Mâtowak: Woman Who Cries

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Ryan leads the way down a long hallway to a large, high ceilinged room at the back of the house, directly across the courtyard from the kitchen. Two brown leather sofas face each other in front of the ceiling-high fireplace. The leather coffee table between them is four-feet square. I hadn't seen Mrs. Warner sitting on the sofa from the kitchen because it was out of view of where I'd been standing. A blind spot. Ryan returns to the kitchen while I pause at the entrance into the room.

Mrs. Sally Warner is dressed in an expensive two-tone linen pantsuit of dark brown, the jacket trimmed at collar, waist, and cuffs with satin stitch embroidery. Her matching slacks have the same trimming at the bottom of the legs. I don't normally care, but it's the type of suit Angie would have admired. She might even have carried it at the boutique shop she'd managed. She once asked me how much I thought a suit similar to this one would cost. I said, “Two hundred?”

She had smiled. “It retails for over two grand. Not too many men would have guessed correctly.”

I'd seen enough shoes in Angie's shop to recognize Mrs. Warner's as Italian, probably costing fifteen hundred. Angie called them pumps. When I asked why, she shrugged. Their colour matches the suit.

Mrs. Warner is intent on her fingers being printed. She sits with her back straight and ankles crossed. Her complexion's softly wrinkled. This isn't a woman who indulges with Botox. Her skin is fair with no heavy makeup. Her light blonde hair is styled nicely, not in the usual granny-cut from the fifties. She looks like a proper politician's wife. Actually, she could pass for a politician herself. Composed, in control, privileged.

Sitting to her right is an Ident member. Pinscher, the first constable on the scene, stands at the front entrance to the room. He's watching me. Some of the colour has returned to his face. I cross the room towards him.

“When Mrs. Warner is ready, I want you to drive her to a hotel room downtown. Guard her door and make sure no one enters unless she recognizes them.”

He nods.

“You'll make sure she's safe?”

He stands at attention. He probably hopes this gesture is seen as a sign of respect, a way of fixing his earlier mistake with her purse. “Yessir.”

I cross the room towards the vic's widow. “Pardon me, Mrs. Warner. My name is Corporal Danny Killian.”

The Ident member has a small fingerprint tablet open and is printing the fingers of Mrs. Warner's left hand. Mrs. Warner turns her gaze from what he's doing and looks up at me. She blinks infrequently, her gaze unfocused. Her right hand lies limp in her lap. No wedding rings. No earrings. No sweating around her hairline. Up close her complexion is grey, her breathing shallow.

All these years I still hate this part of my job. My step-dad raised me to be a gentleman, but even he had to admit human compassion didn't necessarily have a voice.

“On behalf of the RCMP, I'd like to express our deepest sympathy for your loss.”

“Thank you, Corporal…Kil-li-an,” she says, emphasizing the three syllables of my name while intent on my face. Is she surprised I'm not white? Killian is Irish. I wasn’t born with the name. My real dad cut out when I was two. My step-dad is the only man I’ll ever call dad.

“May I sit?”

“Of course.” Her voice is soft, gentle.

“I know you've had a terrible shock.” I sit across from her on the leather ottoman. “Are you able to answer a few questions?”

“Of course.” Her gaze meets mine for the appropriate span of seconds before wandering towards the window to my left where she seems to gaze off at nothing.

The Ident officer cleans her left thumb.

“What time did you rise this morning, ma'am?”

“Six-forty-seven.” She looks at me as she speaks, and her eyes sparkle. I think the question pleased her. “I woke yesterday morning at precisely the same time. And the morning before. I remember thinking how odd that was. How did you know?”

I didn’t. But suddenly she thinks I’m more astute than I am. I’m going to use that to my advantage. “Was your husband awake?”

“Leland leaves his door open and likes to wait for sounds of me in the hallway before he sets down whatever novel he's currently reading and comes out of his room. I met him on the top landing about five to seven. We came down together.”

I look at my notes while she studies me. “Then what happened?”

“I prepared breakfast, then went upstairs to ready myself for town. I came down at nine.”

“You didn't hear or see anything?”

She shakes her head. “My bedroom is soundproofed.”

“Soundproofed?”

“I suffer from insomnia. Leland hoped soundproofing my room would help.”

“Before and after you returned upstairs, could you recall your routine, so we can set a time frame?”

“Yes, of course.” She glances at the Ident member as he prints the fingers of her right hand. “Breakfast was prepared and ready by five after seven. It doesn't take much for bagels and jam. I cooked toast and an egg for Leland. I left him at half-past and returned to my room. I generally do that on those days when I have an appointment in the city. Otherwise, I would have stayed and shared the paper with him.” Her eyes moisten. “When I have to go out, I take my time so I'm not rushed. At my age it doesn't take much to get my feathers rustled. I overheat.” She pauses as if waiting for affirmation.

