots close up. Arsenault had remained outside to continue recording exterior evidence.
Cardinal checked the man’s pockets for ID, Delorme checked the woman’s. Nothing.
“Nobody’s pockets are that empty,” Cardinal said. “No keys, no change, no receipts.” He knelt to pull leather gloves from all four of the victims’ hands. The skin had the same hue as that of a frozen turkey. He didn’t want to look above the shoulder line on either of them, where their faces should have been. “Who are they?” Cardinal asked of the room at large. “Anybody know?”
“Ruth and Joseph Schumacher.” It was Neil Dunbar who spoke. He was coming in through the kitchen, plump in his paper hood and coveralls. “I looked them up in the reverse directory before I hopped in the car. They’ve owned the place for twenty years.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s them,” Cardinal said. Dunbar was new on the CID squad, young, and what their detective sergeant liked to call self-motivated.
Cardinal moved toward a country pine buffet with framed photographs all over it. There was a picture of a couple standing in front of the house in summer.
“The woman in the picture is wearing a simple wedding band, same with the man. These two,” Cardinal said, pointing at the four dead hands, “are a little more flashy, wouldn’t you say?”
Dunbar moved forward and peered at the hands. “That doesn’t mean it’s not them.”
“Also, her skin. This person is a lot younger than the woman in the picture.” He pointed at their feet. “The man’s wearing shoes. Why isn’t she?”
“Took ’em off at the front door,” Delorme said. “Expensive pair of leather boots for her, galoshes for him. I’d say these are not the people who broke in the back door.”
“What do you think his wingtips cost? Three hundred? More? Not a cop, obviously.”
The coroner, Dr. Beasley, was done in ten minutes. He scribbled on a form, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Cardinal. “Preliminary finding of foul play. You’re going to need everything Toronto has to offer.”
“That’s it?”
“All I can give you on time of death is more than eight hours, less than forty-eight. You’re going to have to get ’em on the table in Toronto to narrow it down. The knife in the back was post-mortem, as was the trauma to the neck.”
“That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen a coroner leave,” Delorme said when he was gone.
“Guess he didn’t like the atmosphere,” Cardinal said.
Delorme turned her attention to bullets, perhaps unconsciously keeping her back to the two dehumanized shapes. There was a slug embedded in the wall behind the male, another under the sideboard. She made out marker cards for Ident to photograph.
Collingwood was examining the corpses, going over the fur coats with the concentration of an ape grooming his mate. Cardinal was contemplating the table, trying to make sense of the set-up. Three shot glasses. A bottle of Stolichnaya.
“Judging by the position of the bullets,” Delorme said, “it looks like they were shot by someone sitting here.” She indicated a chair that was pulled away from the table.
“We don’t know for sure they were shot yet,” Cardinal said. “But since the rest of it is post-mortem, yeah, I could see it. He shoots the man first, possibly right in the face, and the bullet ends up in the wall behind him. Then he shoots the woman, maybe through the side of the head, and it exits this way and ends up on the floor. Then he pulls out the axe.”
Cardinal looked briefly over the living room, which was neat and undisturbed. He went down a gleaming hallway, his paper suit making swishing sounds with each step. Two of the bedrooms appeared not only undisturbed but underfurnished, as if no one lived in them. Lots of the houses in this area were vacant most of the winter, their owners having another residence in town. He checked the bathroom briefly, and finally the master bedroom.
He stood in the doorway, arms folded. One window completely smashed-outward, not inward-the chair it had been attacked with lying on its side. No other signs of violence. The bed was made up, but when Cardinal lifted the corner of the bedspread, there was only a mattress pad underneath. The closet was virtually empty, as were the dresser drawers. No sign of any suitcases.
He went to the window and looked out. Arsenault had set up so many lights, it looked like a movie set. He was on his knees, bent low over something.
Cardinal asked him how it was going. Arsenault stood up. “Fantastic. I’m taking moulds before it melts.”
“Give me the short version.”
Arsenault pointed to two sets of tracks coming up from the lake. “Those are the two boys’. The prints right by the house-up to the back door at least-are mostly ours. I’m betting all the rest are crime related. That window you’re standing in? Someone came out of there pretty hard. Cut themselves up, too-we got blood on the left hand, blood on the knee. Fairly small person. Took off that way. Comes back this way.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, there’s a whole story out here, if we can just get it down before it melts or it snows again.”
“I’ll send Collingwood out.”
He went back to the dining area. The scene didn’t get any easier to take.
Delorme held up her notebook. “Clothing labels are all American. Barneys, Bonwit Teller, Lord amp; Taylor.”
Collingwood, the younger half of Ident, was plucking invisible items from the man’s coat with a pair of tweezers.
“Hair?” Cardinal said.
Collingwood nodded. He almost never spoke.
“Arsenault needs you outside. He’s hit the motherlode.”
Delorme pulled back the sleeve from the dead man’s arm. “Rolex watches, both of them. Fur coats, expensive labels. I’d say we’re dealing with some seriously wealthy people here. Whoever killed them took their wallets but left all this stuff.”
“Idea being to hide their identities rather than get rich, maybe.” Cardinal looked around. “Where’s Dunbar?”
