Dead Politician Society

Clare Vengel tossed a leg over her Triumph and kicked it into gear. The sun was shining, the mayor was dead, and Cloutier wanted to meet with her. As she sped along Dundas Street, weaving a bit too quickly through traffic, visions of her first undercover assignment played in her head.

At Dundas and Dupont, she found the agreed-upon donut shop. Sergeant Cloutier was already seated with two enormous coffees.

“So.” Clare flashed her brightest smile. “Who am I?”

She slid into the cushioned booth, and set her helmet on the seat beside her.

Cloutier opened a bag and pulled out a dutchie. “I'm not pleased to be using you.”

“Okay.” That was fair. She was as green as they came. Clare determined to please him with results.

“We need someone who looks young. We also need someone with field experience. Apparently in this enlightened age it's the packaging that counts.”

Clare sipped her coffee. What was she supposed to say?

Cloutier nodded to some sugar packets in the center of the table. “You're not gonna use those?”

Clare wrinkled her nose. “No, thanks.”

Cloutier took one and added it to his own coffee.

“You're going back to school.” He slid a plain white envelope across the table. “You're a third-year political science student.”

“Political science?” Clare opened the envelope and discreetly observed a student card, driver's license, and other documents that identified her as Clare Simpson. “Is that more like politics or science?”

Cloutier shook his head irritably. “Politics.”

“Oh.” Clare would have preferred science.

“You think you can get up to speed fast enough?”

“Of course.” She'd stay awake all night if she had to. “Is there a reason I'm only half undercover?”

“You're keeping your first name to make things easier on you.”

“Thanks.” Clare wasn't sure whether to feel protected or insulted.

“This isn't a permanent transfer.” Cloutier broke a piece from his donut. “Screw this case up, and it's back to the beat for a very long time.”

“Okay.” Again, fair. Most cops had to put in years in uniform before they'd be given an undercover assignment. She'd been on the force for three months. “How did the mayor die?”

“Do you live on this planet?”

Clare eyed Cloutier's dutchie. She wished she had one of her own. Or something greasy, like bacon or sausage, to soak up her mild hangover.

“Hayden Pritchard died at last night's Working Child Benefit. He collapsed in his own vomit. It was all over the news.”

“Oh.” Clare was supposed to feel ignorant because she didn't spend her evenings glued to the local fucking news? Fine, maybe she felt a little bit ignorant, but she wasn't going to show it.

“Just read this.” Cloutier passed a printed email across the stained Formica table.

Clare wasn't sure why her fingers trembled as she handed the page back to Cloutier.

“This email was sent to Annabel Davis, the assistant obituary editor at the
Star
.”

“Obituaries?” Clare rolled her eyes upward, and saw that the drop ceiling was badly in need of repair. “I guess there isn't a homicidal rants editor. Is the newspaper printing it?”

“Not for now.”

“Do we know who sent the email?”

“Yeah. That's why we need the investigation.”

Clare wanted to groan, but reminded herself to stay positive.

“The source computer was wireless.” Cloutier took one of the unused creamers and added it to his coffee, not bothering to stir it in. “A laptop, or one of those fancy Internet phones. The address was nicknamed ‘Utopia Girl.'”

“I presume we know that the mayor actually died from poison.”

“You don't need to do any presuming. We have detectives for that. But yes: the medical examiner found massive organ damage consistent with some common poisons. Pritchard's genitals and urinary organs were congested with blood.”

“You mean his cock was hard,” Clare said, then immediately felt morbid.

Cloutier looked Clare in the eye. “Pritchard's death was painful and miserable.”

Of course it was — her comment had been callous and horrible. She tried another tack. “Had he recently started a new medication? Viagra maybe? If he was already on some other drug, for his heart or something, the two could have interacted badly.”

“Thanks for your medical opinion.”

Clare tried to take a sip of coffee, but ended up dribbling most of it down her chin and onto her favorite T-shirt.

“Your job is basic, Vengel: go in as a student, keep your eyes and ears open, and get in touch when you find something that might help us.”

“Okay.” Clare stroked her helmet, which sat beside her on the plastic bench. “How about an obvious question: Why do we think this ‘Utopia Girl' is the killer? Doesn't every nutcase and his brother pop out of the woodwork when a famous person dies?”

“The inspector obviously thinks there's something to it.”

Clare leaned forward. “Which inspector?”

“Detective Inspector Morton hand-picked you for this assignment.”

“Cool.” Clare liked Morton — and apparently he thought she was worth a chance. He had hardly been exuberant when she'd met him, but he at least hadn't laughed her out of his office when she'd approached him about undercover work. “And — last question, I swear — what's the connection to the university? Is that where the email was sent from?”

“Looks that way.” Cloutier ate the last of his donut and stuffed his crumpled napkin into the bag. “Your first class is at eleven a.m. if you can make it, but the course that most interests us is your two o'clock. It meets twice a week. Tuesday afternoons and Thursday mornings. It's called Political Utopia for the Real World.”

Clare's eyes scanned the obituary upside down. “Is it a large class?”

“Twenty students, plus you. Now go. You have pencils and notebooks to buy.”

“Can I invoice the station for them?”

“Of course. Just don't buy anything fancy.”

“Do I look like I'd want something fancy?” Clare picked up her helmet.

“No, you don't.” Cloutier smirked. “Have a good day at school.”

Clare rode off into the morning.