The Ident member closes his kit, cleans her fingertips, nods to me before leaving.

“Please continue, Mrs. Warner.” My voice is gentle and kind.

“It took a while to decide what to wear. I laid out my clothes for the day; that may have brought the time to seven-forty. I located a good pair of walking boots, collected my toiletries, and prepared for my shower. That would have taken me another fifteen minutes or so, bringing the time to…”

“Quarter to eight.”

“Yes.” She smooths a hand down the buttons of her suit. “By the time I finished washing and rinsing my hair, it was probably quarter after eight. I dried my hair and styled it. Made one more trip to the restroom. Perhaps another fifteen minutes to sit and rest my legs, check my f*******:. I belong to various church groups. After that I dressed and came downstairs at nine o'clock.”

A few moments ago, her eyes looked distant. Now they look feverish.

“This sounds like a lot of wasted time to you, Corporal Killian, but at my age it's actually hard work. Just holding my arms up to do my hair is a chore.”

I nod. “You heard nothing unusual during the entire time?”

She shakes her head.

“Nothing at all?”

“My room is soundproofed,” she repeats. “I came down at nine o'clock sharp because of the length of time it takes me to drive downtown. I detest being late. I was heading to the garage to warm my car when I saw Leland on the floor. I wasted valuable time just staring at him. I'm so sorry I didn't react faster. It was a few minutes before I could clear my mind and think straight. I—I think I was in shock.”

I nod. “Had your husband been upset about anything at work? Any disgruntled clients?”

She sweeps a hand over her neck, temporarily wiping the wrinkles away. “Leland seldom brings his work home.”

“Any problems with his finances?”

“No. My husband is quite good with money.”

“He hadn't received any threatening phone calls or letters?”

“No, but you should ask his secretary. Since our sons' passing, Leland has—I mean, Leland tried hard to shelter me from…who knows what?”

“Did you sense anything out of the ordinary? Any problems while he was in Ottawa that might have followed him here?”

She shakes her head and lifts her chin to look at me squarely. “I'm sorry, Corporal. I'm not being helpful. I'm Leland's wife and I…I don't know what to say.” Her eyes fill with tears.

“It's okay.” I give her my best you-can-trust-me smile. “You were married a long time?”

“Thirty-seven years.”

“Wow, that is a long time.”

I jot down thirty-seven years, wondering what the seventh anniversary gift is supposed to be. Copper? I'm sure I wondered the exact thing last year, after the fact. The expression on Angie's face when I arrived home without a gift. I realized my mistake and suggested we go for dinner to a fancy restaurant; I can't remember which one. During dinner she didn't say much. Looking back at that evening now, I certainly don't blame her. She probably regretted having married such a selfish jerk.

I ignore the churning in my gut. “You had a good marriage?”

She hesitates. “We went through some difficult years. It took the death of our children to bring us close.”

“I'm sorry. You've had more than your share of grief. I can't imagine how you've survived. You must be strong.”

She wrings her hands.

“Do you own a gun, Mrs. Warner?”

She grimaces. “No.”

“Is it true your husband had a collection?”

“He sold most of them.”

“Did you clean up after breakfast? I noticed there are no dishes in the sink.”

“Yes, I cleaned up before I went upstairs.”

“The counters, stove, table?”

“Yes.”

“When you came back down at nine, did you touch anything in the kitchen? Pick up something off the floor?”

Her eyelids droop. “No.”

“Did you see any piece of metal, like the little casing for a bullet?”

“No.”

“You didn't touch anything after you came downstairs?”

She hesitates. “No.”

“You used the phone to call 911.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Yes. I should have thought of that. I used Leland's cell phone.”

“One more question, ma'am…for the record.”

She steadies her hands and gives me her full attention.

“I need to ask you. Did you shoot your husband?”

Again, her eyebrows lift slightly. Then resignation replaces surprise, and she shakes her head. “No.”

I hold her gaze and decide it's too soon to tell if she's lying. Her back stoops, as if the weight of her shoulders is too much. Her hands lay limp in her lap.

“Tonight, could you write down any names that come to mind, anyone who stands out as a possible threat? We can meet later and discuss them.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Could you jot down your husband's assistants' names and phone numbers here and in Ottawa?” I flip my notepad to a blank sheet, hand it to her, along with my pen. “One more thing. I'd like you to pack a bag and stay with a friend or family member for a few days. Constable Pinscher,” I gesture to where he's standing, “will drive you down town as soon as you're ready. We'll need your clothes, Mrs. Warner. Later, Constable Pinscher will drive you to the detachment downtown where I'll take your statement.” It's protocol; I don't care who she is.

“Again? I told the other young man everything I know.”

