By the Time You Read This (8 page)

11

L
ARRY
B
URKE WAS NEW
in CID. He’d only been out of uniform a few months, in fact, and he very much wanted to make a good impression on his colleagues. He even worried that stopping into the Country Style at the top of Algonquin for a quiet lunch might be viewed as a complete cliché, the cop in the donut shop. But the truth was he didn’t give a damn about donuts, he just liked Country Style coffee. And they were making a decent sandwich these days, when you got down to it, so why shouldn’t he eat where he liked?

It was his favourite thing to do on his day off, stop into the Country Style with the
Toronto Sun
—you couldn’t beat the
Sun
for sports coverage—order himself a gigantic coffee and a chicken salad sandwich, and linger for a good hour and a half. Today the sunlight streamed through the windows, and Burke was actually hot, even though it was a chilly October day. Outside, the hills were scarlet and gold.

He licked the last of the chicken salad off his fingers and took a swig of coffee. There was a bran muffin sitting there waiting for him, but he didn’t want lunch to be over too fast. The truth was, days off had become a little bleak since he and Brenda had split—or rather since Brenda had split. Burke would have happily kept their fitful romance going for another tepid year or two.

He thought about calling her on the cell, just see how she was doing, but he didn’t want to seem pathetic. Anyway, Brenda was right: they hadn’t had much of a future.

“Man, I don’t believe what I just saw.”

Burke looked up from an article on the Grey Cup. The guy at the next table was staring out the window at something beyond Burke’s shoulder. Burke turned around to look, but all he could see was the parking lot, nothing much happening there.

“He’s gone now,” the guy said. “But I swear, fella just got out of that Honda Civic was carrying a shotgun. He went into the laundromat. Looked pissed off, too.”

“Are you sure he was carrying a gun?”

“Hey, man, I just bagged six duck last weekend. I know a double-ought when I see one.”

Burke’s mouth dried. He didn’t have his service firearm with him, no radio either. He flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial for the duty sergeant.

“Hey, Mo, it’s Burke. Yeah, yeah, I know, listen. I got a report of a man carrying a firearm into the laundromat next to the Country Style top of Algonquin. I didn’t see him, but there’s a hunter two seats over who swears the guy’s carrying a shotgun.”

He heard the sergeant hitting the radio and hung up, then he went out into the parking lot and over to the laundromat. Smells of leaves mingled with the scent of laundry detergent blowing from the building’s vents. The air was cold enough to give him goosebumps. At least, he thought it was the air.

He didn’t hesitate. In Burke’s experience, the anticipation was the worst aspect of this sort of thing. These situations never improved. He was hoping the guy was either carrying a toy or just on his way to get his hunting rifle repaired.

He opened the door of the laundromat and went in. A young man—thin, scrawny even, with a stalk of a neck, and prematurely balding in his, what, mid-twenties at most—was staring at a spin dryer on the far side of a row of washers, as if it displayed college football and not a spiral of laundry. At the front of the place, in a row of plastic chairs, three women were reading magazines or listening to iPods. None of them looked up.

Under the pretence of grabbing a magazine, Burke moved toward the other side of the washers and saw that the man was indeed holding a shotgun. It dangled in a loose grip, pointing toward the floor. The guy didn’t seem aware of anyone else.

Burke backed up a couple of steps. He tapped the first woman on the shoulder and, when she looked up from her
Chatelaine
, startled, he put a finger to his lips. He showed her his police ID and pointed to the door. The woman opened her mouth, but Burke again gestured with his finger to his lips. She retrieved a small knapsack from the floor and went out.

By now the other two women were watching. Burke gestured to them as well to leave the laundromat. They both stood up, but instead of going out, one of them headed toward the dryers.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “He’s got a gun.”

Burke took hold of her elbow and spoke quietly. “Out, now. Get out now and stay away from the windows. Don’t let anyone else in until my backup units arrive. Go. Go.”

The woman didn’t look back; the door slammed shut behind her.

Other people at the far end of the laundromat hadn’t heard anything over the gurgle and clatter of the machines, and the armed man sat between Burke and them. He was looking at Burke now.

