Wilf stared at the three sets of tracks leading off through the snow. He decided to follow them.
After a short distance they made a right turn and headed back toward the road. Wilf came to the edge of the trees, slid down a steep slope and struggled up onto the gleaming strip of ice again.
He looked back to where Andy had parked the cruiser. It was gone. The three men’s tracks had disappeared, as well. He walked along the road for a little while but there were no more tracks to be seen in either direction. They could have climbed into a parked car. Or walked along the icy road for miles.
Wilf walked back to where he’d come out of the woods, struggled up the slope again and began to retrace his steps. There was something unconvincing about the trail of boots he’d been following. He’d felt it all along. When he reached a small clearing where the tracks were particularly distinct in the snow he crouched down to have a closer look. He examined the indented mark of each heel. The depression of each toe. He looked up.
A young boy was standing just outside the ring of trees watching him.
“Hello.”
The boy didn’t reply.
“Didn’t you go back with Andy?” Wilf said, although he knew he wasn’t one of those children.
The boy began to move away.
Wilf got up and followed, trying to close the gap. Somehow the boy was maintaining the same distance between them. And then the boy began to run. Wilf ran, too, hobbling through the trees, black trunks flickering by, dark and closed like doors. Faster. And faster.
Wilf stumbled and fell. When he looked up the boy had stopped and was watching him again. And now Wilf could see for certain what he’d thought he’d seen. The boy had hardly anything on at all, only a light striped jersey and torn striped pants. His feet were bare. He was standing on top of the snow.
Wilf groaned and turned his face. And crawled away.
* * *
Prosecutor: And what was the purpose?
Witness: The purpose was to develop procedures to facilitate the regeneration of bones, muscles and nerves during transplant operations. This was in the interest of our severely wounded soldiers.
Prosecutor: And how were these experiments conducted?
Witness: Inmates were selected from the general camp population. Arms were removed, including the shoulder blades, legs were removed at the hips, sometimes sections of bone or just muscles and nerves were also removed.
Prosecutor: And what happened to these experimental subjects afterwards?
Witness: If the donor inmates survived their operations, they were killed by means of Evipan injections.
Wilf stared down at a grainy black-and-white photograph at the bottom of the transcript. A metal bin with rubber wheels was sitting in what looked like a hospital corridor. It was full to overflowing with severed arms and severed legs.
He’d known right away who that boy was and therefore he’d known who the man in Cruikshank’s backyard must be, too. Like everyone else he’d seen enough pictures in newspapers and in
LIFE
magazine to last a lifetime. Inmates escaped from some camp. In Germany. Or Poland. Somewhere.
Except they hadn’t escaped. They couldn’t have. They weren’t real.
When Wilf had been dropped off in front of his house he’d gone straight into the study. It was the sight of the boy that had sent him back to the transcripts. It was the sight of the hapless arm in its sleeve in the snow. His father had listed the experiment under
E)
.
Wilf walked out to the kitchen and picked up the phone.
“Number, please,” Nancy Dearborn said.
“I want to call long distance.”
“Oh hi, Wilf. How are things?”
“Hi, Nancy. Good. How are things with you?”
“Well, nothing much new. You know how it is.”
Obviously she hasn’t heard about the body in the woods. Amazing, Wilf thought. But then it hadn’t been more than a half an hour since the Chief of Police had arrived at the murder scene and Andy had driven him home.
“I hear you and Carole went to the movies the other night.”
“Did you?”
“
Lady on a Train
, wasn’t it? I haven’t seen it. Is it any good?”
“So so.”
“Just so so? The movie or the whole evening?”
Wilf braced the phone between the wall and his ear, refused to answer and fished out his wallet from his trouser pocket.
“I think I’ll go down and see it for myself,” Nancy said.
Wilf plucked out a worn piece of paper and let the wallet drop to the floor. “I want to call long distance.”
“I’ll have to connect you to the long-distance operator then.”
“All right,” Wilf said and wondered if she was going to mention the upcoming dance in Preston. Instead she connected him with long distance, who connected him to Jersey City, New Jersey. A woman’s voice came on the line.
“Hello?” She sounded exasperated.
Wilf could hear a child crying in the background. “Is Michael Pascani there?”
“Michael Pascani?” More exasperation.
“Well, Mick. Mick Pascani. I’m a friend of his. From the Army. Not the Army, exactly. The Air Force. The Canadian Air Force?”
