A Dream of Death (6 page)

Three days had passed since the last murder and the good
doctor’s theories were presenting as fact. We all felt that we were in a sort
of grace period. It was like the five days of celebration that never existed on
the Julian calendar—an unmarked end to the year. Days that time itself forgot.

Spirits in the office were hard to track, high one moment as
people thought about the time in between killings, then rock bottom when they
realized we had spent the last three days dissecting old case files without
seeing anything new.

It was 9:30 a.m. now and I was well into my third green tea.
My son’s mug was sitting in front of me, steam escaping from its rim. Kara had
been silent for the last hour. Her desk was clean as she went through file
after file on the computer, an approach I had yet to master.

New photos and documents cluttered my desk with the previous
case folders right beside me, ready to pull out for a comparison. There were
consistencies: strangulation; the postmortem removal of flesh; the posing of
the bodies; the lack of blood; the absence of physical evidence; the borrowed
knife left on the bedside table; the woman home alone while her significant
other worked the night shift; the rural neighbourhoods; the lack of alarm
systems.

We knew the killer had to stalk his victims to make sure
they fit his profile, but we didn’t know how the killer picked his victims in
the first place or how long he stalked them for. None of the regular motives
fit. It wasn’t sex—the women were stripped, but there were no signs of any
sexual contact and the theft of their clothes only meant the killer was
cleaning up after himself. It wasn’t money—nothing was ever stolen with the
singular exception of Dupuis’s lipstick, again cleaning up after himself. It
wasn’t revenge—there was nothing to link the victims together. It wasn’t even
the sadistic enjoyment of killing—following Dupuis’s death and Heisenberg’s
take on it, the killer didn’t seem to enjoy his crimes. All that seemed left was
a twisted sense of duty. He was killing for somebody else’s good. But whose?

I was pondering this question when my phone rang. I removed
it from the holster and checked the call display—private caller. Likely another
officer.

“Detective Munroe.”

“Link?” I already knew who it was, only one person still
called me Link. “It’s Chen-Chen.”

“I know. Link’s my son’s name now, Chen.”

“Well aware, don’t care. You’ll always be Link to me. My way
of thanking you for dubbing me Chen-Chen.”

We both laughed. Talking to Chen always brought me back to
our days of training, both at Headquarters in Orillia and at the Ontario Police
College in Aylmer.

Not too far from where many of the killings had taken place.

“Shit.”

“What?” Chen said.

“I just thought of something, Chen. You know the case I’m
on?”

“Everyone does, man. It’s big news.”

“We’ve got nothing, no evidence to link to the killer
whatsoever. Perfectly clean crime scenes. But it just hit me, what if the
killer is a police cadet at Aylmer? They’d know enough about forensics to keep
the scene clean, they’d be able to sneak out at night, kill, and make it back
with plenty of time to get back into bed before their podmates woke up.”

Chen didn’t say anything. I swore I could hear wheels
grinding.

“It’s possible. That would ruin us if it was true. A police
cadet serial killer? Respect for the police would take a nosedive.”

“Yeah, I hope I’m wrong. I probably am.”

“It’s worth checking out though.”

“I guess.” I hesitated, unsure I wanted to ask the question.
“So why did you call?”

Chen and I had become very close friends in the thirteen
weeks we lived at the college. The dorms there are made up of “pods,” a common
living area and bathroom connected to ten small, individual bedrooms. Ten men,
two showers, one television, one toilet, thirteen weeks—it made for intimacy.
Apparently the women’s pods were nicer but I never found a reason to visit one.
Regardless of gender, you either bonded or spent the entire time at each
other’s throats. Chen and I bonded.

Chen was born in nineteen-seventy-six to Chinese immigrants
who had moved to Toronto from Beijing. Chen’s mother was seven months pregnant
when the plane landed. By accident or fate they settled in the Little Italy
area of Toronto and, as is often the case with Chinese families, they gave Chen
two names: a Chinese name, Yu, and what they believed to be a strong English
name given their surroundings—Vincenzo. Growing up, Chen had gone by Vincenzo,
Vincent, Vinny and Vin at various points. By the time police college came
around he had switched back to Vincent in an attempt to appear professional.

