Corkscrew (Reid Bennett) Page 6

  Then Fred arrived, wearing a peasant blouse and a light skirt that swirled when she walked. She came over and kissed me. I wasn't in a mood for kissing, but she compensated for that and told me gravely I was going to have to work on my pucker. Then she got down to business, and I explained what messages I was expecting and how to reach me on the radio. She did a nice Katharine Hepburn good-bye, and I took Sam out to the car. First I would drop the boy's film in at Carl's and wait while he developed it. Then I would visit the Spensers and try to find out more about the mysterious David whose picture had been in their son's pocket.

  As I reached the car, I heard the whooping and revving of the gang of bikers speeding up past the station, filling the whole road as they roared by me. At the back of the procession there was a General Motors van with two people in it, a man and a woman. I thought they were visitors or thrill seekers following the bikers for the excitement. Then the driver turned his head my way, and I recognized him as the head of the gang.

  I may have been overly cautious, but I've always found it pays to be prepared for trouble, so I went back into the station and told Fred to call the OPP and let them know the bikers were in town. And while I was there I unlocked the station shotgun and propped it under the counter beside her. She laughed, but I told her, "Just don't use it on any little old ladies. In the meantime, it gives you firepower if they decide to hoorah the place."

  She slipped into a southern-belle accent. "Whah, Mistah Bennett, Ah'll take good care. Y'hear?"

  I rolled my eyes up, and she laughed and punched me in the arm, but not hard. Then I kissed her on the nose and left.

  Chapter Six

  The bikers had stopped at the government beer and liquor store in town. Murphy's Harbour is small enough that we don't rate separate outlets for each, like you find in the cities, so the gang didn't have to stop twice to fill their van with wine and beer.

  They put in three dozen bottles of white wine and a dozen two-fours of Molson Export. It was a heroic amount of booze for fifteen people, but at least they hadn't included any hard liquor. That probably meant they intended to party, maybe doing a little grass along with their wine, but not to get ugly drunk. I hoped so, anyway.

  They worked quietly, ignoring me and not disturbing the other shoppers, most of whom waited outside until the bikers were through. Then they saddled up and rode off up the side road, going two by two like animals into the ark, moving at the limit.

  I wondered if they were on their best behavior because I was there to see. Probably not. From time to time bikers play this kind of game, behaving like choirboys instead of the hoodlums they really are. People fear them, anyway. They can afford to walk softly occasionally. It makes the public more likely to come down on their side if some poor bloody policeman has to wade into them. If I was real lucky, they would be on good behavior all weekend, but I wasn't holding my breath. I was glad I'd informed the OPP.

  I sat for a minute or two longer while the last-minute shoppers went into the liquor store, which closes at six. That would be the classic time for a holdup, before the day's take was stashed in the safe. But, as usual, nobody tried anything, and when the manager closed the door, I started up again and drove to Carl's house.

  There was a polite sign over the doorbell—typical Carl. "May keep you waiting a couple of minutes. I'm in the darkroom. Please ring and wait."

  I rang and waited, settling Sam down on the step. Carl's voice came from inside, singing up in the campy way he uses with customers. It's his way of letting them know he's more creative than the other people who live in the Harbour. "Thank you for waiting," he yodeled. "I'm coming."

  Behind me a car went slowly up the road. I turned and saw the shopper who had been in the grocery store with me earlier on. He had a girl with him, heading back to town. He half waved at me, and his girl turned a plain face my way. I waved back and turned to greet Carl, who had opened the door.

  "I'm sorry to tell you, Carl. The boy's been found dead."

  He gasped. "Oh, no. That's terrible. How did it happen?"

  "Can I come in, please?"

  He stood aside. "Yes, of course."

  I went in, leaving Sam out on the step. "Look, Carl. I don't think you're involved in this. But I've got two things to ask you, one off the record, one on."

  "Glad to help," he said, and reached for the film. I kept hold of it, and he checked himself and met my eyes.

