By the Time You Read This (7 page)

“The good news is, if a printer does something like that, it does it consistently. You notice there’s no flaw through the first line of type. But if we had another page the guy printed out, it would show the same flaw on the second line.”

“How helpful is that going to be?” Cardinal asked.

“Without another sample to compare it to? Not helpful at all. And the bad news is, they change the cartridge, they change the flaws. Far as we’re concerned, it’s like they’ve bought themselves a whole new printer.”

Cardinal pointed to the notebook. “What can you do with these?”

“Depends what you want to know.”

“I’d like to be sure the note was written with the same pen as the rest of the notebook. And when it was written in relation to the last entries. If you open it to the one that mentions ‘John’s birthday.’”

“John’s birthday. Ha! Maybe she was addressing it to you!” Hunn flicked through the pages, then held the notebook up to the light the way he had the card. “Oh, yeah. You’ve got impressions here. I can make out ‘Dear John.’ First thing we do is stick ‘em both in the comparator.”

He lifted a wide door on something labelled
VSC 2000
.

“Look through the window there, when I flick the switch. I can shine several different kinds of light on the samples, see what kicks up. Ink may look identical to the human eye, but even the same make and model of pen will show differences under infrared. The chemistry of different ink batches reacts differently. I can’t tell you how many fraudulent wills I’ve busted using this gizmo. ‘Dear John.’ Gotta love it.”

Cardinal bent over to peer through the window. The writing on the pages glowed.

“These are identical,” Hunn said from behind him. “Same pen wrote the suicide note and the birthday note.”

“Can you tell me which one was written first?”

“Sure. First thing we do is stick it in the humidifier.” Hunn put the notebook into a small machine with a glass front that looked like a toaster oven. “Just needs a minute or so. Indentations will show up way better if the paper is humid.”

The machine beeped, and he took out the notebook. “Now we’ll run a little
ESDA
magic on it, see what we can see.”

“A little what?”

“E-S-D-A. Electrostatic detection apparatus.”

This was a hulk of a machine with a venting hood on top. Hunn laid the notebook down so that the single page was flat against a layer of foam. Then he spread a sheet of plastic wrap over it.

“Underneath the foam we got a vacuum that pulls the air through. It’ll hold the document and the plastic down tight. Now I take my Corona unit—don’t worry, I’m not gonna open my pants …”

Hunn picked up a wandlike instrument and flicked a switch. “Little mother puts out several thousand volts,” he said over the hum. He waved it over the plastic sheet a few times. There was no change that Cardinal could see.

“Now I take my fairy dust …” Hunn shook what looked like iron filings out of a small canister. “Actually, these are tiny glass beads covered in toner. I’m just gonna cascade ‘em over my set-up here …”

He poured the black powder over the plastic that covered the notebook page. The beads slid off, leaving toner behind in the impressions. There was a flash of light.

“Now I got us a picture,” Hunn said, “and we shall see what we shall see. Have these been dusted for fingerprints?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“The toner’ll often pick up prints—not as good as dusting powder. They have to be pretty good prints for it to work. Take a look.”

A photograph scrolled out of a slot. Cardinal reached for it.

There was a small dark thumbprint to the left of ‘John’s birthday,’ which now appeared in white. There was a short straight line across the whorls where Catherine had cut herself in the kitchen years ago.
Catherine’s thumbprint, where she braced the notebook on her lap. She was alive. She was thinking of me, planning for my birthday, imagining a future
. Cardinal coughed to cover the cry that threatened to escape his throat. The impression of the suicide note was now complete, clearly inscribed in black toner.
By the time you read this …

It’s her handwriting. You know it’s her handwriting. Why are you putting yourself through this?

“Okay,” Cardinal said. “So we know the suicide note was written on top of the later page, which makes sense. The later pages should have been blank when she wrote the suicide note. But can you tell if the ink on the later page, I mean the ink of the birthday note, is on top of the impressions left from the suicide note? Or underneath them?”