“I thought you were a salesman.”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re not Wilf McLauchlin, are you?”
“I guess I am.”
“Really? No! My god, I can’t believe it! It’s so good to hear from you!”
Wilf felt such a wave of gratitude it almost overpowered him. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“Well, of course. Mick talks about you all the time!”
“I think about him a lot. He saved my life.”
“God, he’s going to be so sorry he missed you! He’s working out of town, Wilf. He’ll be calling tonight. Can I give him your number?”
“Sure. You bet. By the way, he talked about you all the time, too. Peggy this, Peggy that.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did!”
“He did. You and Mick Junior. I guess that would be Mick Junior making all the noise.”
“That’s him all right. And believe it or not, there’s another Mick or Mary on the way.”
“No kidding? That’s great!”
“Yes, well actually it is. It is great.”
“He came to visit me in France too, just before he was sent home. Did he tell you?”
“Sure. He told me everything. You two must have hit it off.”
“He has lots of stories.”
Peggy laughed. “I know!”
“And I had lots of time to listen.”
“A captive audience, he would have loved that! How are you anyway? Can you travel? Can you come down to see us? I mean, that wasn’t the right word. Sorry. You know what I mean, though.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“No, they’re fine. That’s part of my news. They got better. In fact, not long after Mick left for home I could see just as well as ever.”
“My god, that’s a real miracle.”
“Yeah. Seemed like it. I don’t even know what Mick looks like. I’d recognize his voice anywhere though.”
“Well, you’ll just have to come down here and see his ugly puss for yourself.”
Wilf gave her his number and Peggy told him to stay close to the phone, Mick would be calling him sometime that night for sure.
Wilf said he would and hung up.
He sat down at the table and stared at the wall. It wasn’t just that he was seeing people. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was becoming. He’d seen the man in Cruikshank’s yard and that boy before.
Wilf looked over at his wallet. The contents lay strewn all over the floor.
CHAPTER TEN
It was just before noon when Wilf called a taxi and headed downtown. For some reason he wanted to see Carole. He didn’t know why exactly. He knew it wasn’t to tell her about that boy. Or the man. And he wasn’t sure how much he’d tell her about those three tracks in the woods either. He just wanted to hear her voice.
He got off in front of the office. He could see his father through the window. He walked past the iron gate and stood out in the tiny yard. His father and Carole and two clients were discussing something. When Carole looked up he gave her a little wave. He could see her eyes widen in surprise.
He smiled and walked away.
He felt somewhat better. Lighter, anyway. He felt light.
Constable Ted Bolton was sitting at his desk.
“Hi there, Ted.” Wilf walked around the counter, “Where’s Andy?”
“Over at the newspaper office getting some photographs developed.”
“Great.” Wilf sat down behind Andy’s desk and tried not to look strange, though he was feeling a little strange.
“Another one, eh?” Bolton said.
His long bony face looks like a sad horse, Wilf thought to himself, a horse with sliding eyes, a horse not to be trusted.
“What are the odds against two homicides in the space of one month?” Bolton asked.
“High,” Wilf said.
“There’s a forensic team driving in from Hamilton this time, as well as a couple of detectives. We’re becoming quite the centre of attention.”
“Yes, we are.”
Bolton began to search through some papers. “Since you’re here you might as well fill this out.” He got up from his desk and put a form down in front of Wilf. “You know the routine by now.”
Wilf stared at it. A place for his name, address, phone number, occupation, birth date, and below a large empty space with the heading:
Explain In Your Own Words Exactly What Took Place
.
He’d seen the form before, when he’d written out his statement concerning Adrienne O’Dell. He’d used four extra sheets of paper that time.
Wilf picked up one of Andy’s pens and wrote his name, his father’s address and his father’s phone number across the top.
“We’re all waiting,” Bolton said. He was settling back down at his desk.
“For what?”
“For you and Andy to solve this one, too. Maybe Andy will make Deputy Mayor this time. Or fall flat on his face. Just kidding,” Bolton said.
There was a clattering on the stairs and Andy came hurrying in carrying a large yellow envelope. “I really should have been a photographer,” he said, spreading out a series of shiny photographs along the length of the counter. “They’re still a little damp. I thought you said you wanted to have a rest.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Bolton spoke up. “The OPP’s been called in and that’ll be that for the Hardy Boys. Right?”