  "First favor. Can you tell me, off the record, if the boy seemed like he was gay?"

  "No." He said it quickly, and I cocked my head without speaking as he hurried on. "Not the least. No. He was anxious to talk, but just about cameras. He was a perfectly ordinary little boy." He hesitated and went on in a voice that had a hint of a tremor to it. "You're not saying this was a sex case, are you, Reid?"

  "The doctor says no. But tell me, what did you talk about?"

  Carl shrugged. "We just discussed photography. He was keen to ask me questions because he thought I was an expert. He wanted to know things about depth of field, and I gave him some advice."

  I pushed the film toward him. "The second thing I needed—I was wondering if you could develop this film for me. It was in his possession."

  "Of course." He took the film and turned toward the back of the house. "I'll do it right away. It's warm in the darkroom, but if you want to come along, please do."

  We went into the little room with its trays and machinery. He turned on a work light, then closed the door. "Kodacolor. I've just been working with it. That's good; everything's set up."

  He had a commercial tank that ate the film out of his hand so he could keep the light on while he worked. I suppose I could have asked him about the process, but I didn't have time to waste. I was working out what to do next. Spenser was the key. He may not be the prime suspect yet, but there was something about the picture of him outside the apartment building that intrigued me. Perhaps he had some guilty secret that the boy had discovered. He wasn't the boy's father. If the secret was big enough, maybe he had taken the boy out in a boat and killed him to ensure his silence.

  Carl had taken out the roll of negatives and was holding them up to the light. I looked over his shoulder, unable to make out much in the reversed colors. He held them against a light and skimmed them. "Nothing very exciting so far," he said as he reached the halfway point. "Six—no, seven—shots of the gigglers who hang around downtown. A couple of boats."

  "Is one of them a cruiser with a canvas cover?" I was looking at them with him but could see only red. The angle was wrong for me.

  "One is," he said. "It would be green in the positive." I said nothing, and he turned to me. "Does that mean anything?"

  "It could," I said. "What else is there?"

  "Let me see . . . more boats, a chipmunk eating peanuts. He must have used a long lens for this one; the little rascal is full frame. Then there's that miserable dog of Walter Puckrin's. See, a good composition, head hanging out of his doghouse. He looks like an old French trollop in her bedroom window."

  "Could you pull me a quick print of these, please? I can't read negatives the way you can."

  "Right away." He fiddled with his other machine. "I'll do straight contacts. They're small, but it's faster."

  "Good." I nodded. "I appreciate it."

  He went to work with his other machine and was absorbed for a moment or two, then asked over his shoulder, "What happened? Was he drowned?"

  "No," I said, and he looked up in genuine surprise.

  "I assumed . . ." he said, and trailed off.

  "So will most people. His body was recovered off Indian Island, but the doctor thinks he was smothered, and he'd been hit in the head first."

  "Good God," he said angrily. "That's sick."

  "It's murder. And whoever did it wanted the evidence hidden. The body was dropped into the deep hole off Indian Island."

  He straightened up from his machine and looked at me. "Doesn't that tell you that whoever did it knows the lake very well?" he ask
ed.

  "Yes. That's what I think. That's why I want this film. I think he may have known the man who killed him. Maybe there's a photo on the film."

  "I hope so," Carl said savagely. "I hope to God there is."

  He worked silently for another five minutes before pulling out the contact sheets from the drier and handing them to me. I looked at each in turn. Nothing jumped out and spoke to me. The girls at the tavern were laughing and pointing at the camera as if it were a joke. Beckie Vanderheyden was one of them, and her pretty young face was no kinder than any of the others. Then there were animal pictures, a couple of the chipmunk, one of Walter's old shepherd dog, another of a tortoiseshell cat. And then there were boats.

