with surprise. Not only had Peters used her initiative and tracked down a very useful lead, but she must have been up well before dawn to do so, if she’d slept at all. He felt a twinge of shame.
“Very good, Peters. Put it all in your report and . . . have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, sir. At the train station while I talked to the porter. I bought him a cup of coffee.”
“Good. After you finish your report, I want you to return to the train station. Take a street map and buy the porter lunch. Read him every street in Vanier, and we’ll see if we can jog his memory.”
She gave a broad smile as she slapped her notebook shut. “That’s what I thought, sir. I’ve already asked him his lunch hour. Will you tell Gibbsie where I’ve gone?”
He let the nickname pass as he watched her leave. She’d no sooner clumped into the elevator than Green caught a movement in the squad room, and he looked up to see Bob Gibbs’s gangly form striding through the desks towards his office, clearly a man on a mission. Green’s hopes quickened. Could it be that this unlikely pair was going to crack this case all by themselves?
When Gibbs had crowded into Green’s tiny office, the unmistakable odour of death and disinfectant permeated the air. Green had been about to close the door but thought better of it.
“You’ve come from the autopsy.”
Gibbs folded his lanky frame into the guest chair and nodded with alacrity. Green was pleased to see that he was flushed a healthy pink rather than sickly green. The young detective had only attended a couple of autopsies, but this was another sign that he was coming into his own. He didn’t even bother to consult his notes.
“It was murder, sir. Without a doubt. There were big bruises around her neck and some abrasions on her arms and legs which MacPhail thinks are consistent with her thrashing about during a struggle.”
“Did she drown?”
“No, sir. Death was asphyxia due to manual strangulation. There was no water in her lungs and stomach, but several of the vertebrae in her neck were crushed.”
Green visualized the scene. The victim was not a small woman, and she had obviously been conscious and resisting during the assault. It would have taken a powerful and ruthless assailant to hold her down long enough to kill her. “What else did MacPhail find?”
Here Gibbs consulted his meticulous notes and began to read them off. “Victim is 167 centimetres in height, 49 kilograms in weight, estimated age between thirty and forty years, eyes blue, natural hair colour blonde turning grey. Poorly nourished and a heavy smoker and drinker, but no signs of other drug use. No tattoos, scars, or other distinguishing marks. Internal exam reveals a healthy subject except for early signs of lung and liver damage. Contents of the stomach negative for food, but there were traces of scotch. Blood alcohol at time of death was .04.”
“Which is probably just one drink. What did he say about time of death?”
“He was sticking by his earlier estimate. Based on ambient air temperature, body temp, frost in the ground and her early stages of rigor mortis, he estimated she’d been dead five to nine hours.”
Green did a rapid calculation. “So she was killed between eleven last night and three this morning.”
Gibbs nodded.
“After consuming one scotch.” Green’s thoughts began to roam afield, making connections. The victim was thin and sickly, but even weak people put up tremendous resistance when they’re fighting for their life. Her killer would have had to be strong and determined, and he or she—more likely he—would probably have taken some hits during the struggle. Although the victim hadn’t been dressed to impress, the timing of the murder, the consumption of the single scotch, and the brute violence of the crime suggested a date gone bad. Pure speculation at this point, but a direction to pursue.
“Anything under the fingernails?” he asked.
“Some fibres and dirt, sir. I took it all over to the RCMP lab.”
“Any signs of sexual assault or activity?”
Gibbs shook his head. “But there was one other thing. She’d borne a child, quite a few years ago.”
Green had jotted down some notes on his notepad, and he sat tapping his pen as he pondered their next move. Until they knew who the woman was, it was difficult to investigate her close associates and to track her recent movements. As he weighed ideas, he became aware of the silence that had fallen and of Gibbs’s anxious eyes upon him.
“Sir? Now that it’s a confirmed homicide, are you g-going to assign the case to one of the sergeants?”
Green considered his options. They were few. He had one sergeant on holiday and another tied up full-time on the Byward murders, which continued to draw media attention and to jam the phones with calls. The third had far less experience than Gibbs in homicide cases. Besides, Barbara Devine had told him to watch Gibbs’s every move, which gave him an excuse to be back in the field again.
“Not at all, Bob,” he said. “I want you to get back onto the Halifax police with these new details about the Jane Doe, and tell them it’s now a priority one homicide case.”
Far to the south, fog banked up over the ocean, but overhead the sky was blue and sunlight dazzled the whitecaps in Halifax Harbour. Sergeant Kate McGrath stood at the window of her Dartmouth condo, sipping her coffee and staring out over the shipyard into the harbour beyond. From her earliest childhood memory, the ocean always had the power to awe her. Chunks of pack ice still bobbed in the distance, but in the shelter of the inner harbour, the first brave sailboats were already dancing on the brisk spring breeze.
She finished her coffee, changed into her spandex running suit, and pulled her Gore-tex jacket on top. Even though it was sunny, she knew the wind and salt spray of the ferry ride would chill her to the bone before she was halfway across.
The two-kilometre run from her condo to the ferry terminal was barely enough to get her endorphins flowing, but when she stepped aboard and headed for her favourite spot at the upper bow, a sense of peace spread through her. The engine thrummed, the waves slapped against the hull, and in front of her, the City of Halifax rose steeply in a jumble of brick buildings and narrow streets towards the historic stone citadel at its crown.
She’d been right to move here after Sean’s death. Not back to the craggy beauty of the Newfoundland coast where she’d been raised, but to this gentler, lusher landscape, where pain and privation weren’t etched so deeply into the soul. Sean had been blasted through the front door of a farmhouse by a shotgun during a routine domestic dispute call, ending her marriage barely a year after their honeymoon. The waterfront condo had cost her almost all his insurance settlement from the Truro Police, but it had been worth it. After twelve years here, the pain of his death had been worn smooth and soft.
When the ferry docked on the Halifax side, she began the serious leg of her run, almost straight up the hillside from the boardwalk to the base of the citadel, where the sleek new headquarters of the Halifax Regional Police sprawled over an entire city block. She was always one of the first to arrive for her shift, which gave her plenty of time to shower, change and grab a snack before afternoon parade.
Today she had to fight a fierce