“Oh, I like a man who thinks dirty,” Hunn said. “Let’s pop it under the microscope. If the white lines of the birthday note are interrupted by black, that means the indentations were made at a later time than the ink.” Hunn peered into the microscope and adjusted the focus. “Nope. We got black interrupted by white—ink over indentations.”

“So the suicide note was definitely written
before
the birthday note.”

“Definitely. I’m assuming you know when the mysterious John’s birthday occurred?”

“Yeah. Over three months ago.”

“Hmm. Not your usual run of suicide, then.”

“No. Can I keep the picture you took?”

“Oh, sure. That way the original doesn’t have to be handled so much.” Hunn pulled the notebook out of the
ESDA
machine and put it back in its folder.

“Do one more thing for me, Tommy?”

“What’s that?”

“Pour some of that fairy dust on the suicide note too.”

“You wanna check it for earlier impressions as well? You already have the birthday thing.”

“I’d really appreciate it. My brothers in arms up north aren’t exactly on the team on this one.”

Hunn looked at him, pale blue eyes calculating. “Okay, sure.”

He repeated the routine of humidifying the note, securing it under plastic, charging it. Then he poured the powder over the plastic.

“Looks like lots of impressions from notes earlier in the notebook. We can stick it under the microscope and be certain which ones came first, if you want.”

“Look at this,” Cardinal said. He pulled out the photo curling from the slot. The suicide note was now in white. But there was something else at the top of the photo, in the centre, outlined in black toner.

“Quite a bit bigger than the other one,” Hunn said. “And no scar. I’m no ident man, but I’d say you’re now dealing with a very different pair of thumbs.”

A little later Hunn walked him down to the elevators, where they waited in silence a few moments. Then the bell pinged, announcing the arrival of the elevator. Cardinal got in and hit the button for the ground floor.

“Say, listen,” Hunn said in the tone of one who has been turning something over in his mind. “That stuff isn’t connected to you, is it? I mean, personally? You wouldn’t be the John in the notebook, would you?”

“Thanks for all your help, Tommy,” Cardinal said as the elevator doors closed between them. “Much appreciated.”

Travelling back to Algonquin Bay the same day meant Cardinal and Kelly spent a total of eight hours together in the car. The ride back was quiet.

Cardinal asked Kelly how things had gone with her friend.

“Fine. At least she hasn’t turned into a vegetable like Kim. She’s still involved in art, and she seems to have some idea of what’s going on in the world.”

Kelly twisted a strand of her blue-black hair as she stared out the window. Cardinal remembered how his own friends had changed at that age. Many had lost interest in him when he became a cop, and a lot of his Toronto associates wrote him off when he moved back to Algonquin Bay.

“You never know about people,” Catherine had said. “Everybody has their own storyline, and sometimes it doesn’t include us—usually when we wish it did. And sometimes it does include us—usually when we wish it didn’t.”

And what about now, Catherine? How do I deal with your being gone?

“Like a cop,” he imagined her saying, with the little half smile she gave whenever she was teasing him. “The way you handle everything.”

But it doesn’t help, he wanted to cry. Nothing helps.

They passed WonderWorld, a vast amusement park just north of Toronto with a fake pointy mountain and gigantic rides. Kelly asked him how things had gone at Forensics, but Cardinal mumbled something noncommittal. He didn’t want to see the look of pity and frustration in her eyes.

When Orillia was behind them, she said, “I suppose this means dinner at the Sundial?”

“Unfortunately not,” Cardinal said. “Sundial’s closed.”

“My oh my. The end of an era.”

They had to settle for bland little sandwiches at a Tim Hortons.

It was dark by the time they got home. The hills and the trees were silent, a salve to the ears after the endless clatter of Toronto. Colder, too. A half-hidden moon lit tendrils of cloud that hung motionless over the water, the lake itself shiny and black as patent leather.

When Cardinal opened the front door, he stepped on the corner of a square white envelope. He picked it up without showing Kelly.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Kelly said, taking off her coat. “Nothing like a day in the car to make you feel grubby.”

Cardinal took the envelope into the kitchen, holding it by the corner. He switched on the overhead light and peered at the address. He was pretty sure he could make out a pale, threadlike line running through the
M
and the
R
of
Madonna Road
.