“What do you want?” he said. He had an unpleasant voice, a ducklike quack that rightly belonged to a much older man.

Burke smiled. “Some guy next door panicked when he saw you had a weapon there. Thought I’d come in and check it out.”

“I’m not going to hurt anybody.”

“That’s good. But do you realize it’s an offence to carry an unsheathed firearm within city limits?”

“What are you, a cop?”

Burke nodded, gave another little smile. He looked up at the ceiling a moment then back at the guy. He was trying to remember what the Police College at Aylmer had taught him about eye contact with disturbed individuals. Some found it threatening, but some found it reassuring. He couldn’t remember which, so he just tried a bit of both.

“My day off,” Burke said. “Now, hand that firearm over to me, butt first.”

“No. I’m not going to do that.”

The people in the back were still oblivious. If Burke could get them out, then he could leave too and keep the place empty till backup arrived. Where the hell were they, anyway?

“Listen,” Burke said. “I’m just going to ask the other people to leave. I’m a little concerned that weapon of yours is going to go off, and we don’t want any bystanders to get hurt, do we.”

“Fine. Get ‘em out of here. You go, too.”

“Excuse me!” Burke had to yell over the washers. “Excuse me—sir? Ma’am?” He held up his ID, not that they would be able to make it out from where they were. “Sir? Ma’am? Police officer. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I need you to step outside and stay clear of the building for a little bit.”

“What the hell for?” the man said. “My stuff’s just about ready to come out of the dryer.”

“Just step outside, sir. I need to secure this building.”

The man grumbled, gathering up a knapsack and a bottle of iced tea. He grumbled all the way out the door, through which the woman had already made a less recalcitrant exit.

Burke turned back to the man with the gun, almost a boy, really.

“I’m going to ask you again. Would you hand that weapon over, please? Butt first.”

By way of reply the man shucked a shell into the chamber. Burke’s heart fell into his shoes.

“All right, look.” Burke raised his hands. “I’m not armed. I told you, it’s my day off. Just put the gun down, and we can have a dialogue about this.” Have a dialogue? A
dialogue?
Be nice if I could sound like a human being, he told himself.

“Just go back outside,” the man said in that ducklike voice. “I’m not going to hurt anyone. Just myself.”

“Well, at least tell me your name. I mean, we’re gonna have to identify you and all that.”

“Perry,” the man said. “Perry Dorn.”

“My name’s Larry,” Burke said. “Perry and Larry, how about that?” Twinning, they called that. Find some way to identify with the guy. If he lights a smoke, you light one too. If he feels like pizza, you ask if you can share it. Twinning could make a real difference, they see you as human, they see you as sympathetic. “So, where do you live, Perry?”

“Woodruff Avenue. Three forty-one Woodruff.”

“Oh, yeah. That building by the old CNR station? That looks like a nice place.”

“It’s a dump.”

“Really. You wouldn’t know from the outside.”

“Yeah, well. It’s amazing what you don’t know from the outside.”

“Very true,” Burke said. “That’s very true. Why don’t you tell me a little about what’s going on with you? You look like a guy with a certain amount of stamina. Guy who can take a few hits and stay on his feet. What’s going on, Perry? What’s got you down? Job? Girlfriend?”

The man shook his head. One side of his mouth crept up a little, as if he was tasting bile.

“If I tell you, will you go away and leave me alone?”

“I can’t leave while you have a gun, Perry. I’d get in serious trouble if I did that. Why don’t you tell me anyway?”

The man blinked several times. A heavy sweat had broken out on his forehead, dripping down into his eyes. It was hot in the laundromat, but not that hot.

“I don’t have a girlfriend and I don’t have a job. Those are the givens. Let X be a student. A former student. I was going to go to McGill to do graduate work. But I didn’t want to go unless my girlfriend came with me. Let Y be my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. She said she was going to, but then she changed her mind after I’d already been accepted and paid my tuition and had my ticket and everything. I knew something wasn’t right with this equation. Before she backed out, I knew. I knew it couldn’t possibly go that well. And I was right. I got the right answer, I just didn’t know how I got it.”

“That’s tough, Perry,” Burke said. “That’s a lot to handle. You know, it might not hurt to give yourself a little time to get over this.”