Three weeks into college most of us were using last names
for everyone, partly due to the shirts we had to wear in defensive tactics
training: white with our last names on them in large black letters. The Vincent
fell by the way side and Chen became the moniker applied. We were sitting in
the common area watching a football game on the television when I realized if
we dropped the ‘Vin’ and the ‘zo’ our dear friend became Chen Chen. It stuck,
and made its way with him to his new posting up near Algonquin Park.

Chen and I had taken very similar paths, finding ourselves
at homicide desks within a month of each other. We tried to keep in touch, but
we’d been able to do it less than we would have liked. Facebook had changed
that, making it easy to see what the other was up to and giving us a forum to
share photos of our children—another realm in which we showed marked
similarities. Chen’s son was born two months before Link and his daughter a
week and a half after Kasia.

“I need you out here.”

“What for?” I asked.

“What for?” An echo. “Were you even listening last week?”

I scanned through my memories with little luck. I barely
remembered Chen calling me and obviously I had forgotten the topic completely.
Something about a missing body?

“I’ve been busy here. Remind me.”

“We’ve got a shallow grave burial in Algonquin Park, looks
like an old one. Camper found a skull sticking out of the dirt and called it
in. They had to leave the area to get a cell signal and then couldn’t find
their way back to it. Took us a week, but we finally found the remains.”

My eyes stood unblinking and my heart began to race. I could
hear the heavy pounding in my chest. Nothing else existed in the room save for
me and the phone.

“I… I…”

“It’s alright, Link. I know you’re busy. We need you for two
days tops. They’re excavating the body later today and I was hoping to get you
here. You’re the only detective we have with a degree in anthropology, not to
mention experience on a dig site in university. We’ve got a professor from
University of Ottawa coming to oversee the dig and he’s bringing some students
to assist.”

“So what do you need me for?”

“You’re our police perspective. You’re uniquely qualified,
Link.”

I was getting enough control over myself to play it cool.
“Flattery will get you nowhere. We’re busy as hell here, Chen, I don’t know if
I can get away.”

“My boss has already approved it. The plane is leaving
Windsor in twenty minutes and is ready to touch down in London to pick you up.
It’s on its way to Ottawa to do some traffic enforcement on the four-oh-one
there.”

I thought of objecting again, but knew I had to go. It
wasn’t just helping out an old friend or that he’d gone through the trouble of
having it approved on his end. The dreams, there had to be a reason they were
so realistic. What was I missing? I couldn’t understand why I would be having
borderline prophetic dreams about what could have been a decades old murder.
And Algonquin? Why a place I had never been? All I knew was that I needed to
find out more.

“Give me a rundown on the terrain, Chen.” The perfect
question. He would assume I would be wondering about how to go about the dig.

“Lots of trees, pretty flat though. About a hundred metres
tops from a river, fast moving bugger too, wish I’d brought my canoe. It’s
pretty rocky but there’s a decent amount of soil, more than enough to bury a
body in.”

It was a match. Next question.

“How about the weather?”

“Gorgeous. Not a cloud in the sky and the sun is shining,
there’s a nice breeze too. Couldn’t have asked for a better day.”

And the knife? Did the skull talk? These were the questions
I couldn’t ask. Time to put my visions to the test.

“Chen, you might want to get some tarps ready. You’ll be
soaked soon.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s going to piss down rain like you would not believe.”

“What the hell, Link, you a meteorologist now too? Or maybe
a psychic? The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen and we aren’t supposed to get
any rain up here for a few more days.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll ring you back if I can
make it.”

I hung up the phone on a very confused Chen and gave Kara
the benefit of being first to hear about the request for my services. My next
order of business was to call Detective Inspector McCaffrey and convince her to
let me go. It was a hard sell, but with Dr. Heisenberg’s theory that we would
be without work for a few more days, Kara’s undeniable abilities and the
additional detectives on the case I won out. I had to; there was not a chance
that I wouldn’t be on that plane even if I had to face neglect of duty charges
to do it. Of course, it helped that I swore to McCaffrey that if another murder
occurred I would be at the scene before the coroner removed the body if it
required me chartering a private plane out of my own pocket.

I really hoped that wasn’t going to happen.

* * *

Less than an hour later I was standing on the tarmac at
London International Airport awaiting the OPP Cessna 206 Turbo used primarily
for traffic enforcement. With a top speed of just over two hundred and sixty
kilometres per hour it was also a highly effective means of transport.