10

C
ARDINAL HAD NOT NOTICED
on his previous visit how thoroughly Dr. Bell’s office was set up for the comfort of his patients. The large sunny windows, with their gauzy blinds bright as sails, the floor-to-ceiling walls of psychology and philosophy texts with their reassuring smells of ink and glue and paper, the worn Persian rugs, everything about the room conveyed stability, permanence, wisdom—qualities that psychiatric patients might feel lacking in their own lives. The place was a refuge from the mess of life, a cocoon that invited safe reflection.

Cardinal sank into the couch. He noted the boxes of Kleenex discreetly placed at either end, and on the coffee table—as much Kleenex as at Desmond’s Funeral Home—and he wondered how many times Catherine had sat here and wept. Had she also talked about her disappointment in her husband—who didn’t pay her enough attention, was not kind enough or patient enough?

“‘How she must have hated you,’” Dr. Bell read from the latest sympathy card. “‘You failed her so completely.’” He looked at Cardinal over tiny reading glasses. “What was your reaction when you read that? Your immediate reaction, I mean.”

“That he’s right. Or she. Whoever wrote it. That it’s true I failed her and she probably hated me for it.”

“Do you believe that?”

The doctor’s mild eyes on him—not probing, not trying to X-ray—just waiting, bright squares of window glinting in his glasses.

“I believe that I failed her, yes.”

What Cardinal could
not
believe was that he was talking to anyone like this. He never talked to anyone like this, except Catherine. Something about Dr. Bell—an air of gentle expectation, not to mention the wiry eyebrows and all that corduroy—compelled honesty. No wonder Catherine liked him, although …

“What?” Dr. Bell said. “You’re hesitating now.”

“Just remembering something,” Cardinal said. “Something Catherine said to me one time just after she had seen you. I could tell she had been crying, and I asked her what was wrong. How it went. And she said, ‘I love Dr. Bell. I think he’s great. But sometimes even the best doctor has to hurt you.’”

“You thought of that now because my question hurt.”

Cardinal nodded.

“There’s a common saying in psychotherapy: It has to get worse before it gets better.”

“Yeah. Catherine told me that, too.”

“Not that one ever intends to make a patient feel worse,” Dr. Bell said. His hands toyed with a brass object on his desk. It looked like a miniature steam engine. “But we all build up defences against certain truths about ourselves or our situations—against reality, essentially—and therapy provides a place where it’s safe to dismantle those defences. The patient does the dismantling, not the therapist, but the process is bound to be painful nevertheless.”

“Luckily, I’m not here as a patient. I just wanted to ask you about those cards. I realize you’re not a profiler …”

“No forensic experience at all, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right—this isn’t an official investigation. But I was hoping you would help by giving me your opinion on what kind of person would write these cards. They were mailed from two different locations, but they were printed by the same machine.”

“What exactly is it that is under investigation—officially or otherwise?”

“Catherine’s d—” Cardinal’s breath caught on the word. He still could not say that word about Catherine, even though it was more than a week now. “Catherine.”

“You mean you don’t believe she killed herself?”

“The coroner has made a finding of suicide, and my colleagues down at the station agree. Personally, I find it a little harder to accept, though you’ll probably tell me that’s just my defence.”

“Oh, no, I would never say it was
just
a defence. I have great respect for defences, Detective. They’re what get us through the day, not to mention the night. Nor would I second-guess your expertise on matters of homicide. My own experience of Catherine makes me think it indeed highly likely she killed herself, but if evidence were to show otherwise, I would not try to argue black is white. Certainly a finding of accidental death would be much easier for me to accept. But you’re not thinking it an accident, are you.”

“No.”

“You’re thinking she was killed. And that whoever wrote these nasty cards was behind the killing.”

“Let’s just say I’m pursuing several lines of inquiry at the moment. I’d be willing to pay you—I should have said that right away.”