“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”

“I'll do whatever I can to help, but must I leave my home? Is it necessary?” She hands back my pen and notepad.

“It'll only be for a few days.” I stand.

“I want to change my clothes first. They sprayed something on my sleeves.”

“One of my Ident people will give you a bag to put your clothes in. You understand we'll need them?”

“Oh, of course, yes.”

“Someone from the RCMP Victim Services Unit will be here soon.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am.”

She nods, then stands, and turning her attention towards the tall windows overlooking the yard, wraps her sweater tighter. “It's going to snow.”

I look up at the cloudless blue sky. When did she find time to watch the news this morning? Or did the weatherman last night forecast snow for today? Remember to ask someone if there's a television in her room.

I repeat my sympathies before returning to the kitchen. I glance towards the window and the gathering room beyond, but again I can't see her from this angle. I crouch down beside the M.E., Carmie Webster, observe the hole in Warner's forehead again, and stand. My knees don't crack this time, but the pain's still intense. Later tonight, I'll apply the heat pad and orthopaedic pain cream. I've had this problem with my knees since flying down those cement stairs hanging onto The Butcher. Generally, I can manage the pain. Suppose I'll have to learn to live life without kneeling.

I face Ryan. “Make sure they do a swab. I want this whole house checked for evidence: toilets, laundry basin, showers, fireplaces. Don't forget the toilet handle.”

Carmie looks up at me. “Good morning, Danny.” She flings her wrist high, shields her eyes from the overhead lights, squints at me. “You weren't at the Christmas party last night.” Her eyebrows furrow. “Is everything okay?”

“Morning, Carmie. What can you tell me?” Am I such a creature of habit that even co-workers can spot a change?

The ME gestures towards the window and the small hole. “The victim was shot and the bullet's outside somewhere.” The corners of her mouth twitch.

I can almost hear her laughing on the inside. “Good to know.”

“Yep, case solved. We can all go home.” She glances at Warner, looks up at me, smiles.

This time I remember to return her smile. It's hard to do. Damn, do I look like I'm snarling? Am I betraying Angie by smiling?

The job. I'm here to do the job.

I visualize Warner facing the service door, seeing the gun, stepping back. Did he know his time was up? Even at the end, was there still hope?

I signal to Carrigan, my Senior Investigator, who's taking notes at the island. Carrigan comes closer. “Stan, stop what you're doing and take somebody outside with you while there is good light. Check the grounds, trees, and whatever's out back, then resume in here. Any word from the dog team?”

“No. Do you want the metal detector brought in if we can't find the bullet today?”

“Order it now to save time. On the chance this is a contract murder, check the roster at the airport, bus terminal, and train station. Match videos from their surveillance cameras to our criminal database. Notify Vancouver and any of the local airports. Find out if anyone chartered a flight during the past few days. Then check with all the hotels and motels. Have someone watch all the bank videos.”

Carrigan leaves. I switch my attention back to Carmie. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

She inspects the inside of Warner's mouth. “Well, his facial muscles are beginning to stiffen, but his larger muscles haven't. The body's temperature has dropped two degrees.”

I check my watch. “He died around eight o'clock?”

“Between seven and nine; you know that's the best I can do. From his position I'd say he faced the door when shot.” She points to the pooled blood. “Notice all this blood? Death wasn't instantaneous. That's unusual, but not uncommon. And the shooter didn't fire at close range; there is no evidence of residue on the body. The pathologist in Kamloops will have more to say. Are you ready for me to take Mr. Warner back to the lab and prep him for transport? We've got a lock box outside ready.” She ties paper bags around one hand then the other. “He'll be in Kamloops by tonight. They're generally prompt, so I should have the autopsy report for you by next Thursday.”

“We're under time restraints. Can you prep him from here?”

“I suppose.”

“Explain who he is and see if Monday is possible.”

“Sure.” She signals to one of the Ident members. “Let's bag him and get him into the box.” She asks me, “Who's going with him to Kamloops?”

“Gregory is next on the list. He should be here any moment.” I signal to another RCMP Major Crime investigator. “Check the perimeter out front, the yard, and the trees. Don't forget the garage and the garbage bins.”

I glance towards the west side of the house and pull my notepad out as Ryan rushes in from the front foyer. He looks excited. “What?”

“During the door-to-door, they found a guy who fit the description a neighbour gave of a jogger he'd seen earlier. They've taken him in.”

“How'd the dog react to him?”

“Kosher.”

“Has he lawyered up?”

“No.”

“Stick him in an interview room with a guard until I get there. Unless he starts yelling for his solicitor, tell them to ignore him. After I leave, post someone at both doors here.”

Ryan presses his cell phone to his ear.

“I'm on my way.” I step aside to make way for the long, silver metal box being carried in through the back door.