going to have it on the front page this afternoon, and we’ve had calls from The Globe and Mail, the Toronto Star, the wire service. Do you have any idea how big this is? This’ll make papers in the States.”
Dunbar winced again. “Sorry, D.S.”
Arsenault flipped through his notebook. “Footprints. We have two size twelves and one size five, the woman.”
“In what? Snow?”
“Yeah. It was just a thin layer, but we managed to get great moulds. Same for the tire tracks. We’re putting all this stuff through the databases, but it’ll be a while.”
“We’re looking for a third party, too,” Cardinal said. “Someone busted out a back window and left in a big hurry. Got cut pretty bad and then took off into the woods. So that’s going to be our new holdback.”
“Not a word to anyone,” Chouinard said, “or heads will roll.” He paused a second. “I wish I hadn’t said that.”
Arsenault picked the story up. “Tracks indicate a small person, maybe around five-four, five-five, and not too heavy-maybe 120 tops. Tracks head into the trees-running-followed by some size twelves. Much bigger, heavier person. We’ve got blood from the broken window, so if there’s DNA on file we’ll nail the runner.
“Runner makes it to the road, where we found some nine-millimetre casings, so presumably size-twelve took a couple of shots at runner. Tracks pick up again at a utility road a hundred yards away. And lo and behold, another set of tire tracks. Can I go to bed now?”
“No, you may not,” Chouinard said. “But that’s damn fine scene work.”
“Of course, we don’t know for sure what relationship the runner has to the others,” Cardinal said. “Intended victim? Fellow perp in a scenario that went bad? We’re still trying to piece together what happened inside the house. Today’s agenda is almost totally Ident: they prepare fibres, blood and hairs, and I’ll take them down to T.O. later in the day. Delorme, you can come with me. In the meantime, you can track down the Schumachers, and I’ll get to work on ViCLAS.”
–
Delorme drove over to the Schumachers’ town residence on McGibbon Street. This was a good neighbourhood of old houses and neat lawns. Delorme had been through it a lot recently, because one of her ATM robberies had taken place just around the corner. And late last night she had shoved her card through the Schumachers’ mail slot, noting that there were no footprints around their house and no car in the drive. The house was a large red-brick Edwardian, nicely restored and maintained. Now there was a late-model Lexus in the driveway.
She knocked on the front door. It took a while, but a man eventually opened it. He looked about seventy-five, with a badly sunburned face. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Delorme identified herself and asked if he was Joseph Schumacher and if he owned the house at the end of Island Road.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s me.”
“Were you away yesterday, sir?”
“Yes, we were on a cruise round the Mediterranean. Just got back to Toronto last night. Flew back from there and just got in”-he looked at his watch, then back to Delorme-“half an hour ago.”
“Did you find the card we put through your mail slot?”
“Haven’t had a chance to look. I just tossed all the mail on the kitchen counter.”
A woman appeared on the staircase behind him. “What’s going on, Joseph? Why are you standing there with the door open?”
“This young lady’s from the police. Wants to ask us some questions. See, I told you we should never have joined the Hells Angels, but no, you had your own ideas.”
“Mr. Schumacher, maybe we could sit down for a couple of minutes. It seems you haven’t heard the news, and I’m afraid I have something bad to tell you.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Schumacher said. “Has there been an accident? This isn’t about our son, is it? His family? No, surely we’d get a phone call-”
“I don’t think it concerns your son,” Delorme said.
“Well, you’d better come into the kitchen.”
They went in and pulled out chairs from the Formica table and all three of them sat down.
“Who has keys to your house on the lake?” Delorme asked.
“Just us,” Mr. Schumacher said. “We each have a key. Far as I know, we’re the only…”
“The only ones,” his wife said. “We’re the only ones with keys.”
“And have you lent the house to anyone recently? Or rented it out?”
“No, we don’t rent it out,” Mr. Schumacher said. “No one even goes out there unless…”
“Unless we’re there,” Mrs. Schumacher said. She completed her husband’s sentences almost as if it were an act they had rehearsed together.
“Well, people went out there,” Delorme said. “We’re not sure when exactly, but within the past two days at least three people were in your house. Two of them ended up dead.”
The Schumachers looked at each other. They looked back at Delorme. Finally Mr. Schumacher said, “You’re telling us people were murdered out in our lake house?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Schumachers turned to each other again.
“I don’t know what to say,” the man said. “We’ve-this is-we lead ordinary lives. There’s never been any…”
“Discord,” the woman said. “No discord.”
“But you have to tell us,” Mr. Schumacher said. “Who are these…”
“People. Victims.”
“We don’t know,” Delorme said. “We were hoping you might be able to help.”
“But we need something to go on. We need to know what they…” Mr. Schumacher looked at his wife.
“Look like,” she said.
“The man’s in his late sixties. The woman’s in her mid-thirties. They were both dressed in expensive fur coats.”
“We don’t know anybody like that,” Mrs. Schumacher said. “Nobody who owns furs. You said the man was wearing a fur too?”
“Yes, ma’am, the man too.”
“We don’t know anybody like that. Not that I can think of.”
“But your place is for sale, no? You have a sign up. Carnwright Realty?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Schumacher said. “Carnwright’s son-in-law’s looking after it for us. Randall…”
“Randall Wishart,” Mrs. Schumacher said. “That’s right, we did give Randall a key. To be honest, we’re asking too much for the house-on purpose to discourage actual buyers. Mr. Wishart doesn’t know that, of course. We’re actually trying to prod Michael-that’s our son-to move back here and decide to buy it. He lives in the States, but he keeps saying he’s going to move back.”
“Aside from Mr. Wishart and your son, who else knows the house is empty?” Delorme said.
“Well, anybody who goes by on a snowmobile, of course,” Mrs. Schumacher said.
It was too early in the winter for snowmobiles. The ice on the lake wasn’t nearly thick enough.
–
The Violent Crime Linkage and Analysis System, ViCLAS for short, revolves around a national database that categorizes crimes, both solved and unsolved, according to MO. Most murderers not thinking to leave bits of nursery rhymes or other riddles at the scene, investigators have to rely on things like choice of weapon, victim, location and a host of other variables. But before the investigator can glean any information from the system, he or she is first required to fill out a form demanding answers to a great many questions about the current case.
When Cardinal got fed up with trying to answer them, he headed over to Carnwright Real Estate. The Carnwright family had been a force in Algonquin Bay’s housing market for three generations. Lawrence Carnwright, the current avatar, was a highly active public figure, constantly turning up on committees and associations, a handsome white-haired gent who would appear on the news when an opinion was wanted on the economic future of the city. Lately his daughter seemed to be following in his footsteps.