The man ignored him.

“I was supposed to go to McGill. They were going to pay all my tuition. All I was going to have to cover was books and living expenses, and now I can’t go. See, it wasn’t just she didn’t want to go to Montreal. That was not the problem. The reason she dumped me was she was sleeping with a guy I thought was my friend. Let him be Z. Stanley, my so-called friend.”

Burke might have thought he was making progress here, getting the guy talking about himself and his troubles. But he wasn’t speaking with any feeling. He was quacking his way through his algebra of misery and was not about to be distracted. All that mathematical jargon, like his life was just some math problem. The coldness in that voice, the lack of feeling, had Burke’s heart beating double time.

“Well, hell, Perry. This just gets worse and worse. No wonder you’re down in the dumps. Anybody would be. You need some time off, fella. Some time to recuperate from all the punishment you’ve taken.”

“Time off. I was supposed to show up for my graduate course weeks ago. I’ve lost my slot there now. And as for my girlfriend …”

“What’s her name?”

“Margaret. Everyone calls her Peg, though.”

“Margaret. That’s an Irish name.”

The guy wasn’t listening.

“She’s been screwing around,” he said, as if he hadn’t already mentioned it. “Kinda brings a new vector into the equation. She’s been unfaithful to me. For a long time now, behind my back. She says no, it’s just recent. I can’t prove it, but I know she’s lying. It’s just a feeling I get. Everything’s false.”

The guy should be crying now, but he’s got that dead voice, that it’s-all-over voice. The machines have all gone quiet, except for one dryer slamming against the back wall. Burke hears cars pulling up: the cavalry at last. He has a sudden inspiration, the kind of hunch worthy of a CID man. He points around at the laundromat.

“Is this where you met her, Perry? Would this happen to be where you and Margaret first met?”

“A-plus
plus,”
the guy says, and gives him a big grin.

Connection! Burke figures. Now we’re getting somewhere. And just as he’s thinking that, Perry Dorn flips the shotgun so the muzzle is under his own chin and pulls the trigger.

12

O
NE OF THE ASPECTS
of small-city police work that makes it both more interesting than big-city stuff and more frustrating is that a detective has to deal with all sorts of crimes. He or she is not a vice cop, or a homicide cop, or a bunko specialist; they take whatever gets assigned to them by their detective sergeant. With Cardinal on bereavement leave and McLeod and Burke on their days off, that meant Lise Delorme was now, in addition to her new hunt for a child molester, covering another suicide—this time in a laundromat that smelled of lint and hot metal and soapy water.

But Delorme could also smell the blood. The spray had hit the ceiling along with a good deal of brain matter, and there were streaks and blotches and scarlet smears where he had fallen against the washers. The pool on the floor was already dark and congealing.

“Gee,” Szelagy said. “What do you suppose could be the cause of death?”

Standing next to Ken Szelagy was like standing next to the Empire State; he was six-four and always made Delorme feel puny, which she was not. She tended to compensate by being gruff with him, which was unnecessary, since Szelagy was the easiest-going member of CID.

They were hanging back a little so the coroner could go about his work. It was Dr. Claybourne again, reflections of fluorescent lights gleaming on his head.

Delorme flipped through the dead man’s wallet. It was hard to pull out the individual cards and papers wearing latex gloves, but she finally managed to extract a driver’s licence, not that the stern, somewhat lopsided face in the licence bore any resemblance to the carmine wreckage on the floor.

“Perry Wallace Dorn,” she read. “Lives on Woodruff, if this address is still current.”

“Kinda far from here,” Szelagy said. “You’d think he’d at least pick his own laundromat. Maybe a machine ate his quarter.”

Delorme bypassed several credit cards, Algonquin Bay library card, medical insurance card, Chapters bookstore discount card, Northern University student card, expired.

“Here we go,” she said. “Birth certificate.”

She turned it over. Unfortunately, it was the short-form certificate that did not give parents’ names. She handed the card to Szelagy. “Call the Registrar General and get the parents’ names, and see if Perry was ever married.”

Szelagy flipped open his cellphone, and Delorme reached down to take a piece of paper that Dr. Claybourne was handing to her.