Takeoff was nice and smooth for such a small plane, my first
experience with anything other than a passenger jet. It was a nice view and the
pilot and copilot regaled me with some of the highlights of their careers.

We touched down after only a few hours in the air, landing
on a private airstrip not far from the meeting place—a small hotel well within
the confines of the park and an hour from the remains. Chen greeted me by
holding the hotel door open as I rushed in and out of the pounding, pouring
rain.

“What are tomorrow’s lottery numbers, you son of a bitch?”

A pleasant greeting. “Check your horoscope, ass-hat. How the
hell should I know?”

“Link ‘Nostradamus’ Munroe predicted the weather just fine.
I figured he’d be able to give me a leg up on the lotto as well. Looks like you
left him back in London and brought boring Link along.”

I slugged Chen in the right shoulder before lacing into him
with a tirade of expletives. Old friends and college buddies have a unique way
of communicating. Chen and I were no different.

“Seriously, how’d you do it?”

“I don’t know, Chen. Just a feeling.”

“Alright, who killed the bastard then?”

Another punch to his shoulder. “For all I know, Chen, it
could have been you.”

I woke bright and early the next day to the sound of Chen
doing his morning calisthenics in the adjoining room. There was an old Chinese
proverb he often reminded me of: no one who gets up before sunrise
three-hundred and sixty days a year will fail to make his family rich. Chen
seemed to live by this. He was the first to rise every day at college, a five
kilometre run and forty laps in the pool done before the rest of us even
stirred. Not being a morning person, it was one of the few things I hated about
Chen.

Without my calendar I had to think for a moment; June fourteen—I
wondered what the word of the day had been. I didn’t dream again last night,
which surprised me; the proximity alone should have been enough to trigger
another entry into my own private hell. But my sound night’s sleep may have
been the aftereffect of a mickey of scotch split between Chen and I—Glenlivet,
a good specimen yet still affordable.

I showered, shaved and got dressed; my black suit packed
carefully in my overnight bag. I only brought one shirt and tie—Chen made it
clear that I would only be here two days. Despite the terrain we would be
facing protocol remained and I had no choice but to wear a suit.

Downstairs Chen and I met in the lobby of the hotel. It was
7:15 a.m.; Chen was never late. “Any new predictions?” he asked as he
approached.

“Yeah, you’re paying for breakfast.”

Chen laughed and nodded. I was right of course, but Chen
wouldn’t drag me all the way down here then expect me to pay for my meals.

“Obvious,” he said. “Any others?”

“Keep asking questions like that, and you’ll regret it.”

Chen took a fighting stance. “Big words, tough guy.”

“Let’s go. Those other guys took my plane away. Hopefully
you have a car?”

“SUV. We’ll need it to get as close to the scene as I’d like
to.”

We walked out to the parking lot and got into the vehicle,
Chen taking the wheel of the black and white Chevrolet Tahoe. The crime scene
was a short distance as the crow flies, however the terrain required a more
deliberate path and a reduced speed. The conversation was stagnant both during
the ride and our early morning meal at a small and out of the way family run
restaurant. It amazed me that even here in the midst of what seemed to be a forgotten
world, wilderness lost in time, one could still find a good bacon and egg
breakfast.

We spoke little and as is often the case it was the words we
never said that formed the real conversation. Our breakfast rushed, we were
back on the road with little time lost. I knew Chen believed in fate—that
everything happened for a reason and that each person had a specific role to
play as the wonders and mysteries of the universe unfolded. Perhaps I shouldn’t
have predicted the downpour of rain; Chen was not one to take such matters
lightly.

But… how did I know about the rain? Why did Chen call me out
of the blue to assist on a case hundreds of kilometres away while I was in the
middle of a serial killer investigation? How did I know the details of the
scene and its location? And how, in the midst of a major case, did I get leave
to travel to Algonquin Park to assist on an excavation? I often joked with Chen
that the universe had better things to do than micromanage the minutiae of my
life. But maybe Chen was right.

Or maybe it was all just a coincidence, especially the rain.

No matter how many hours of thought I put into this, I would
never be able to determine the reason for it all. There was no choice but to
follow along blindly and hope that all would become clear in time. I had my
doubts. And my fears. A part of me never wanted to realize the truth, whatever
it might be.

