a day! What does she do with the other?”
“Cooperative education placement. She gets credits for it plus valuable job experience, that’s the theory. Hannah is working in a school, of all places, and enjoying it, so there may be method to their madness.” He sighed and rested his back against the seat. Hannah still evoked a strange mix of emotions whenever his thoughts ventured near. “I don’t want to fuck this up. Nothing Ashley’s tried has worked for Hannah, and I just want to...connect. But damn, when you’ve got nothing to build on but resentment, it’s tough.”
“It’s tough even if you have raised them all along. Especially girls. There are times Lizzie doesn’t talk to me for days on end. Boy, you got to learn patience, and that was never your strong suit anyway.” Sullivan steered around a tractor hauling a wagon of baled hay. “But believe in yourself, Mike. If you love the kid, that’s going to show.”
“If you love the kid...” Green thought. Not the pig-tailed imp of his imagination, but this sullen, spiky reality. He fell silent and stared out the window in search of distraction. Human habitation had begun to increase sporadically as they neared the village of Ashford Landing. An automotive garage here, a warehouse there and a sprinkling of newer bungalows along the highway.
“Working on it,” he replied finally. “Now before we actually meet the Rural West guys, maybe you should tell me what they’ve got so far. Who’s the victim?”
Sullivan didn’t miss a beat, switching gears smoothly to return to the case. “So far nobody has a clue, which is suspicious in itself, because Ashford Landing is one of those tiny farm communities where people have lived forever. All Belowsky can tell is that he’s not a country boy.”
Green grinned. “His neck not red enough?”
“Not red at all. He’s pale as a man out of solitary.” Sullivan held out his square, freckled hand. “Not an honest callous to his name either. A local minister found him this morning, partially hidden in the tall weeds at the base of the church.”
“Which coroner did they call in?”
“MacPhail should already be out there. I called him.”
Green looked at Sullivan shrewdly. To have called in the city’s foremost forensic pathologist instead of one of the regular coroners, Sullivan had to have some suspicion lurking in the back of his implacable mind.
“What the hell aren’t you telling me, Brian?”
Sullivan’s smile broadened, and he shook his head as if in reluctant admiration. “Okay, there are some things that bothered my buddy. But I don’t want to tell you, because I want you to see the scene fresh, to make sure it’s not just the rural boys’ imagination working overtime.”
Brian Sullivan expecting me to be the voice of rational restraint? That’s a first, thought Green. Sullivan was the most pragmatic, down-to-earth investigator he knew, whereas Green was the one with the fondness for the wild blue yonder. But as soon as he laid eyes on the scene, he understood what Sullivan meant.
The village appeared suddenly over the crest of a hill—a small cluster of century-old buildings snuggled on the bank of the river. Glimpses of broad verandas and steeply pitched roofs showed through the canopy of trees, and battered pick-ups adorned the drives. Three old churches surrounded the square at the centre of the village. Two had tall, stately belfries, immaculate lawns, and freshly painted signs announcing the hours of worship. The third, the one surrounded by squad cars, yellow tape and gawking villagers, was abandoned and boarded up tight. Furthermore, the front door sported a padlock big enough for Green to see it clear across the road.
It looked as if no one had been near it in years.
Sullivan drew his car up behind the white forensics van, and the two detectives climbed out into the crisp fall air. Green leaned against the car to take in the scene. The village had looked idyllic from the hill crest, but close up, its faded signs and peeling paint bore witness to the harshness of rural life, and the big “For Sale” sign nailed to the wall of the deserted church looked as if it had weathered many storms. The diminutive limestone church sat amidst tall, withered weeds, bordered on one side by a small cemetery and on the other by woods. Its steeply pitched roof glinted silver in the noon sun, and a heavy stone archway framed its dark oak door.
There were a number of curious aspects to the scene. First was the obvious question of why that particular bell tower, which was the shortest and ugliest on the square. If the man had been looking for a view, there were taller, more promising ones, and if he had been looking for architectural charm, the red brick church across the square, with its stately gothic spire, offered far more. Secondly and more importantly, with all the windows boarded up and the front door padlocked, how the hell had the man got in?
A pair of Ident officers in white bunny suits prowled around in the grass at the base of the tower, obscuring the body from Green’s view. Green recognized one of them as Lyle Cunningham, a neat freak with a passion for high tech gadgetry and sterile crime scenes. No doubt he wouldn’t let either detective within fifty feet of the body, so Green was about to call him over when Dr. Alexander MacPhail himself emerged around the corner of the tower, closing his coroner’s bag and plucking burrs from his pant legs. He cast Green a jaunty grin as he strode towards them, and his rich brogue boomed across the square.
“Well, this is a wee bonnie town, isn’t it, lads? Nice drive into the country, with the maples turning and all.”
Green braced himself as MacPhail engulfed his hand in a bone-crushing grip. “Seems a weird place to end it all, that’s for sure,” Green replied. “What does it look like?”
“I’ve left him to the crime scene lads for the moment, but I should get him on the table tomorrow morning. He’s got a bloody great crack that smashed half his skull, creating lots of bleeding out through the ears, nose and mouth. He’s lying face down, and the rock beneath his head has blood and hairs all over it. Bad luck, that rock. I’d guess the fall knocked him out, and over the hours the intra cranial bleeding killed him. Just a working theory at the moment, of course.”
“Accidental fall or deliberate?”
“Well, I don’t quite read minds yet, laddie. But if I were in the business, I’d have to say he jumped deliberately.”
MacPhail’s pockmarked face was deadpan, but the slight twitch at the corner of his lip gave him away. “Why?” Green asked. “Did he trace a suicide note in the dirt beside him?”
“No, but it’s a wee bit difficult to fall off a tower that has a three-foot stone parapet all around the top.”
Green glanced up at the tower, noting the thick wall around the top. “But I understand some of the wall gave way.”
“It would still be quite a feat to fall off, unless of course the man was walking along the top, high on something. I’ll do the usual tox screen for mind-altering substances.”
“Still,” Green persisted, “he could have been pushed.”
MacPhail shrugged. “That’s a job for your lads, I just get the body. However, I don’t see any evidence of it. No defensive wounds, no scrapes on the hands. If someone was trying to force him up over that wall, I’d expect him to be grabbing what he could.”
Including his assailant, Green thought, but knew better than to tell MacPhail how to do his job. The pathologist would tell him soon enough whether
