Victoria ordered her surroundings and set everything she needed at hand. From experience, Rhona remembered Victoria talked in the third person as she dissected, removed, siphoned and bottled.
The examination began as Victoria dictated a description of the body: “A male Caucasian of middle years in good, no, make that, very good physical health. Not overweight, but well developed.” She continued from visual inspection and notation through the opening of the body and ended with a minute examination of vital organs. Throughout the examination, she noted her observations with precision and care. She said, “The healthy pink tissue of the lungs indicates the subject probably never smoked and worked in a relatively pollution free environment.” After she had removed and examined a section of lung, she observed: “A long knife entered the body, followed an upward trajectory, and collapsed the right lung before it punctured the heart and caused death. Such a wound was not self-inflicted.”
Rhona risked a question. “Would it have taken great strength?”
The pathologist’s hands didn’t stop as she answered. “No, a reasonable amount, but more important, whoever did this probably had a good knowledge of anatomy.” Her voice took on a resonating timbre, as if she were addressing a class at the medical school. “Theoretically, many people possess the skill to kill this way, but there’s a tremendous gap between knowing how and actually doing it. From the angle of the thrust, I’d say he was a right-handed person.”
Dr. Axeworthy continued the autopsy. The whole performance, and it was an admirable exhibition of skill and confidence, gave Rhona no other useful information.
“Thank you, Dr. Axeworthy. The body may be released. I’ll tell his wife,”
On her drive to police headquarters Rhona chain smoked two cigarettes before she parked in the underground garage, locked the car and walked through the ranks of private vehicles, unmarked cars, police cars and paddy wagons to the station’s caged entrance. Police vans drove into the cage where the police, surveyed by video cameras, removed the prisoners to the holding cells under the station.
She continued past the cells and stopped at the vending machines lining the lower hall for a coffee, double-double, and an O’Henry bar. In her office, she threaded her way through four regulation beige filing cabinets, an old wooden table crowded with computer paraphernalia and a second tall spindly table with a slide projector directed at a pulldown screen. She set her coffee down on a Formica topped desk and sorted through the contents of her “in” basket.
An envelope of marathon pictures attracted her attention. The lack of fingerprints on the handle of the knife had suggested the perp had worn gloves. Not knowing if runners commonly wore them, she’d requested file pictures of marathons. A quick skim of the clippings confirmed her suspicion that gloves and lightweight jackets, particularly in Ottawa in May, were not unusual. Early on, she’d given a constable the task of scrutinizing each waste basket along the route, looking for discarded gloves. If the searchers retrieved them, DNA traces would help convict the murderer.
In the afternoon, she’d interview Staynor. No doubt a butcher could slice and chop with the best of them. For lunch, she sorted through the Glebe possibilities, dismissed one flashy Chinese and two upscale Italian restaurants as too expensive and settled on Turkish Delight, a cheap café located next to Marshalls, a smoke and magazine store. Because she liked to read while she ate, she stopped first at Marshalls—famous not only for the quantity and variety of magazines but also for the number of winning lottery tickets it sold—and bought the daily paper.
Front-page coverage of the murder dwelt on Robertson’s support of radical causes and on the murder weapon, a black handled boning knife. She turned from the front page to the death notices and read that donations to City church, the AIDS hospice, and St. Mark’s refugee fund were requested in lieu of flowers. Had the Christian gay community appreciated Robertson’s flamboyant campaign on their behalf?
When she’d finished the last buttery flake of phyllo dough soaked in honey, she licked her lips and shivered with pleasure. Warm and well-fed, she was prepared to absorb and assess the truths, half-truths and lies people would tell her.
Six
Her interview with Simpson left Hollis angry, jittery and ready for action. She punched in Marcus’s number.
“Hi, it’s Hollis. Are you busy? I’d like to come over and talk.”
“I haven’t laid eyes on you for ages. And, suddenly, it’s imperative for you to visit this very minute? You haven’t even been in my new apartment.”
Immersed in her own problems, she hadn’t considered how her request might sound. Before she could apologize, he spoke again in a different tone.
“I’m sorry. You must be really upset. I can’t imagine why you want to see me, but you’re welcome. I’ll make coffee.”
On the drive to his new apartment, she thought about their friendship and its beginning years before, when they’d met as two outsiders in an introductory photography course in the fine arts department at the university.
Marcus, enthralled with photography and a prizewinner in several competitions, had not believed he could make a living doing what he loved and enrolled in a practical university program—physical education. Allowed an arts option in his second year, he chose the course to refine his skills.
Although painting obsessed Hollis, and she had a diploma from the Ontario College of Art and Design, she, like Marcus, had chosen a safer route, undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in history. Because she often used reference photos and slides, she took the photography course to improve her skill.
Isolated from the main stream of younger students, each of them delightedly identified a kindred spirit. Initially, they shared coffee and bagels, later, wine and cheap meals. The term progressed and their friendship deepened as they discovered how much they had in common. They remained connected after the course ended.
Three months earlier, Marcus had moved to the third floor of an old house converted into three apartments. Hollis had meant to drop round and bring him a house-warming present, but the weeks passed, and it hadn’t happened. She rang the ground floor bell, climbed the painted brown stairs with the nailed-on black rubber treads and reached a glistening white door. A white cylindrical umbrella stand and its two black umbrellas contrasted with the dirty walls.
The door opened. Marcus, dressed as always in black, white and gray—polished black tassel loafers, black chinos, perfectly creased and belted, and a long-sleeved silvery gray collared shirt anchored with a black leather tie—waved her inside.
Each time she saw Marcus, she marvelled at the intensity of his navy blue eyes. His ginger hair, cropped and trimmed to military shortness, revealed small faun-like ears and complemented a fair complexion. The hand grasping the door was beautiful, with long thin fingers and cared-for nails. She’d always felt protective towards Marcus: his air of vulnerability touched her. But this time it was Marcus patting her back and offering sympathy.
“I’m sorry about Paul. You must be having a terrible time.”
“Not the greatest. Even though we were in the midst of divorce proceedings, it’s been a shock. It was a terrible way to die.” Tears threatened. To distract herself, she removed her glasses and polished them on her sleeve. “It’s been horrible.”
Marcus ushered her into the living room and left to collect the coffee. Hollis examined the white-painted, slope-ceiling room and catalogued the