Chen was steering us down a narrow road. The thick canopy of
trees overhead lent an aura of twilight to the otherwise bright day. A small
sedan approached as I was lost in thought, staring out the windshield without
an ounce of attention paid. I didn’t notice the vehicle’s headlights turn on.
They didn’t draw my attention until they began flashing, drawing my attention
outward once again.

It was the same pattern I had seen in my first dream. But
this time, the pattern started at a different point. I shifted in my seat,
panicked hands rendered useless from a rush of endorphins as I clawed my belt
for my cell phone. I removed it and fumbled at the keypad, taking three
attempts to unlock the device. I typed ‘Morse code’ into the internet browser
and within seconds I had the Morse code alphabet in front of me. I remembered
learning it as a kid, just for fun, but it was long since forgotten.

Deciphering the message was not a simple task, especially
since I had to fend off Chen’s questions. He hadn’t mentioned the lights, and I
was going to assume he couldn’t see them.

The pattern was clear in my mind. Long, short, long, short,
short, short, long, long, short, short, short, short. The problem was where did
the pattern begin? How was it broken up into individual letters?

I started at the end—four shorts in a row was an odd
combination and limited me to H, II, EEEE, ES, or SE. And that was only if the
long before the four shorts wasn’t connected.

“Five minutes out, Link.”

Chen’s announcement caused further panic. I needed to know
what it meant, what my dreams were trying to tell me. I worked fast but it was
to no avail, there were too many possible combinations. Why had I seen the
lights, what triggered my vision? I was thinking about the dreams, about fate,
about finding the truth.

That was it, it had to be.

I looked back to the alphabet: T, long; R, short, long,
short; U, short, short, long; T, long; H, short, short, short, short. TRUTH.

Stifling a victory cry I checked it again, then verified my
findings again and again until we arrived within walking distance of the scene.
Chen parked the vehicle and I was left to consider the significance of the
message at another time.

* * *

The road had been rough, rocks and mud and fallen branches
in the path of our vehicle. Chen had guided us through and over all of the
obstacles with a master’s touch and I, I had not noticed a thing. Looking back
up the path we had come down I was amazed by my own determination and single
minded focus.

Chen escorted me to the scene. Fresh markings on the trees
had been left to guide our way. Through the foliage I could make out a yellow
line, stark contrast to the green and brown that filled my vision. There were
faint voices coming through the trees as well as the footsteps of someone
moving through the underbrush. This area was not well-traveled, likely seen by
only a few determined hikers and campers each year. Those who did see this area
likely came by river—canoes and kayaks being popular methods of travel through
the nearly eight thousand square kilometres of the provincial park.

As we approached the scene I was struck by a sense of
familiarity. This was my first visit to Algonquin Park, ever, and yet, it felt
as though I had been there before. Images flashed in my mind: my father
standing strong before the trees as the sun rose in the morning; my father
again, weariness in his eyes as he carried me through the woods; and waking up
to the sun breaking through the trees, my skin wet with dew.

My father had taken me camping once before when I was just a
child. But that had been to Cyprus Lake, a park near Tobermory at the tip of
the Bruce Peninsula hundreds of kilometres away. The terrain was similar—rocky
ground, coniferous trees, cold, clear waters. I must have been confusing
myself, distant memories blurring the lines between the past, present and
imagined.

I no longer needed Chen as a guide. I walked a direct line
to the skull, following a path I had taken before. The skull was positioned
just as I had seen it, the dirt washed away from around it, revealing the white
bone. It looked fake, like a skull stolen from a medical classroom, too perfect
to be real. I could see only minor damage, cracks and wear caused by the
passage of time.

There was no knife dangling above the skull, no message in
blood. And much to my delight the skull did not speak to me.

“We haven’t started excavating at all yet,” Chen said. “We
only found it again late yesterday. Last week a couple of interior campers had
packed up their tents from the night before and were hiking to their next
campsite when they came across the skull. Bones are nothing new to hikers in
here—deer, bear, wolves, you name it, and having watched too many episodes of
CSI, a lot of people assume they’re human. This is the first one I’ve heard of
where they were right.”

“Hard to mistake this for an animal skull,” I said.

Chen laughed.

“When they said it was a skull I knew it was a real one.
Then it was just a matter of finding it again.”

“How long do you figure the body’s been here?”