Andy gave Bolton a look as if he were thinking of pulling his newly acquired rank and giving him a dressing down, but then he seemed to change his mind. “I know all about the Ontario Provincial Police,” he said.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” Bolton got up from his desk and ambled over to the counter.
Wilf followed him over.
“The Chief and I figure all his clothes are hand-me-downs. Looks like it, anyway. Bad teeth. And skinny as a starved rabbit,” Andy said.
“You should have opened up his eyes,” Bolton remarked.
“Why?”
“If you want someone to identify him. It would look more natural.”
“The Chief didn’t want to mess around, not any more than we already had.” He glanced at Wilf. “He was kind of pissed off.”
Wilf looked along the line of photographs. The little man looked less comfortable now than he had before, startled, surprised by the flashbulb in his sleep.
“I taped one up on the front window over at the newspaper office and they’re going to run this one in the next edition,” Andy tapped a photograph, “Which I think is my best one. Maybe I can get it in the
Brantford Expositor
, too. I already know who this guy is, though.”
Wilf looked up. “You do?”
“One of two possibilities. A hobo, and how many hoboes do we see wandering around here in the middle of the winter? Or one of the DPs out at that camp by the railroad.”
Wilf stared at Andy.
Bolton looked more interested, too. “Could be. That’s not so far from Cline’s bush.”
“About a mile away.”
“Anything in his pockets?”
“Not a thing.”
Wilf knew about that camp, everybody in town did. Hammered together by foreigners, refugees from the war, worn-looking men who’d been travelling across the country searching for any kind of work. They’d decided to spend the winter just outside the town’s limit, building huts out of large wooden slabs that were unwanted by the mills and cast-off pieces of tin dragged from the dump.
“You think he was a DP?” Wilf asked.
“Most likely.”
Wilf thought of the boy in the woods. The man in Cruikshank’s backyard. DPs? Was that it? Was that possible? His eyes stung. He felt like he’d just received a reprieve.
“I’m going out there now.” Andy started to gather up his photographs. “Show them this dead guy.”
“You’ll be tipping your hand,” Bolton said.
“I want to tip my hand. I want to make them nervous out there. If they get nervous, maybe someone will talk.”
“I’ll go with you,” Wilf said.
“I don’t know,” Bolton began to whine, “I wonder what the Chief’s thinking is on all this?”
His question went unanswered.
Andy and Wilf were already out the door.
* * *
“No telling what the hell goes on out here.” Andy and Wilf were walking the last hundred yards toward the camp, trudging slowly along a rough trail beside the railway tracks and heading out of town. “Could have been a fight over anything. Maybe he stole somebody’s clothes or some food. Maybe he was always stealing. They got sick of him, they had to deal with him. What do you think?”
“Maybe,” Wilf said. His legs were strong enough from all his walks but a general kind of weakness seemed to be overtaking him. He pushed himself on, not able to trust putting too much weight on his cane because of the ice underfoot.
“This is my point, Wilf.” Andy was continuingly getting too far out in front and had to turn around to talk. “These guys are not going to come into town and say ‘Dear Mister Policeman, would you look after this trouble we’re having?’ They’re scared of us, scared of our uniforms. I’ve seen it in their faces. And given what they’ve been through, who could blame them?”
“I don’t blame them,” Wilf said.
“Or maybe it was a grudge,” Andy went on. “Something happened in one of those refugee camps over in Europe. Maybe he’d betrayed someone. Or a lot of people. And he shows up here in Canada. Someone recognizes him. The guy is as good as dead.”
“He is dead,” Wilf said.
“They drew names. You, you and you. Take this son-of-a-bitch out into the woods somewhere and deal with him.”
“Three men were chosen you think?”
“Yeah, you saw the tracks.”
The man in Cruikshank’s backyard hadn’t left any tracks. The boy was barefoot and standing on top of the snow. Wilf had been blocking out those uncomfortable facts as best he could. He couldn’t any longer. He began to wrestle with them. Yes, they were from the DP camp all right but he’d seen the man just after he’d found Cruikshank dead in his tub and the boy after messing with all that blood in the snow. It was the stress, his mind distorting what he’d actually seen, his imagination playing tricks.
“Heads up,” Andy said.
A few men were collecting in a dark knot beside the tracks, their unshaven faces, their eyes aiming a barely muted hostility toward Wilf and Andy, particularly Andy dressed in his long blue coat and shiny officer’s cap.
