we’re everywhere,” Dan said, scowling.
The cop looked him over, taking note of his boxer’s physique. “You’re kidding me,” he said, with a look of surprise. “You one of them too?”
“Spare me your hang-ups,” Dan said.
The cop shook his head in disgust then turned to his partner. He nodded at the corpse. “First this perv and now queers. I think we’re done here.”
Dan’s ears twigged at the word: perv. What did they know about Hillary that he didn’t?
Once the officers left, the coroner nodded ruefully. “Not the most pleasant of chaps. They’re not all like that, mind, but some of the younger ones need to be taken down a peg or two.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Dan said. “I won’t tackle them. They get away with far too much now, from what I hear.”
Tim smiled. “And by the way, they mentioned the name, so yes, I’m happy to confirm that this is your man. Or perhaps I should say I’m sorry to confirm this is your man, depending on your outlook.”
He pointed to the form on his clipboard where the name Darryl Hillary was printed next to the line identifying the deceased. They all looked down at the body, as though it might contradict them.
“Cause of death was strangling,” said the coroner, pointing out purple ligature marks around the neck that Dan hadn’t seen in the darkened slaughterhouse interior.
“So someone strong then,” Dan noted.
“I’d say so. Or possibly more than one person. He was killed after being beaten. He was tormented first, quite methodically. I can assure you that considerable pain was inflicted before he died.” He pointed to the face. “He suffered a broken nose and a bashed-in left cheekbone, both probably the result of being hit with a metal pipe or bar of some sort. It would have to have been exceptionally painful. The missing ear may have been sliced off while he was alive.” He looked at Dan. “It’s hard to say. If it was, then he died soon after. Strangling was the coup de grâce. I’d say this man knew he was going to die. And he probably welcomed it.”
“So cruelty was part of the killer’s intention,” Dan said.
“Undoubtedly. But as to its purpose, I can’t say. Someone may have been trying to extract information or maybe they just wanted him to suffer.”
“Was the ear retrieved?”
“I gather it wasn’t found on the premises, so whoever killed him may be a souvenir collector.”
“That’s a gruesome thought,” Dan said.
The coroner nodded. “Howard was correct in saying he’s going to have a hard time making Mr. Hillary presentable for the family.” He looked over at Howard. “But Howard is one of the best. I have absolute faith in his work.”
The coroner pulled the cover over Darryl Hillary’s chest and face, reducing him to a lump beneath a sheet.
Dan shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for your time and your candour.”
“You’re welcome.”
Howard followed Dan out into the hallway. “Catch a coffee with me?” he asked. “I promise not to throw it at you.”
Dan smiled. “Why not?”
Four
Romeo and Juliet in Love
Darlene Hillary’s address lay nestled in Dan’s cellphone beneath her home number. Though he dreaded it, Dan knew he had to give her the news as soon as possible. The most humane as well as the most difficult way to convey news of a loved one’s death was to tell the relatives in person. The people who hired him to find their family members pinned a certain amount of hope on him. Usually, that hope was that he would find them alive and well, somehow and somewhere. Of course, the alternative was always an ever-present if unspoken possibility. No one realized this more than Dan. When he had bad news to deliver, most of the clients still expressed gratitude for the knowledge that would allow them to grieve and, when possible, get on with their lives. Some feared or hated him for the pain he brought. A few, however irrational it was, blamed him. No matter how Dan delivered the news, no matter under what circumstances, he felt like a monster.
He turned right onto the Gardiner Expressway and joined a queue of cars heading west out of the city. Twenty minutes later he reached Etobicoke, one of Toronto’s “postal villages.” This was where Darlene Hillary had lived with her brother. Dan nosed onto Daisy Avenue, a short street north of Lakeshore Boulevard. In this neighbourhood, the houses were minuscule, almost of dollhouse proportions. He found the number and pulled up at the curb. In the front yard, an apple tree offered up small red globes for viewing. Children on bikes screamed at one another and threw balls in a replica of an idyllic existence. The improbable dream that was the promise of suburbia.
The woman who came to the door was not much larger than a doll herself, but one that had aged badly. Raggedy Anne on the downlow. The planes of her face were hard, the skin dry, suggesting illness or possibly that she’d been living under great strain for some time. The eyes glinted, but not with joy. There was no mirth there, no trust. People who lived with grief or fear long enough ended up wearing it on their faces, Dan knew. A permanently down-turned mouth was one of the signs of a pessimistic personality. Darlene Hillary looked like someone who had long since accepted that life was going to be hard and there was no use bringing it up to management, because Heaven was deaf to all complaints. A bartender would have proved a more sympathetic listener to someone like her.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said before he could introduce himself. “The police were here ten minutes ago.”
Dan took the news in stride, remembering the dismissive Mr. and Mrs. Spratt. He felt both resentful and grateful they’d beat him to it.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, offering the obligatory catchall that cut through the awkwardness of emotion. “I wish I could have done more.”
She nodded her acceptance of his admission that he’d been unable to find her brother in time, but letting him know there was no blame.
“If only he hadn’t run. You might’ve been able to protect him.”
Dan doubted that. “In my experience, people run when they believe the threats against them are real. Did your brother have any enemies?”
“Not that I knew of.” A rueful shrug. “But then, how much do we really know about other people, even the ones we live with?”
A philosophical turn of mind then, Dan noted. Apparently she didn’t expect an answer.
Normally, he would have left it there. He’d offer his condolences and make an exit. But something felt incomplete.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions about your brother?”
He wasn’t entirely sure why he needed to ask her anything. Unfinished business, perhaps. That and a feeling of wanting to do more for a man who’d died an undeservedly cruel and monstrous death.
Darlene Hillary ushered him into a tiny matchbox
