“Name?”
“Edith Walmsley, age seventy-six. Kitchener address.”
“Sounds familiar — she has a history, you say?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Dan heard the tapping of keys. Stryker grunted. Then, “Oh, shit — her! Crazy bitch. Yeah, she’s here. This time we’re keeping her till we make sure her family knows what she does with her spare time. I don’t want her coming back with that poor little old lady story.”
“Shoplifting again?”
“You got it. More jewellery. This latest price tag might just put her in the big league.”
They had a chuckle over the foibles of little old ladies then Stryker had to take another call. “Say hi to the wife for me,” he said, hanging up.
“If I had one I would,” Dan said to the empty air.
One down, two to go. A drink would serve him well now. He slid the drawer forward and reached for the Scotch. He twisted the top and hesitated. When was the last time he’d worried that he couldn’t be bothered to use a glass? Too long ago. Anyway, it was just one. The initial gulp tasted medicinal, iodine on an open wound. The second went down easier.
The next file was more difficult. Two years earlier, a male vic had been found in the Don Valley with gunshot wounds to the face and head. The description was laughably commonplace: white, 175 centimetres tall, 22 to 25 years old, brown hair, heavy tattoo work on the chest and arms. Numerous calls had come in for someone with that description; it never turned out to be him. The case languished in the John Doe files before showing up on a junior officer’s desk. It was another month before it was transferred to Dan’s.
Dan and the junior officer had perused the photographs together. A tattooed word caught Dan’s attention: bog. Dan thought he saw what the problem was.
“What kind of moron tattoos bog on his chest?” the underling sneered.
“Maybe a Serbian moron,” Dan said. “It means ‘God’ in Serb. You ask off continent?”
The man’s face fell. “How the hell was I supposed to know that?”
“Never assume anything about a man who can’t tell you how he ended up on a morgue table,” Dan said.
The underling stared at Dan as though he were God in any language. Dan wasn’t about to tell him he knew only two words in Serb, thanks to a former lover who’d come and gone with the greeting “Pomoz’ bog.” God help you. Though in this case, it appears God hadn’t.
The call came from Bosnia a week later. A woman had reported her son missing two years before. He’d left home looking for employment in March. He hadn’t said where he was going but maintained cellphone contact with her until August 16, the day the unidentified body turned up in the Toronto ravine. The Serbian police forwarded the report and a dozen snapshots. The only thing that didn’t fit was the age. According to his mother, her son was thirty-two when he disappeared.
Whether he was twenty-five or an underdeveloped thirty-two wouldn’t make much difference. Dan looked over the photograph of a mop-haired young man in a navy T. Spiky tattoos peeked from under the sleeves. Dan pulled up the morgue photos. The dead man’s face was too damaged to confirm anything, but the tattoos showed a similarity.
The photographs supplied by desperate relatives fascinated Dan. Of course, with hindsight you could read whatever you wanted into them. Those sad eyes might be holding back a lifetime of misery and despair, or maybe they were just bloodshot from drink. That grim stare could belong to someone who’d finally found the determination to leave a hopeless situation, or it might have been masking a simple dislike for the photographer.
The “why” could be more difficult to determine. Some disappeared to punish whoever kept them from whatever was “out there.” Occasionally they returned on their own, without finding what they were seeking. Dan wondered if the ones who never showed up again had been more successful. Still others claimed not to know why they’d left or even to have considered who might have been hurt by their actions. Sometimes it was sheer desperation, a last chance to escape whatever held them back. It didn’t matter — they just went. Then there were the ones who didn’t have a chance to think about it, because vanishing was the last thing on their minds. They had futures, careers, families — and every reason to stay. They turned up in ditches and farmers’ fields years later, a pile of bones, a tag of cloth, a collection of dental records. What had made them the target of murderers, the victim of rapists who felt they had no choice but to finish a job gone wrong? These were the most intriguing ones.
The second-last photograph showed a group of young men playing ball near a line of bleachers. Marker arrows pointed to a shirtless figure, his right arm thrown back and a ball in hand. The torso was wiry, the ribs too prominent. A blazon of hair ran up his belly and across his chest. Dan’s eyes lingered. If the boy had been alive, he might have found the photo erotic. Being aroused by pictures of the dead made Dan queasy, however. He brought out a magnifying glass and leaned in. On the left pectoral over the heart, he could just make out the word bog. Case closed.
He signed off on the file and wondered about his Bosnian counterpart — the one who would contact the family with the news. No matter how a case ended, Dan seldom took pleasure from it. It was work. Whether he successfully tracked someone down or had to pass on bad news had little bearing on how he presented it. He offered his findings quietly, but unambiguously. “Your son died of natural causes.” “The dental work confirms it’s your daughter’s body.” “Your wife is alive and well, but no longer a woman.” His words fell with simple gravity, as though he were pronouncing a sentence the hearer must bear accordingly.
Some took the news quietly. Others cried or broke down, knowing their lives were changed forever, if not outright ruined. For some it came as a combination of pain and relief at finally knowing. Knowledge could stop the hoping, but it didn’t make things better. They were the ones who made Dan’s life hell, though he didn’t resent them. It was the ones who didn’t or wouldn’t grieve he resented, as though they’d made his work a failure, like a fireman saving a burning building only to learn it had been condemned. He hated futility — the feeling that his work amounted to nothing. “No return” was unacceptable.
In the course of his investigations, Dan was meticulous. A missing person’s past was like a shadow thrown against a curtain, all outline and little detail. Sometimes the smallest point was the telling one. He thought of the junior who’d missed out on the word bog. The mistake was understandable, but it was sloppy work all the same. Know thoroughly the nature of what you’re being asked to investigate and then look for the unexpected — that was Dan’s modus operandi. It was the only way to find the missing, especially if they didn’t want to be found.
He stopped and took another pull from the bottle, then settled in again. He brought up the last file and glanced at the overview. He didn’t have to read far. Why anyone was surprised when abused teenagers ran away, Dan couldn’t imagine. The fourteen-year-old, Richard Philips, had left his home in Oshawa following an argument with his mother and stepfather. The photograph showed a dark-haired teenager with wary eyes and a pouting mouth. Dan wondered who’d taken the shot.
The details were predictable. Richard’s problems had started when he was twelve, not long after his mother remarried to a man who never got along with her son. According to his mother, her son had been picked on at school. More importantly, he had sexuality issues. Richard’s stepfather threatened him after police nabbed him hanging around a gay cruising area. The boy disappeared two weeks later when the same officer picked him up again.
Dan sat back. He could easily imagine some sadistic homophobe getting his jollies by fucking with the kid’s nascent sex drive. At that age, it was hard enough to accept yourself for what you were. To have bullying cops, taunting classmates, and a narrow-minded stepfather harassing you might prove too much for some kids. Running away was one solution. Suicide was the other.
The