Chapter One

 

She made me do it. Stupid bloody cow. Always fussing around, watching me. Who asked her?

He wipes the last of the mess from the floor and struggles to his feet.

What did she expect me to do? I warned her. Snooping into things that aren’t her business. Spying. Now look what she made me do.

Tossing the filthy towel into the open trunk he slumps against the back of the car, breathing hard and struggling to catch his breath.

This is where that gets you. Stupid cow. It’s not my fault.

He slams the trunk shut and makes his way back into the house then slumps into his chair as darkness falls.

Chapter Two

Tuesday

“Body parts before breakfast isn’t how I was hoping to start my day,” Vogel grumbles as he climbs in the car. He looks like death warmed over. Probably hungover.

“I’ll buy you pancakes after, as a consolation prize.”

“Waffles, please.” Vogel groans then pops a couple of painkillers as I pull out into traffic. “Late night.” He leans his head against the headrest and closes his eyes and his self-satisfied expression says he’d really like me to ask how his date went, but I don’t bite. I have no interest and know he’ll tell me soon enough, whether I want him to or not.

“Where are we going?” he mumbles.

“Just the other side of Gravelly Bay. You could probably have seen it from your balcony, if you were paying attention.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“An arm.” Vogel looks relieved. I get it; an arm’s not so bad, given the options. “Found by a guy who was out kayaking. Just floated by as he was launching off the beach by that little point near the Yacht Club.”

Within a few minutes we’re at the crime scene. The severed arm is now up on the beach, thanks to the work of one of the uniformed constables, one of whom is soaking wet from the waist down. They’re both now keeping a close eye on it, as if they’re afraid it might crawl away.

The constables fall back to allow Vogel and I a better look, but I’m not in any rush to get closer. From where I’m standing I can see the arm is decomposed and bloated, the skin slimy and yellowish. I’m sure if Vogel gets any closer he’ll puke.

“It doesn’t really look like a human body part at all,” one of them says. “Not at first glance. I’m surprised the kayaker even noticed it.”

“He thought it was a dead carp,” the other chimes in.

“Where is he now–the guy who found the arm?”
“Just over there,” the constable indicates a figure sitting on a bench in the parking lot. “He’s not feeling so great.” The kayaker is wearing a wetsuit and has his back determinedly to the arm. He’s not risking another look.

“You’ve taken his statement and contact information?” The constable nods. “Then let him go home. There’s no need for him to hang around any longer.”

I take a deep breath and walk over to the arm, with Vogel and one of the constables following behind.

“Where do you suppose it’s from?” I have to force myself to look more closely at it. I think it’s male, given its size, but maybe that’s from being in the water. Not sure if the bloating would make it seem bigger. “No distinguishing features that I can see–no tattoos, no watch or jewellery. It’s just an arm, torn off somewhere above the elbow.”

“Torn off?”

“Yeah I’d say so. It definitely doesn’t look like a clean cut.”

“Where do you suppose it’s from?” Vogel looks out across Lake Erie. He’s doing his best to not actually look at the severed arm. “A boat out there, maybe a body dump?”

“Or just some poor drowned guy whose arm got torn off by a passing propeller.” There’s nothing more to see, so we head back to the parking lot to wait for the Forensic Services Unit.

“We need to contact Missing Persons…see if anyone’s been reported.”

“Wonder where he went in,” Vogel says, still scanning the shoreline. “There’s not a lot of current here on the bay.”

“From the canal, maybe?” one of the Constables interjects. “The Welland Canal locks move about twenty million gallons of water in ten minutes. Maybe when the lock opened the water just…flushed the arm out?”

“It’s a thought…” Vogel begins, looking intrigued at the idea.

“…Doubtful,” a voice interrupts. It’s Jun Song, a Special Constable with FSU, who has just arrived. “Generally speaking,” she continues, “water flows downhill–that is, from Lake Erie toward Lake Ontario. The lock doesn’t discharge that huge volume of water in this direction–it’s going the other way.” She gives the Constable a look to make sure he understands. I see his forehead is wrinkled in thought. Nope, he doesn’t.

“So,” Vogel says. “It seems unlikely the arm came from someone passing through the canal.”

Jun holds up her hand. “I’m not the expert here,” she says. “We’ll have to wait for Todor.” I can’t suppress a groan. Todor is a dick and I know from bitter experience he’s not going to give us anything. Vogel and Jun grin.

“Is there any chance we’ll find fingerprints,” I ask with a glance at the rotting arm.

“Maybe,” Jun says with a shrug. “It depends on the amount of decomposition. There is technology to lift fingerprints from severely decomposed bodies.”

“Really?”

“Not here, of course,” Jun says, her brow furrowed in thought as she studies the arm. “We’d need to send it into CFS.” The Center of Forensic Sciences in Toronto is the leading forensic scientific lab in North America, with facilities far beyond anything we’ve got in the Niagara Region.

