Ked groaned.
“… and you’ve got at least one guest coming for supper, so let’s go get ready.”
Upstairs in his office, Dan set his laptop on the chair and cleared his desk. On the walls, Martha Stewart’s Corn Husk competed for calm with the green-and-white striped shade pulled down. A single upright oak shelf held investigative reports, half-read anthropological texts, and a handful of slim detective novels, book-ended by Joyce, Pound, Proust.
Dan had three cases to write up before the weekend. Donny would be here by eight o’clock, and that left only tomorrow and Friday morning. After that, the wedding would take up all his free time. If he didn’t work now, they might not get done.
He pulled up the latest: a seventy-six-year-old female who hadn’t returned from a day trip to Toronto. He scanned the screen. No physical or mental impairment. The woman’s daughter had tried to file a report with the Kitchener police; no one would take a formal statement. She’d been advised to contact the Toronto force, who confirmed they’d had notice of her mother’s whereabouts on two previous occasions. The bottom of the report carried a familiar name.
Dan flipped through his Rolodex and fingered a card. He had a good guess what had happened. If he were right, Sergeant Carmen Stryker could probably confirm it. He glanced at the clock — nearly seven. If Stryker was still at work, that is.
The phone rang once and someone grabbed it. “Stryker.”
“Hey, Carm. Dan Sharp here.”
“Sharp! How the hell are ya?”
“Plugging away at it.” Dan pictured the beefy sergeant sweating at his desk. “How about you? Still on the desk, I see.”
“Fuckers!” the cop growled. “I never get outta here before eight.”
Dan heard what sounded like a fist banged onto a desktop.
“You’re too good at what you do, my man. If you stopped solving problems indoors, they’d have you back on the streets in a flash.”
A hearty laugh. “You got that right! Anyway, what can I do you for? Your mother disappear again?”
“Close. You must be reading crystal balls. I got a misper who came through your office twice before. Wondered if you were keeping her holed up there again.”
“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
