his legs and feet. It’s just dissipating now. Normally, that takes about twelve hours, but on a cold night like last night, that process would be slowed down. Body temp readings have the same problem in reverse. At first guess, I’d say some time last evening between four and midnight. But he might have taken several hours to die, so that doesn’t help you much. I’ll have to get inside him to see what the damage was.”
Green glanced at Sullivan, but before he could even open his mouth to issue the order, Sullivan gave a curt nod. “Ident gave us a description and some shots of the body. The fall made a mess of half his face, but Cunny’s going to pull one of his digital miracles, so soon we’ll have a facial photo. But I’ve already got a street canvass in progress to see if anyone saw anything yesterday.”
Green held his tongue. He knew Sullivan was a capable investigator who hated it when Green single-mindedly ran roughshod over his case. Instead, Green nodded his agreement. “Anything turn up yet?”
“No one saw the man. Or at least no one’s admitted seeing him. But he’s a stranger around here, and sometimes these small villages don’t want to get involved.” As if sensing Green’s protest, he raised his hand. “I’ll go over the ground again later myself. Turn on the Ottawa Valley charm.”
Across the way, Green studied the villagers lingering near the scene. At this time on a regular workday, they were mostly old timers, who probably longed for the good old days when the village was served by a couple of friendly local boys from the Ontario Provincial Police detachment in Kemptville. To the old timers, Major Crimes detectives from the city would seem like alien voyeurs.
Not so to the children, who had grown up with TV crime shows and would probably be thrilled to be talking to real live cops. Once the children returned from school later in the day, Sullivan and his men might get an entirely different perspective. He turned back to the pathologist. “What can you tell us about the victim?”
MacPhail didn’t even need to consult his notes. “White male aged probably thirties, about five-ten, one fifty. No obvious marks or tattoos, no signs of illness or infirmity. Not someone you’d bring home to meet the wife, mind you. Stinks to high heaven, likely hasn’t bathed or changed his clothes in over a month. Greasy hair, teeth full of debris. His clothes weren’t his—the jacket’s much too big and the trousers were held up with rope. He’d put layers of newspaper under his shirt to keep himself warm.”
“A vagrant?” Green scanned the village thoughtfully. “Weird place for a vagrant.”
“Well, that’s the curious thing about our lad,” MacPhail countered. His eyes twinkled and Green knew he was enjoying the tease. “He’d obviously hit a rough patch recently, but his physical health was good, and he was well nourished and cared for. There are no obvious indications of drug or alcohol abuse, and his teeth have enjoyed the care of an excellent dentist. This is not a street person, laddies. This is a respectable citizen whose luck just changed.”
MacPhail’s chuckle lingered in the air long after he’d tossed them a wink and strode off to ready his van.
Sullivan gestured to the notes he’d been taking. “If he’s a respectable citizen, then someone, somewhere, will be looking for him. I’ll run this description through missing persons to see if we’ve had a recent report that fits.”
“Not too recent. Remember he hasn’t washed in over a month. Start with reports from August and early September.” Green scanned the quiet street. “What would bring a stranger to a village like this?”
“Maybe he was just passing through, on his way from Ottawa to Toronto, or back.”
“And got a sudden urge to go into a church and jump off the tower?” Green shook his head. “This village is not on any of the major roads to anywhere. You have to make quite an effort to get here. No...I think he chose this place.”
“Well, it would make a good place for a marijuana farm. Cops probably pass through here once a year.”
Green laughed. “But that still doesn’t explain the church. Of all places in town, he chose a goddamn boarded up church. What did it mean to him?”
“Maybe nothing more than a place to keep warm,” Sullivan replied. “We’ve had heavy frost the last few nights.” Sullivan’s practical mind had an answer for everything except the nagging doubt in Green’s gut. On purely police procedural grounds, it was far too early to rule out the possibility of foul play. The lack of defensive wounds and the apparent randomness of the death said very little on their own without forensic examination of the crime scene and a thorough canvas of the town. Perhaps the man was an utter stranger to the town, perhaps not. Perhaps he had a personal connection to something—or someone—that had drawn him here.
“Ask the duty inspector if we can get the mobile command post down here and some extra men—”
Sullivan was drawing a sketch of the square, and he looked up skeptically. “Mobile command post? For this?”
Green grinned. “Why not? We’ve got an unidentified body, a possible missing person, a crime scene covered in blood, MacPhail, Cunningham... Besides, the big, huge, shiny truck ought to impress the hell out of the locals. And while you’re getting it ordered up, I’ll just wander over to talk to the man who found the body.”
Before Sullivan could mount an objection, Green headed across the square to St. James’ Church, the elegant red brick structure with an ornate silver spire. The minister of St. James had been making a routine check of the boarded up church when he discovered the body. If he had responsibility for keeping an eye on the place, perhaps he knew something about its history as well.
Green found Reverend Bolton in the rear of his church, ostensibly bent over his paperwork but actually keeping a keen eye on the drama through the leaded panes of his office window. The stubby man, who still looked a tinge green from his ordeal, blotted his glistening bald spot with a sodden handkerchief and blinked rapidly as he listened to Green’s request.
“Oh, Ashford Methodist Church has been closed for over fifteen years now. When Reverend Taylor retired, you see... It was a small congregation of mainly old timers, and when he left, most of them came over here to St. James.” He watched the Ident team doing a slow sweep of the tall weeds. “It’s a lovely old building, really. We’ve tried to do various things with it over the years. Community suppers, day cares, even school plays, but the last while... Well, the stone interior just became too expensive to heat. So it’s been up for sale, probably will be bought by some upscale couple from Ottawa.”
“How many entrances are there?”
“Just the two. That front door and a small one out the back. Both are kept locked, of course.”
“Who has the keys?”
“I have a set, which I gave to the police when they arrived. And of course, there’s a lock box from the real estate company on the door at the rear.”
“Would any of the former congregants still have keys?”
“After all this time? I shouldn’t think so, but I can’t be sure. Reverend Taylor was rather...” Bolton paused as if searching for tact. “Generous about such things, so it’s possible. But you should ask him.”
Green’s eyebrows shot up. “Is he still alive?”
A ghost of a smile slipped across Reverend Bolton’s lips. “Last I heard he was still preaching up a storm in Riverview Seniors’