  I studied these more slowly. Carl had a magnifying glass on a little stand, and he handed it to me, pulling down a high-intensity lamp for me to use. The pictures were arty, made up of the curves and shapes of boats, several boats in each picture. Some were from low level, taken as he lay full-length on a dock somewhere, I guessed, looking for the effect he wanted. Others were high shots, from where? Up a tree possibly. Or! The thought came to me like a bolt of lightning. From the second-story balcony of some cottage set above the water. Which meant they had been taken from one of only about a dozen places around the lake.

  I pointed out one of the pictures for Carl. "When would you say this was taken, morning or evening?"

  He moved the glass away from me and examined the shot carefully. "The light is yellowish. The shadows are getting long. I'd say this was taken around seven in the evening."

  I took the glass and contact sheets back from him and studied the shadows. "In that case, looking at the run of that dock against the sun, it was taken on this side of the waterway, from a balcony. And that means it could be the Corbetts' place."

  He looked at me and nodded. "Right. I covered a party there once, a twenty-fifth anniversary. The balcony is about, oh, say, fifteen feet above the dock. The angle's right."

  I straightened up, tapping the contact sheets together so they were square. Carl found an envelope for me. I shoved them into it, and he opened the door.

  He switched off the light as we left, and I walked through his living room to the front door.

  "Thanks, Carl. Keep the negatives, please. If something comes up later, I might need an enlargement or two."

  "Will do," he said, and then added impulsively, "Catch the bastard, Reid. It's a terrible thing, and it means more to me than anybody else in town. The tongues will be wagging, and the trouble will pile up against my door."

  "I know. If anything should start, call the station. I've got someone at the telephone, and I'll get back to you."

  "Thank you," he said firmly. "I will. You're a good policeman, Reid."

  There was nothing to say but Aw shucks, so I just nodded and went out onto the step. Sam was lying there, and I let him sniff the boy's sweatshirt again and set him seeking. He ran to the door, then out to the road, directly opposite the door, then trotted off northward. Carl was watching from the step, and he said, "Does that mean he went that way?"

  "It could. I'm going to follow Sam's nose. Stay in touch if there's any trouble."

  He nodded grimly and shut the door.

  I let Sam lead me up the roadway, keeping behind him in the scout car. He jogged on, nose to the ground, once taking a side trip toward a tree. I waited while he sniffed around the base, noticing that it had a grotesque bump on one side. Maybe the boy had stopped to photograph it. But Sam soon resumed his trot up the road, staying on the left-hand side. The kid had walked safely, facing the oncoming traffic. I was assuming that this trail had been laid after the boy left Carl's house. He might have gone back, but his time had been running out. He must have been killed soon after leaving Carl's house. And he must have left there alive. This trail was proof.

  The road to the Corbett's cottage took me past the dump. I slowed as I passed and looked out at the bikers who were setting up on the flat field. They had their bikes in a line and were drinking beer and setting up a couple of big tents, laughing and swearing together. One of them stopped and pointed at me, and the others laughed. Then another one held up a bottle of beer invitingly. I waved and drove on, their laughter drifting after me.

  Sam led me another quarter mile, straight to the Corbett place. It's right on the water, down a slight slope from the roadway, almost hidden in a stand of poplars planted years ago when the cottage was built. I got out of the car and followed him down to the back door, where he stopped and sniffed. I watched him and waited, glancing up at the cottage. It's more than a cottage, a grand summer residence, really. Mrs. Corbett's parents owned it. Now they're dead, and she comes up here alone through the week in the summer months. Her husband commutes from his business in Toronto and its surroundings. He runs a number of hotels, and I had heard the local gossip that he was trying to open a big marina hotel near here, out on the shore of Georgian Bay, where he can cater to the summer boat traffic.

  After a minute or so Sam moved away from the door, out to the side of the cottage and down to the dock. There was a cruiser tied to the dock. It was green, with a canvas hood, the same kind the Levine boy had seen. Sam followed the boy's trail right into it, but tentatively at first, nosing the air more than the ground. But when he reached the side of the cruiser, he didn't hesitate. He dived right into it and snuffled around the center, not on the seats but on the bottom of the boat, what I'd have called the deck if I'd still been in the marines.

