Looking around his high-ceilinged quarters Chris thought it must be much the same as the way Gwen had described Adrienne Vinney's condo. Post-modern cool, except that the colour contrasts were provided not with cushions, but with paintings, mostly Western Canadian—foothill scenes by Gissing, a spring chinook by Turner, mountain peaks by Glyde, two large paintings of vintage airplanes by Drohan. An equally large oil by Collier of icebergs floating off Banks Island in the Arctic had pride of place over the marble fireplace.
The library, with bookcases to the ceiling, a built-in ladder on rollers to reach the highest shelves, desk and tables in warm walnut, and soft leather armchairs, was in sharp and reassuring contrast to the other rooms.
The condo, like many other aspects of Chris's lifestyle, was wildly out of keeping with his salary as a police officer. It was widely assumed that he had inherited wealth and dabbled in criminal investigation for something to do. Many, like Steve Mason, thought of him as a dilettante. Only his brokers and a few members of the financial community knew the truth: that he'd made himself independently wealthy by shrewd and well-researched investing, exclusively in energy stocks and trusts. He had kept a low profile for a number of years before saying to hell with it. The luxurious condo and the Ferrari 360 Spider convertible parked down below under a dust cover in the stall next to his Dodge Durango were the results of that decision. He was also supporting his ex, Robyn, while she studied law at the university. He was not obligated in any way to do that; it was something he wanted to do.
The morning light spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking east over the Elbow. Seated at the granite-topped breakfast table, Chris glanced up at the wall clock over the fridge: 6:36 a.m. The concierge would have delivered the morning papers by now. He always started with the penthouse. Chris took a swallow of coffee, gave Nevermore a piece of toasted English muffin, and pushed back his chair. He subscribed to all four morning papers—the Sun, the Herald, the Globe and Mail, and the National Post—and all four were arranged neatly on the carpeted hallway outside his front door.
He poured himself another cup of coffee before steeling himself to look at the papers spread out on a coffee table. The sensational story of the latest gruesome murder took up the entire front page of the Sun and the top half of the Herald's, and was the lead story in the Post, while being relegated to the bottom half of the front page in the Globe. The headlines in the two Calgary papers were identical, both screaming "Killer Strikes Again." The accompanying articles feasted on the prominence of the latest victim and the fact that she had been naked and mutilated when found. Predictably, the police came in for a lot of heat over "the killer in our midst" remaining at large and killing at will.
Chief Johnstone's press conference late yesterday morning had been to try to reassure an angry and frightened public. Johnstone was an able administrator and did a good job of running the Police Service, but he had an unfortunate propensity for the cliché. Chris winced as he read how "no stone would be left unturned" and the investigation was a "full court press." But the clichés couldn't hide the fact that an aroused citizenry was demanding an arrest.
Chris had spotted Phil Dummett at the press conference, standing at the back of the room. Had he written anything about the latest murder? Pushing his empty cup to one side, Chris flipped through the papers. Maybe he was saving up to do a piece for a magazine, Maclean's maybe. No, here it was. On the third page of the Post's front section. As usual with Dummett, it was more of an in-depth treatment rather than straight news reporting. It said all the appropriate things about the horror of the crime, emphasizing the achievements of the victim and the brilliant career that had lain before her. Then it took a different tack with a not unsympathetic discussion of the demons and grotesque fantasies that must be driving the killer to commit such terrible deeds. It was almost certain to be picked up and circulated by the news networks, which would be what Dummett was aiming for.
The guy could sure as hell write. As he folded the Post and placed it alongside his empty coffee cup, Chris remembered what it was that had been niggling at the back of his mind. Ken Patterson, one of his fellow Homicide detectives, was a friend of Dummett's. He wasn't familiar with all the details, but while Chris was still with FCSU Patterson had used Dummett to plant some information in the press. That information had led to a tip from a neighbour of the victim that eventually resulted in the arrest and conviction of a suspect. The fact that Dummett worked as a freelancer didn't hurt either. He wouldn't have to worry about his responsibility to his employer.
Maybe what had worked before could work again. Chris's lips tightened. For sure nothing else was working for them!
"Mr. Millard is in court," the legal assistant informed Chris. The court wouldn't be in session until ten o'clock, two hours from now. The criminal lawyer must have gone over to the courthouse early to prepare for the trial, checking his notes or conferring with his client. Chris knew as he rang off that this would not be the right time to interview Millard, who would be totally focused on what he had to deal with in court. The case he was engaged in had generated a lot of media attention. The accused, Millard's client, was a city employee, a low-level supervisor in the Planning Department. Reporting for work one morning, he had been called into the manager's office to be summarily fired.
Shaken and white-faced, according to his fellow employees, some of whom had been aware that he was to be dismissed that morning, he had rushed past their desks and cubicles and stormed out of the building. Less than an hour later he'd returned with a Smith & Wesson .38 concealed in his jacket pocket. Marching directly across the floor to the manager's office, he'd shot him twice in the chest as he sat behind his desk. Then he'd shot and killed the female clerk who had filed a complaint of sexual harassment against him. While his co-workers had watched in horrified silence, he'd placed the muzzle of the revolver against his own temple. But his index finger had refused to squeeze the trigger. He'd stood like that for a full minute, a look of disbelief on his face. Then his arm had fallen to his side, the gun pointing harmlessly at the floor.
His only hope lay in being found not guilty by reason of insanity. If the jury bought it, he would receive a more lenient sentence than the mandatory life sentence that would be imposed if he was convicted of murder. For the not-guilty plea to succeed, Millard would have to convince the jury that his client was in such a state of mind that when he shot his victims he was not capable of appreciating that what he did was wrong. Chris mentally shook his head. A tough case to make. Especially since the accused had shot only those two persons who, in his eyes, had wronged him. Chris decided to drop in on the trial toward the end of the morning session.
In the meantime, he would talk to Patterson about his plan to use Dummett to leak some information that might lead TLC into making a fatal error. Chris turned to look back at Patterson, sitting at his desk two rows to the rear. He was on the phone. Chris had worked with the boyish-looking detective on a couple of homicides back when Chris was with FCSU. Patterson's fair-haired and youthful good looks were somewhat diminished by thin lips that curved too far upward when he smiled. It always put Chris in mind of a crescent moon. "It's because Ken's upper lip is so short," he had once told Gwen when she'd remarked on it. Patterson was good to work with. A university graduate himself, he wasn't disconcerted in the least by Chris's law degree and Harvard