Shoe saw movement in the woods, figures atop the rise near where the footpath from his parents’ yard merged with the wider path that skirted the far side of the Braithwaite property. Dappled by the afternoon sun through the trees, they looked like uniformed police, half a dozen or more, and two men — Shoe assumed they were men — in suits, standing off to one side. As he watched, other figures appeared from the far side of the rise, ghost-like, clad head to toe in pale blue disposable coveralls. Just beyond the crest of the rise, Shoe could see what appeared to be the peak of a white tent. A camera strobe flashed, flashed again, then a third time, lighting up the interior of the tent.
He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Two uniformed police officers emerged from between the garage and the house next door.
“Sir,” said the older of the two, a greying, round-faced senior constable whose name tag read “R. Smith.” There was a sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, and beneath the lightweight Kevlar vest the underarms of his blue shirt were sweat-stained. “We’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, officer,” Shoe replied.
“Can I have your name, please, sir?”
“Joseph Schumacher,” Shoe replied.
“Do you live here, Mr. Schumacher?” he asked, eying Shoe’s carry-on. “I mean, in this house?”
“No. It’s my parents’ house. I live in Vancouver.”
Without waiting to be asked, Shoe took his Vancouver boarding pass from the side pocket of his carry-on and handed it to the constable. The constable examined it, then handed it back.
“I guess I don’t have to ask you where you were last night between midnight and 2:00 a.m.,” the constable said. “For the report, sir, would you mind giving me your home address and contact information?” Shoe did. The constable scribbled in his notebook, then looked up. “We’ll need to speak with your parents, if that’s all right.”
“Does this have to do with the crime scene in the woods?” Shoe asked.
“Yes, sir. The body of a man was found early this morning by a woman walking her dog. We’re canvassing the neighbourhood to see if anyone saw or heard anything suspicious. If we could speak with your parents … ”
The back door was unlocked. It opened onto a small landing from which a half-flight of stairs led up to the kitchen. Another stairway led down to the basement, from which there came a muted mechanical thumping. His parents’ old washing machine, perhaps, Shoe thought, as he preceded the constables up the stairs into the kitchen. The house was centrally air-conditioned and the relief from the heat and humidity was instantaneous.
Shoe’s parents were sitting at the kitchen table. Shoe’s father sat with his back to the door, reading a fat large-print paperback. He wore hearing aids behind both ears. Shoe’s mother had a pair of lightweight headphones clamped to her head and was listening to something on a portable CD player while she snapped green beans with her fingers. Neither heard Shoe and the two police officers as they entered the kitchen.
“Dad,” Shoe said, gently touching his father’s shoulder.
Howard Schumacher turned with a start. “Jesus Christ, son,” he said, without rancour. “Are you trying to give me a goddamned heart attack?” Howard Schumacher touched his wife’s hand. “Mother.” Vera Schumacher took off her headphones and raised her head. Her eyes were sharp and clear but unfocused; damage to the occipital region of her brain as a result of a fall eight years before had rendered her almost completely blind. “Joe’s here,” her husband said. “And some policemen.” He stood. Shoe’s mother slid her fingers over the controls of the CD player and pressed the stop button.
Howard Schumacher was not quite as tall as Shoe. Lean and rangy, he was still straight despite his eighty-four years. His hair, thick and in need of a trim, was startlingly white and he hadn’t shaved recently. Sticking out a big, knobbly hand to Shoe, he said, “Hello, son.”
“Hello, Dad,” Shoe said, shaking his father’s hand. The old man’s grip was strong.
“Joe?” Shoe’s mother said, turning toward the sound of his voice, reaching out to him from her chair.
“Yes, Mum,” Shoe said, taking his mother’s hand and bending to kiss her pale, lined cheek. Her flesh was soft and warm against his lips. She smelled of lavender soap and talcum powder.
“Dad,” Shoe said, “the police would like to ask you and Mum some questions.”
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Constable Smith said. “Did either of you notice anything unusual going on in the woods behind your house last night, or someone in your yard, say between ten in the evening and two in the morning?”
“You’ll have to speak up, son,” Shoe’s father said. “My hearing aids aren’t doing much good these days. What was that again?”
Constable Smith repeated the question, speaking clearly and slowly and loudly.
Shoe’s father shook his head. “We were both in bed by ten. Weren’t we, Mother?” Vera Schumacher nodded. “What’s this all about, officer?”
Constable Smith repeated what he’d told Shoe.
“Oh, goodness,” Shoe’s mother said. “I hope it wasn’t someone we know.”
“Have you identified the victim?” Shoe asked.
Constable Smith looked at his partner, who was younger, probably not much older than Shoe had been when he’d joined the Toronto police. His name tag read “P. Pappas.” He was sweating even more profusely than his partner. Consulting his notebook, he said, “His name was Marvin Cartwright.”
“Oh, dear,” Shoe’s mother said.
“Eh? What was that?” Shoe’s father said.
“He said, ‘Marvin Cartwright,’ dear.”
“Marvin?”
“Do you know him?” Constable Smith asked.
“He used to live in the neighbourhood,” Shoe’s father said. “Four doors down. But he hasn’t lived here for thirty-five years. Must be in his seventies now. I’ll be damned,” he added. “Marvin the Martian.”
“Howard,” his wife scolded.
“I think the detectives are going to want to talk to you,” Constable Smith said. He unclipped the radio microphone from his shoulder tab and spoke into it.
chapter two
Constable Pappas went outside to wait for the detectives, leaving Constable Smith in the kitchen with Shoe and his parents. The police officer tried unsuccessfully to make himself inconspicuous during Shoe’s reunion with his parents.
“How you doin’, son?” Howard Schumacher asked. “How’s work?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” Shoe replied. “Work’s fine too. Thanks.”
“Sorry t’hear about your friend.”