“The anthropologist from the University of Ottawa, Dr.
Conroy, estimated it was at least ten to fifteen years, given the state of the
skull and the complete skeletonization. He was surprised that the body hadn’t
been dug up by scavengers, being so close to the surface.”

“When is the doctor due?”

“Right now.”

The reply from behind startled me. This was happening more
and more often. My unshakeable detective exterior was falling apart—assuming I
had ever had an unshakeable detective exterior. I turned around to see an older
male, unkempt hair and beard, standing beside me. Had I not attended university
I would have assumed him to be a well-dressed vagrant. I had met a number of
professors with similar style, their research far more important than a haircut
and shave.

I stretched out my hand and introduced myself. He shook my
hand and said, “So you’re the one with the background in anthropology?”

“If you call an honours B.Sc. and a single dig a background.
I have a feeling Detective Chen here has been exaggerating my qualifications.”

Conroy smiled. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’m not threatened
by you.”

Had it not been for the genuine smile, I wouldn’t have known
how to take his comment, the monotone delivery wiping away all possible traces
of humour or sarcasm.

“I won’t get in your way. Chen just wants me here to oversee
this from a police perspective, evidence gathering and that, I guess.” I looked
at Chen. “Why exactly am I here, Chen?”

“You’re an expert, Link,” he said with a wink. “Don’t sell
yourself short.”

I shook my head as I made eye contact with Conroy. I was
nothing of the kind and these days, so many years since university, all I could
be described as was an anthropology enthusiast.

“Address your staff, Detective Munroe,” Conroy said, as he
waved his hand in a grand gesture to the dozen young and eager students
standing a short distance from us.

“What? Really?”

“Yes, really. Most of these students have only worked
archaeological sites. Some have never dug at all. Who better than to direct
them on how to perform at a crime scene?”

“Chen?” I said to a mixture of chuckles and shaking heads.
“Right.” I felt like I was being interviewed for the OPP all over again, a
board of high-ranked officers judging my every word. Then I called the group
over and felt more powerful. All of them were fixed on me and awaiting my
direction. If only I could get my children to pay attention so well.

“My name is Lincoln Munroe, I’m a detective with the OPP out
of London. Detective Chen requested I assist on this case. He is the lead
detective and will be the person you will all report to should you find
anything of note.”This is a crime scene as I am sure you have all deduced by
now. Based on your professor’s estimate we are looking at a murder that
occurred when you, and perhaps even I, were still children. The first
forty-eight hours after a homicide are the most important to investigators when
it comes to gathering evidence and apprehending the suspect. We are well
outside of that window.”

I paused for an appreciative chuckle.

“Everything here will be of interest until determined
otherwise. If you dig up something you think is garbage, report it to Detective
Chen or to me. It may well be that the only evidence is the body itself. Due
diligence is obviously necessary. For those of you who have worked on ancient
burials this is different. This person’s family is likely still alive and still
wondering what happened to their loved one. Think of them as your mother or
father and work as if solving their murder depended on you and you alone.”

That brought a few nods.

“Continuity and documentation are of the utmost importance.
We will be conducting an excavation of the skeleton and a grid-dig of an area
encompassing ten metres square around the burial site. Report to Dr. Conroy for
your assignments and further direction. It’s a pleasure to work with all of
you.”

I stepped off of my proverbial soapbox to a slap on the back
from Chen. Dr. Conroy said, “A forensic anthropological St. Crispin’s Day. Well
said, detective.”

The blood rushed to my cheeks as the embarrassment I used to
feel speaking in public came rushing back.

* * *

The dig went on from 8:30 a.m. until nearly 6:00 p.m. We
still had light to work by, but I could tell the students were exhausted. The
majority of them didn’t seem to mind and were eager to continue working. It was
a labour of love for many of them, and those who didn’t enjoy it were apt to
rethink their career choice or try to focus on research and teaching. It was
not easy work being bent over all day in the hot sun. The dense leaves above us
blocked out much of the sunlight but did little to stifle the heat and humidity
that seemed to be trapped at ground level.

We found nothing aside from the skeleton itself. Dr. Conroy
had overseen the excavation of the skeleton and had called me over at various
times to show me the progress and ask my opinion on things. But he was
humouring me. From the way Chen had spoken of him, the man did not need
assistance.