“It depends on how long it’s been submerged, how many predators might have had a nibble…” Jun continues, as she inspects the arm. “Water’s been cold, which helps reduce bacteria. But sure, the technology exists. They inject the artery with formaldehyde and various agents–basically embalming it to stop decomp. Then they reconstruct the flesh volume of the finger pads so they can get a print. I understand the quality is pretty good,” she says. “All things considered…”
An SUV pulls into the parking lot. It’s Todor, the Coroner on duty. I immediately head for my car, leaving the chat to Vogel. I am not in the mood to deal with Todor today.

Even though Vogel had three cups of coffee to wash down his waffles he’s still barely awake when we leave the restaurant, but at least he doesn’t look green. He tosses me the car keys and climbs into the passenger seat, which irritates me. Our understanding is that he drives whenever we work together–because he enjoys it and I don’t, and now I’m going to have to reverse out of a tight spot.

“So who is this guy again?” Vogel rubs his eyes and looks pathetic.

“Seriously? Did you sleep through the briefing yesterday?” My irritation grows when I check the rearview mirror. Damn. Some jerk has blocked the car in, probably in a rush to get the breakfast special. I try to back out of the narrow parking spot and fail.

I reverse and take another try at it. Fail.

“Shaun Pearson.” I put the car into drive and take another shot, turning the wheel and creeping forward. “He’s on day parole, residing at the halfway house on Main Street. Last seen before he went to visit the family home on Sunday morning. Father’s Day.”

“What’s his family say?”

“They wouldn’t open the door to him, so he left a card in the mailbox. They say they last saw him walk away, down the street.”

“Happy families, eh?” Vogel shakes his head. “Wait a minute,” his eyes snap open. “Father’s Day was two days ago. Why didn’t the halfway house report it when he was first in breach of parole?”

“You tell me.”

I tense as the car bumper scrapes against the brick wall. Damn. Damn. Damn. Vogel wipes the smile off his face, but not before I see it. He knows to keep his mouth shut. I’d kill him if he tried to tell me how to drive.

“Probably some bureaucrat was hoping to avoid paperwork.”

“Did they put a shot of cynicism in your coffee?” Vogel laughs. “Or are you just pissed off about scratching the car?”

“Why would I be pissed off? It’s your car Vogel–mine’s in the shop so I borrowed yours. Remember?”

As we drive past City Hall we have to slow down to get past a media scrum. There are satellite news trucks and reporters blocking the street out front. Margaret Lawrence, one of our local Councillors, is standing on the top step behind a podium covered in microphones. She’s flanked by the Co-Councillor from her Ward and the Mayor, showing their support.

“Asking the media to respect her family’s privacy at this difficult time?”

Nude photos of Councillor Lawrence were leaked online last week, creating a media sensation across the province. She’d told us–the police–that she was being blackmailed. But she’d called his bluff and refused to pay him what he demanded. This is the result–embarrassment all around and local government doing frantic damage control.

“Doubt it. She’s lost her privacy and her dignity. Now she’s losing her job.”

We cross the bridge over the canal and drive along the island, heading for downtown. I can see the sparkling water of Lake Erie, glistening in the brilliant summer sun. It’s going to be hot later today, but there aren’t many boats out on the water yet since it’s a weekday.

“Didn’t we just do this last month?” Vogel says. “Seriously. It feels like these guys are being released on parole and end up just walking away. I’ve never returned one yet.”

“Eight have gone missing in the past two years,” I say. “Which you’d know if you’d been paying attention during the briefing.” Vogel gets no argument from me. Offenders like Shaun Pearson may be released to halfway houses on day parole to serve out their sentences in the community. But they’re under strict conditions–or they’re supposed to be, and one of those is to return nightly to the halfway house. Eight of them didn’t comply, nine if you count Shaun Pearson.

There’d been a lot of resistance to the residential facility opening in the first place. The general public disapproved and several people were very vocal about it. Put that shit in Niagara Falls. Not here. There was a Letter to the Editor in the paper just last week criticizing the halfway house and its negative impact on the community. Another prisoner breaking parole and going on the run isn’t going to look good if word gets out.

Heated debates had gone on for weeks in Council, and legal wrangling for months before that, around the zoning change required to turn a private home into a multiple residence. Once the zoning was changed it would allow for any kind of future development, including condominiums and hotels–and they felt that kind of precedent spelled the end of the heritage district of downtown.

But really, the biggest concern was having these ex-cons and addicts in town at all. Even though there were only going to be a couple of dozen living at Kerr Residence at any one time, nobody felt reassured.

“The locals didn’t want these guys living in their neighbourhood in the first place,” Vogel says. “They sure won’t want to hear another one is at large. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Look on the bright side Vogel. He might be dead.”