“Oh, no, no. I couldn’t possibly accept payment. This is not my field. I’m happy to give you my opinion, off the record, but to accept payment would imply a commercial service offered with confidence. It most assuredly is not.” Dr. Bell smiled, eyes disappearing for a moment in fur. “That’s a considerable caveat. Do you still wish me to proceed?”

“If you would.”

Dr. Bell rolled his shoulders and shook his head. If you were going to have tics, Cardinal supposed, they weren’t the worst ones to have. The doctor picked up the first card and adjusted his glasses. He swivelled slightly in his chair, bringing the card into the light. Then he went still, a figure in a painting.

“All right,” he said after some time. “First of all, what is the nature of someone who writes a note like this? Essentially, you’ve got someone who is sneering at you.”

“A friend of mine used the same word.”

“And the author is not even sneering at you in person, he’s doing it behind your back. Or she. Rather in the way of a child who calls someone names from a safe distance. He knows you can’t retaliate. It’s a cowardly, fearful sort of attack.

“Whereas killing someone—killing someone is very personal and face to face. Usually. To link these cards with Catherine’s possible murder, you must assume the motive in both cases is the same: the goal is to hurt
you
, and Catherine was just a means to that end. Somehow, in order to hurt
you
, the killer somehow first got hold of her suicide note—unless you’re thinking it’s not in fact her handwriting. Are you in doubt about the handwriting?”

“For now, we’ll assume it’s genuine.”

“Which would mean someone got hold of her suicide note. How could that be?”

“I don’t know—at least, not yet. Please go on.”

“He intends to hurt you by hurting her, perhaps follows her for a time. Possibly a good long time. Possibly snoops through her things and finds a suicide note she wrote on a particularly bad day. Possibly even finds it after she discarded it, who knows? In any case, he follows her on this night when she’s quite alone and pushes her off the roof, leaving the note behind to throw everyone off the scent. If that is in fact what happened, it seems to me the person capable of going through with all that—the stalking, the waiting, and then the final violence itself—is not the sort of shrinking violet who’s going to bother writing anonymous squibs. Am I making sense so far?”

“I wish OPP Behavioural Science was this fast,” Cardinal said. “Keep going.”

“I would say in the case of the card writer you’re looking for someone who knows you. And I emphasize
you
as opposed to Catherine. He’s gone to the trouble of hiding his handwriting. And you say he’s mailed the cards from two different locations.”

Dr. Bell sank back into his chair, rocking it with one foot propped on the coffee table, then resumed as if he had not interrupted himself in the slightest.

“I’d say this is going to be someone nervous and withdrawn. Someone who feels himself—or herself—a failure. Almost certainly unemployed. Self-esteem
deep
in the negative zone. Also—to judge by the first card—someone who has suffered a great loss for which you are to blame. I imagine you’ve already considered the possibility, Detective, that this is someone you nicked?”

“Mm,” Cardinal said. “And there are a lot of those.”

“Yes, but that ‘How does it feel.’ That rings with a very specific intent, don’t you find? Someone steps on your foot, so you stomp on his. How does it feel? How do
you
like it? My point being, it’s not just someone you’ve imprisoned, but perhaps someone who lost his wife as a result of that imprisonment.”

“We don’t keep statistics, but there’s probably a lot of those too. Marriages don’t tend to thrive on imprisonment.”

“Nor on hospitalization, though I note your own admirable exception to this.”

Cardinal wanted to say, “I did my best, obviously it wasn’t enough,” but grief closed its bony hand around his throat. He opened his briefcase and pulled out Catherine’s suicide note, the original encased in plastic.

Once again Dr. Bell turned toward the window light. A few pensive scratchings among his sandy and grey curls, and then he went still again.

After a few moments he said, “That must have been painful to read.”

“How does it read to you, Doctor? Does it sound genuine?”

“Ah. So you do have doubts about the handwriting?”

“Just tell me how it sounds to you, if you would.”

“It reads exactly like Catherine. A deeply sad woman, often hopeless, but also capable of great love. I think it was that love that kept her going through depressions that by all rights should have proved lethal years earlier. Her main concern, and I heard this from her over and over again, was how it would affect you—apparently even at the end.”

“If it was the end,” Cardinal said.