“It was in his jacket pocket,” he said. Dr. Claybourne’s face was bright red. A matter of his complexion, Delorme reminded herself, whatever McLeod might say. McLeod was always wrong about everything; it was amazing he ever managed to make detective.

The note had been crumpled up in a tight ball at some point, then smoothed out and folded up again more neatly. In any case, it would not be going down in the history of great romantic letters.

Dear Margaret
, it said. Then that had been crossed out and rewritten several times in different spots on the page.
Dear Margaret, Dear Margaret, Dear …

No points for eloquence there, Perry. But then Delorme reconsidered. Perhaps that was all that needed to be said when you were going to quit the scene. No thanks. I’ve had enough. You guys go on without me. Maybe Perry Dorn had distilled the suicide note to its essence:
Dear …

You’d think it would be just losers, Delorme thought, complete failures or people with no prospects at all. But she had seen enough by now to know that suicide was an equal-opportunity exit. Smart or stupid, ugly or beautiful, anyone could walk out at any time. But why this particular time? Why October? Delorme knew enough about suicide to know that the myth was wrong: there was no Christmas rush, not in Ontario. The numbers were worst in the month of February. Which made sense, because by February you were so sick of snow and cold that suicide could look like a reasonable option. Which was why, come February, virtually the entire population of Algonquin Bay transposed itself to Florida or the Caribbean.

Why kill yourself in the fall? It was so beautiful, the hills heartbreaking swells of colour. The fall was the time Delorme felt happiest. It was always autumn, not New Year’s, when she made her resolutions. Maybe it was just a legacy of the educational system; the fall was when you bought bright new notebooks, their fresh clean pages inviting you to write neat, comprehensive notes. Later in the year, your notes deteriorated into ambiguous little blurts that jogged the memory inconclusively if at all. But those first few days, when the air carried the first crisp notes of winter and the sky burned blowtorch blue, it was impossible, at least for Delorme, not to be happy. Even though every summer seemed to bring a new romantic reversal, each fall made her heart expand with hope.

Outside, the sun was so bright, the parking lot looked overexposed. Inside, everything that wasn’t bloody was grey and drained of colour, like clothing that has been through the wash too many times.

The door slammed on its springs and Burke came in, notebook in fist. “Checked his car. Back seat’s full of new books and binders and crap.”

Burke was trying to sound gruff, but his face was white and his hand was shaking.

“We have his student card,” Delorme said. “Listen, Larry, why don’t you go home and lie down for a while? Guy blows his head off in front of you, it’s not something you’re going to get over in five minutes.”

“Look at this, though.”

He handed her a sheet of paper, expensive letterhead with a red crest. Dated early April.

“‘Dear Mr. Dorn,’” she read. “‘I am delighted to inform you that McGill University has accepted you into its graduate program in Mathematics. In view of your extremely impressive record at Northern, I think I am safe in saying that this acceptance will come with a substantial grant. Subject to confirmation from the student awards department, your expenses will probably be limited to rent and other living expenses. We look forward to meeting you in the fall.’ School year started ages ago. If he’s accepted at McGill, why isn’t he in Montreal?”

“Clearly the guy didn’t have all his marbles,” Burke said. “Jerk,” he added, but he was not a convincing hard-ass.

“Really, Larry,” Delorme said, “go home and lie down. You’re not in shape to be working. Go ahead. No one’s going to think badly of you.”

“I’m all right. Kinda thing’s all in a day’s work. Kinda shit we deal with, right?”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve never seen anyone shoot themselves, and I don’t ever want to. What’s that in your hand?”

“Huh?” Burke held up a PalmPilot and stared at it as if it had just been beamed into his hand. “Oh, yeah. Was in his car. Figured you might want it.”

“Good thinking. Now, go home.”

“Maybe I’ll just go sit outside for a few minutes,” Burke said.

Szelagy snapped his cellphone shut. “Registrar’s gonna call me back.”

“Might not need them,” Delorme said. She was poking the stylus at the Palm, scrolling up and down through addresses. Not under
D
for Dorn, not under
P
for parents. “Here we go. Under
M
for mom.”