“Let me do the talking,” Andy said.
A short man with a large moustache and bulging, bloodshot eyes took a step forward. He was dressed against the cold in nothing but a business suit that had seen many better days. “I am Joe. I am Head Man here.”
“Hi, Joe. Seen you in town lots of times. Sergeant Creighton.” Andy shook the man’s hand. “And my associate, Wilf McLauchlin.”
Wilf shook Joe’s hand and studied the small band of men. No one looked like the man in Cruikshank’s backyard. “Nice to meet you, Joe.”
Andy started passing out his photographs. “Anyone recognize this fellow? You do the telling for me, Joe.”
Joe took one of the photographs. “Telling what?”
“Tell them that this man in the photograph was murdered not too far away from here. Right over there as a matter of fact.” Andy turned and pointed up a long snowy rise. The tops of the trees in Cline’s bush looked like a soft pencil line along the edge of the sky. “I want to know if he lived in this camp. Is this dead man one of yours?”
Joe pulled a sour face and shook his head. The other men took their cue from Joe and shook their heads, too. They handed the photographs back.
“You haven’t told them anything yet,” Andy said.
Joe spoke in a language neither Andy nor Wilf understood. The men shook their heads again, shuffled their feet, glanced back at Andy.
Andy looked disappointed. “I’ll show them to the rest of the men.” He turned sharply and hurried toward a huddle of rough shacks. Joe and everyone else began to follow after him.
“Where are jobs?” Joe asked, pulling a tattered piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “The King of England has signed. The Prime Minister of Canada has signed. See? Right here.”
“Doesn’t mean shit to me,” Andy said.
“We have promised!” Joe shouted.
“That’s not my business. That’s not why I’m here.”
As they approached the shacks some other men began to appear in the gloomy doorways. Andy handed out his photographs. “Who knows this fellow? I know damn well someone knows him.”
Wilf limped into the ragged camp and looked over all the faces. He didn’t recognize anyone. “Are there any children here?” he asked the Head Man. “Any boys?”
Joe turned and stared at him.
“Why the hell are you asking him that?” Andy said.
Joe’s reddened eyes seemed overwhelmed by something, his wild grey hair began to tremble. “Children? Our children?”
“There are no children here, Wilf,” Andy said.
“I’m sorry,” Wilf said. Joe’s face was radiating an anguish so deep, so beyond words Wilf had to turn away.
Andy began a search around the camp’s perimeter looking for a trail of three tracks leading back down the long hill from Cline’s bush.
Wilf wandered around looking for the man in Cruikshank’s backyard. After a while Andy trudged back into the circle of huts. When he saw Wilf he shook his head.
“I’ll be back,” Andy called out to Joe.
Joe shrugged his shoulders. It didn’t matter a damn to him.
* * *
“They recognized that guy, I know they did.” Andy pulled the cruiser up beside the police station and came to an angry stop.
“I think you’re right. Looked like it.” Wilf pushed open his door.
“The bloody OPP will take over now. You know what pisses me off? They treat us local cops like a bunch of morons.”
Wilf headed along the alley toward Main Street. He was hoping Carole might be alone in the office.
Carole’s hand rested on the telephone for the third time in as many minutes. She still couldn’t decide whether to make the call. There were several operators on duty during the day, but with her luck she’d be sure to get Nancy, not that it should make any difference, and particularly not in these circumstances but it did, anyway. And besides, she wasn’t exactly sure what she’d say to Wilf if he did happen to answer the phone.
She took a deep breath, picked up the receiver and just as someone other than Nancy said, “Number, please,” Carole saw Wilf approaching through the front window.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said and hung up.
Wilf came in the door. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
He pushed through the wooden gate without removing his coat or his galoshes and sat down on Dorothy Dale’s chair.
Not a good sign, Carole thought to herself. “Nancy called.”
“Nancy?”
“Nancy Dearborn.”
“Oh,” Wilf said.
“About that man in the woods. It’s all over town.”
“Is it?”
“You and Andy found him?” Carole asked it as a question, as if she were hoping that Nancy’s information might be incorrect.
Wilf looked toward his father’s office. The door was closed. “Some kids found him. We just went out there to have a look.”
“To have a look? Nancy said his arm was chopped off.”
“Is there anything Nancy doesn’t know?”
“That couldn’t have been a good thing to see.”
“He looked like he was sleeping. He looked peaceful.”