  I followed him down and checked the boat myself. It was empty, and there were no obvious new scratches or bloodstains to guide or to confuse me. The first fact I picked up was that the rope at bow and stern was the same common yellow plastic that the boy had been tied with. I checked both lines closely. The one at the bow had been sealed with heat, the way most nylon lines are sealed after being cut, either with an electric heater at the store or with a match if the owner cuts and reseals it. The stern line was cut, unsealed, and was beginning to unravel slightly. There was about a yard of slack, and I cut the end of the line off, making a knot in the original cut end. If we did find the object the boy had been tied to, the crime laboratory in Toronto would compare the ends of it with this cut. Often plastic material shows the marks of the machine that formed it. Perhaps we would have further evidence to tie this boat to the dead boy.

  My next observation was that the boat had been hot-wired. A bird's nest of wiring was hanging down under the dash, and when I checked further, I found that the wires to the ignition lock had been torn away.

  I stood up again and thought through it all. My next move was fingerprinting. The best way was to impound the boat and take it down to the police station, where I kept my kit. But that meant getting a trailer, and if I did, I might smudge the prints, if any. I decided to spare the ten minutes necessary to fetch my gear. This place was private enough to do my printing, and if I found anything, I could cover it with clear tape before moving the boat. I brought Sam to heel and fussed him, thanking him for his work. He wagged his tail and lolled his tongue out happily. Then I went back up the dock, taking out my notebook, where I keep a couple of found property tags. I wrote on one, "Do not touch the cruiser at the dock. Will be back in a few minutes, Chief Bennett," and went to the door, where I tied it on the handle.

  The knob was loose in my hand, so I took out my handkerchief and turned the handle gently. The door swung open, and I walked in.

  I called, "Police here. Anybody home?" but nobody answered. It was dark behind the closed drapes over the window, but after a moment I got enough night vision to look around. And what I saw stopped me from moving further. The place had been vandalized. Flour was dusted everywhere. Plates and cups were broken underfoot, and ketchup and mustard and jam had been hurled against the walls. Instinctively I glanced down at the flour all over the floor. I was right. There was a footprint in the flour, and I stooped to look at it more closely. It was the mark of a boot, with a horseshoe-shaped steel cleat around the heel. A biker's boot.r />
  Chapter Seven

  I felt like a cat in a basement full of mice. No murder I'd ever investigated had thrown so many clues at me so fast. I didn't know what to do first. Obviously, I had to print the cruiser. The boy had been in it at some time over the last couple of days, and he hadn't sat down on the seat. He had been on the deck, which probably meant he had been in it today, already dead. That meant his killer's fingerprints might be on it, too, along with those of the Corbetts and whoever else had used it.

  But the debris in the cottage was another lead. Somebody had vandalized the place. It looked like bikers, judging from that heelprint. And if it had been, the chances were excellent that the kid had been here with them and that one of them had killed him. I had no proof, but when facts pile up this high around you, any policeman has to believe they're connected.

  I stood for a moment, thinking hard. There was nothing else for it. I had to call in the OPP Criminal Investigation branch. They come to the aid of places like Murphy's Harbour when the load of investigation gets too heavy for the staff of the local department to handle. A couple of years ago I would have resisted calling them. But the people in town knew I was doing a good job. I had nothing to fear anymore from some councilor arguing that the OPP should take over the town's police coverage completely.

  I went outside, backing up carefully so that I stepped in my own bootprints going out, not disturbing anything more. Sam was waiting for me, wagging his tail, anticipating more work. I patted him and sat in the front of the cruiser, calling in on the radio.

  Fred answered at once, in a thick German accent. I told her, "Hi, it's Reid. Will you patch me through to the OPP, quickly, please."

  "Vait, I vill," she said, staying in character.