Lewis wrote in her notebook, then said, “Go on.”
“The second attack was two or three weeks later. The victim was a teacher from the junior high school named Hahn. I never knew her first name. She was my ninth-grade English teacher. About twenty-four or twenty-five. Similar MO, except that it happened at midday and in a different part of the conservation area. Her attack was more brutal than the first. She wasn’t able to identify her attacker either.”
Shoe paused while Lewis scribbled in her notebook. When she nodded for him to continue, he looked at Rachel.
“What?”
“The third victim was Marty,” Shoe said gently.
“Oh, Christ,” Rachel said, the skin around her eyes turning pale. “That’s right. Marty — Martine Elias — was a friend of mine,” she added to Lewis. “But she wasn’t raped, was she, Joe? Just molested.”
“She got away from her attacker before he could rape her,” Shoe said.
“Not that it was any less traumatic for her,” Rachel said.
“How old was she?” Lewis asked.
“Same age as me. Eleven.”
Lewis’s face tightened. “She wasn’t able to identify the person who attacked her?” she said.
“No,” Shoe said.
“Poor Marty,” Rachel said. “She was my ‘bestest friend,’ as we used to say, until she was attacked. Then we kind of drifted apart. She — ”
“Excuse me, Ms. Schumacher,” Lewis interrupted. “I’ll ask you more about your friend in a minute. First, though,” she said to Shoe, “tell me abut the last victim, the one you didn’t know.”
“I don’t remember her name,” he said. “She was a university student who worked part-time for the city parks department. It happened in late July or early August.”
“Same MO?”
“As far as I know,” Shoe said. “Except that she was strangled to death, perhaps because she saw her attacker.”
Shoe didn’t remember much about Marty Elias’s attack or the park worker’s rape and murder. He’d been too upset by Miss Hahn’s attack. She’d been one of his favourite teachers, and because she’d been young and pretty, he’d had a massive schoolboy crush on her. The whole school had been in shock; her attack had occurred just weeks before the end of the school year.
“Did Marvin Cartwright know any of the victims?” Lewis asked.
“He knew Marty,” Rachel said.
“She was one of the kids he invited into his house?”
“Yes.”
“Does she still live in the neighbourhood?”
“I don’t know where she lives now,” Rachel said. “Like I said, we fell out of touch after her attack,” she added. “It … changed her. She was always a little precocious, but afterwards she turned slutty. She dropped out of school at sixteen and started hanging out with a pretty rough crowd.” She looked at Shoe. “What was the name of that biker gang she ran with for a while?”
“The Black Skulls,” Shoe said. “They were mostly weekend warrior types, though. Rough enough, but hardly Hells Angels material.”
“Are her parents still alive?”
“I don’t know. They retired to Florida or California, I think.”
“Did she have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Did Cartwright know any of the other victims?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Shoe said.
“No idea,” his father said.
Rachel said, “I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Schumacher?” Lewis said.
“I don’t know,” Shoe’s mother said.
Lewis scribbled in her notebook, then asked, “Do the families of any of the other victims still live around here?”
Shoe’s father said, “The only ones we knew were Marty’s folks.”
“The McKinnon girl and her family moved away not long after her attack,” Shoe’s mother said.
Lewis looked at Shoe.
“I don’t know where Miss Hahn or the park worker lived,” he said.
“All right,” Lewis said. “We’ll check it out. One last thing. Is there anyone else who still lives in the area who knew Mr. Cartwright?”
“Let’s see,” Shoe’s father said slowly, rubbing his stubbly chin. “There’s Dougie Hallam and his sister, Janey. Stepsister, actually. I’m pretty sure they knew Mr. Cartwright. Dougie did, anyway. He was one of the boys that played tricks on him. Don’t know for sure if Janey knew him or not.” He looked at Shoe.
“No better than I did,” Shoe replied, as memories of Janey Hallam bubbled up from the recesses of his mind. Janey had been his first serious girlfriend, the one with whom he had shed his virginity — at a far too tender age, he recalled with a high degree of discomfort — and with whom he’d once believed he’d spend his whole life. He was surprised she still lived in the neighbourhood; the last time he’d seen her, shortly after she’d graduated from high school a year behind him, she’d told him she’d taken a job as flight attendant and was leaving Downsview forever. Did she remember him as well as he remembered her? he wondered. Or as fondly? Perhaps he would look her up, he thought, see how she’d turned out. Or was that a rock better left unturned? He had no desire to resume the acquaintance of her stepbrother, Dougie.
“And there’s Tim Dutton,” Shoe’s father said.
The name triggered a memory of a stocky boy with freckles and unruly red hair. Tim Dutton’s father had opened one of the first so-called “big box” hardware and building supply stores in the area and had become quite wealthy, although he’d continued to live with his wife and two children in the modest three-bedroom house they’d bought the year before Shoe’s parents had bought theirs. At one time or another, Bart Dutton had provided most of the neighbourhood kids with summer jobs. Tim, though, had been the boss’s son and had made certain that everyone understood and appreciated the fact.
“There’s no one else I can think of,” Shoe’s father said.
“Ms. Schumacher,” Lewis said to Rachel. “Do you remember the names of the other kids Cartwright invited into his house?”
Rachel was lost in thought for a moment, then said, “Besides Marty, the only ones I remember are Mickey Bloom and Bobby Cotton.”
“Those are boy’s names?”
Rachel nodded. “But I have no idea where they are now.”
“Thank you,” Lewis said. She closed her notebook and slipped it into the side pocket of her jacket. “That should do it for now. We appreciate your help. If we need anything else, someone will be in touch.” She shook hands with Shoe’s father, mother, and sister.
“I’ll see you out,” Shoe said.
Timmons had a cigarette in his mouth before the front door was even open, but he did not light it until he was outside. A plain grey Chrysler Sebring was parked on the street in front of the house, so nondescript it all but shouted “Police.”
“Is there something else?” Lewis asked.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Shoe said.
“I have the feeling I should,” she said. “Have we met before?”