told her they were missing something. The family had too much anger and too many secrets that began and ended with Tom Underwood.
Rouleau spread the crime scene photos of Under-wood and the Central Experimental Farm parking area on his desk — various angles of Underwood lying in a fetal position in the trunk, his cheek resting on the carpet, his eyes open and staring. He’d filled the space inside the trunk without much room to spare. Somebody had stuffed him in, slammed and locked the trunk, and left him to die. What kind of person could do that? Whoever they were was cool enough to then drive him to the Central Experimental Farm and walk away. What kind of terror had Underwood felt when he regained consciousness and realized he was trapped and going to die? How long had it taken for his core body temperature to drop from mild to severe hypothermia … for the extreme pain and shivering to give way to numbness, and his heart to slow to the point that oxygen stopped reaching his brain? He would have hallucinated at the end. If he’d had room in the trunk, he would have clawed off his clothes as his body raged with the feeling of burning up, the final paradoxical stage before death. Rouleau studied the waxy pallor of Underwood’s skin. Hopefully the DNA tests would come up with something. They needed a break.
Rouleau raised his eyes and looked through his office window. Grayson and Stonechild were coming in separately, neither smiling or looking at the other. Stonechild took off her parka and wiped off a dusting of snow before she sat down and began typing at her computer, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. Grayson stopped at Malik’s desk and the two men laughed about something. Grayson gestured toward Rouleau’s office, then walked over to the coffee machine and filled a cup before ambling over.
“Well?” Rouleau asked. “How did it go with Archambault?”
“I think we’re narrowing in on motive. The deal was going to be worth a lot of money. Either Underwood was going to upset the plans and Archambault put out a hit, or Belliveau wanted rid of Underwood so as not to have to share the profits. Archambault knew more than he was telling. I’ll get the guys digging deeper on the paper trail on both ends. I’d also like to bring Belliveau in for more questioning.”
“What does Stonechild think?”
“She hasn’t come up with anything else. She’s doing up the report now on Archambault.”
“Okay then. Arrange an interview for first thing tomorrow.”
“Will do. Any word from Whelan?”
“His baby is doing better. He’ll be back just after New Year’s.”
“Good.” Grayson turned to leave but stopped and looked back at Rouleau. He seemed reluctant to talk but then said, “I think Stonechild could use a partner. She needs a more experienced detective to guide her, help her to put the clues together.”
“She’s not connecting the dots?”
“I’d have to say no. I think she has potential, but she’s in a bit over her head when it comes to interviewing and reading people. I wasn’t going to say anything, but thought you should know.”
“Okay, leave it with me.”
Rouleau turned the words over in his mind. It was bad timing that Whelan had to take leave just when they were thrust into this case. It was hard on the team and hard on Stonechild. Whelan would be back in a few days and Stonechild would settle back into a secondary role. He liked her and didn’t want to set her up to fail. Her inexperience in homicide had been his one worry and he wasn’t surprised Grayson had picked up on it. They’d just have to get by as things were for now.
20
Monday, December 26, 6:10 p.m.
Rouleau left for home before Kala finished typing her report. He told her just to file the report electronically in the records system and he’d read it after supper. Grayson and Malik soon followed, leaving her alone.
She looked up as they were getting their coats on and assured them that she wouldn’t be far behind. She tucked her head back down so they wouldn’t read her lie. She had no intention of leaving until she’d finished the work she’d laid out for herself. She’d already resumed typing before the door shut behind them and she didn’t look up until she’d gotten through transcribing her notes. She kept the report factual, not forming conclusions as Grayson would have her do. Her name would be on the report, not his, and she wouldn’t put her name to a theory she didn’t believe … yet. She was deliberately ignoring Grayson’s instruction to point the investigation in one direction. Hell, let him write his own report, she thought.
Once done, she saved the file, then poured a cup of coffee one step removed from sludge. After a few sips she accessed the system and opened the folder of reports submitted by Malik and Grayson over the course of the week. She was looking for inconsistencies in statements, timelines, and alibis. She occasionally jotted a note for follow-up on her notepad. Nothing jumped out except a feeling of unease at Laurel’s disappearance just before Christmas. The tingling grew as she remembered Hunter arriving at Laurel’s house just after she came home, his Jeep parked a good distance away. Tom Underwood had stolen Laurel from Hunter, but now Tom and Laurel slept in separate bedrooms. Their betrayal could be nothing. It could be everything.
Kala closed the folder and stretched. It was close to nine o’clock and her stomach was rumbling with hunger, but she wasn’t done yet. She liked the silence of the office. Being alone was when she felt most comfortable. It was sad that Whelan’s kid was sick, but she was just as happy not to have a partner. She’d always worked alone up North. Her favourite time was the night shift, driving the back roads with the moon and stars the only light in the ink black sky. She could deal with wolves and bears but this city might be another matter. The wild life here wore pants and drove fancy cars. The rabid ones weren’t as easy to spot.
She searched through the records system until she found the file on the man who was groping women in apartment lobbies. She shared Rouleau’s concern that this guy was escalating. They’d been pulled off the case, but somebody had to follow up. It might as well be her. She didn’t have any family waiting for her to come home from work. This would keep her mind busy. It would also be a nice Christmas present for Rouleau if she broke the case.
She leaned in to read through every incident report and made notes as she went. She paid careful attention to the pattern of buildings where each attack took place He’d only ventured out of the Lincoln Fields area once and that had been the first time when he’d picked a high-rise tower near the Ottawa River. It must have been out of his comfort zone because ever since, he’d targeted women in high-rises along the Richmond Road corridor behind Lincoln Fields Shopping Centre. She was certain he lived between the two sectors, probably closer to the river where he’d made his first strike. He picked middle-aged women alone, grabbing them from behind. One woman said he’d wrenched her breast hard and left bruising. Two said that he’d called them a bitch and two said he muttered the word cunt in their ear before shoving them into the wall. For the latest victim Glenda Martin, he’d figured out how to grope and strangle at the same time. She was the only one he’d attacked early afternoon. The rest had been closer to suppertime. Everything that she read confirmed that Rouleau was right to be worried.
She closed the file. If the groper’s pattern was predictable, he’d be grabbing another woman soon, maybe by the weekend, probably late in the day when the sun was beginning to set. She bit her lip and thought over what she should do. The perp was getting bolder and more violent. The next woman he grabbed might not be as lucky as the others.
She did a Google search and clicked on a map of Ottawa’s west end on the computer screen and enlarged the area where the attacks had taken place.
