Firestorm
Luc Durocher
(excerpt from Part I: The City, p. 15-21)
3. The Policeman
"You see, Linnie," Richard Barnaby grumbled, "the problem with the movies nowadays is the scripts. The Hollywood fat cats are in such a hurry to line their pockets that the scripts are just shit! They're written any which way, in a rush, and the producer tries to compensate by hiring one or two big stars, hoping to conceal the mess! And after all is said and done, what we get is Batman 3 and 4!"
As he walked along, he tried in vain to turn up the collar of his grey raincoat to protect himself from the driving rain, but each time he looked up to talk, the collar rolled back down, for, though he was six feet himself, his interlocutor was almost a foot taller.
"And that's not all, sonny, you ain't seen nothing yet!" he said. "The advent of video stores is going to make things worse! Before, the moguls had to watch themselves, because a commercial failure on the big screen meant huge financial losses, but now, there are no more commercial failures, since rentals almost always ensure there'll be a profit. Lin, I'll let you in on a little secret: I'm all but sure that the end of the world is near. I foresaw it when I read in a tabloid that they were thinking of making a sequel to Field of Dreams. It isn't rocket science. It was easy to predict."
Lindsay Cole looked askance at his boss, with a slight smile. He knew Barnaby's habits almost as well as his own now, even though they'd only been working together for three years.
At the beginning of each new investigation, the scenario was always the same: Richard Barnaby released his nervous excitement in the form of inane ranting.
Lindsay also knew that his boss would not discuss the case until they were with the medical examiner. His eccentric comments would then change into pointed, rapid-fire questions and Richard Barnaby would become again the smart and skilled policeman that Lindsay Cole had unexpectedly discovered in this one-horse town. Still, right now, there was only a misunderstood bear of a man, who was, sometimes, quite uncouth. Nevertheless, Cole had learned to live with those rare drawbacks.
"But if you want to see real movies, kiddo, with a good script and good actors, let me suggest Casablanca. That was entertainment, and Bogard was a real actor. Not like those punks, Cruise and Gibson! An actor with a voice and eyes the like of which you don't see any more..."
And off he went again. Just for fun more than because he had strong opinions on the matter, Cole sometimes contradicted his boss, which provoked excellent oratory jousts. But he was not very interested in that little game today.
The two men finally arrived at the door of the building where they were expected and shook their sodden clothes, without much effect.
"You know what, sonny? I think the world is going to hell in a handbasket."
Lindsay Cole didn't answer. The murder of children always put a damper on his mood.*** "So?" Cole asked impatiently.
His fingers were drumming on the spotless white table.
"So what?" Brent Stauber answered distractedly.
It was Barnaby's turn to get a bit agitated.
"Say, Brent, you laughing at us? We didn't come here to have a pretty little chat, even though you're kinda sexy. We've got a job to do, okay?"
He glanced at Cole.
Brent Stauber had been Firestorm's medical examiner for sixteen years already and he did his job with the skill of a true professional. By a stroke of luck, for the town at least, he'd met a Watertown girl during his last year at university. True love at first sight. And since Stephanie Beauregard did not want to leave her hometown, Firestorm had thus inherited the best M.E. in the county, if not in the state.
Despite his forty-two years, his temples were barely greying and he was still in pretty good shape. Some are luckier than others and, all things considered, Stauber felt privileged. For the time being, though, he seemed instead to have his head in the clouds, and seemed to be having trouble coming down.
"Oh! Of course. Which one is it?"
Cole paled and Barnaby swore. This time, it was the physician who got impatient.
"Listen, Dick, I have six of them fresh in the fridge and two others on the way. A driver missed a turn, two kilometres outside of Watertown."
"Why don't they take the two others to Watertown?" Cole asked.
Stauber and Barnaby smiled. All three of them knew the answer to that question.
"Because the M.E. in Watertown is close to seventy years old and the sheriff of that charming municipality isn't in the habit of refusing help, especially when the offer comes from his son-in-law. Jos is like you two: he loves his job and does what he has to do in order to keep it. Which is why I frequently find myself with a double workload, like today."
Jos Beauregard was both the Watertown sheriff and Brent Stauber's father-in-law.
"Ah."
The physician looked closely at the two men.
"Well, are you going to give me a name or do I have to give you the full tour?"
"No need," said Barnaby in a low voice. "It's young Cross. Daniel Cross."
Stauber couldn't help making a face.
"A nasty case," he conceded, beginning to rummage through a pile of files sitting on top of a cabinet.
"You can say that again," Barnaby replied thoughtfully.
The man rummaged a little while longer before stopping suddenly, snapping his fingers.
"It seems you will have the tour. I just remembered I left the file downstairs. If my honourable friends of the constabulary will please follow me..."
"Very funny," Cole said softly.
"Where's your sense of humour?" Stauber asked.
"Drowned in all that water," replied Barnaby glumly.***
Lindsay Cole noticed that the place had not changed since the last time: it always reminded him of a butcher shop. A sterile one, but still a butcher shop.
Stauber had probably been working when they arrived, since Cole could make out the shape of a body on one of the stainless steel tables, hastily covered under a sheet. He glanced briefly at an exposed foot and arm. That was more than enough for his imagination to provide the rest. He hastily turned away and watched what the physician was doing.
The file was sitting between two others on the small desk and Stauber quickly found it.
"Let's see, he said softly, preoccupied. Daniel Benjamin Cross... son of Anthony and Laura Cross... born September 9, 1981.... white... admitted November 16, i.e. today, 14h02, by Brent Damien Stauber..."
Barnaby let out a sigh. He had always been baffled by the sense of humour of physicians, which was so peculiar, even though he suspected that their cynicism was an armour they pulled on in order to keep minimally sane despite all the waste.
"... diagnosis... time of death estimated twenty-four hours at least when the body was found on the front steps of the Presbyterian church."
A real sicko, Barnaby thought. Or a madman. To kill a child and then leave him on the front steps of a church... What crazy times!
"Any signs of sexual assault?" he asked.
"No."
Barnaby arched an inquisitive eyebrow. That did not fit the usual pattern for such attacks.
"That's one of the things that also surprised me," Stauber went on. "Usually..."
"I know," Barnaby agreed. "Who found the body?"
Stauber stopped reading, looked at other pages and shrugged.
"Not mentioned. It wasn't you who..."
"No," Barnaby said, "it was Alec Arthur who had the night shift."
"Ah!"
Barnaby waved his big meaty hand.
"Doesn't matter. Alec surely noted it in his report. We'll find out. Keep on reading, Doc."
Stauber stared for a moment at the two men before nodding.
"Specifics... this's where it gets interesting. Your stomach's in good shape?"
"I suppose," Cole said softly.
But the look on his face contradicted his words.
"The child's body did not contain a drop of blood when he was brought here. He was completely exsanguinated. I even had to check his medical file to find out his blood type."
"My God!" Cole exclaimed.
Barnaby had also blanched.
"Any other clues that might be useful to us?"
The physician shook his head.
"Not a single one. Whoever did this knew what he was doing. I'm even ready to believe this goes beyond a simple murder."
Barnaby stared at the physician. The day had lost all its charm.
"What makes you say that, Brent?"
Stauber didn't hesitate.
"Follow me."
He headed to the individual vaults, walking firmly and gracefully without a backward glance. It was where bodies ready to be taken away were temporarily stored.
Stauber opened the door of the last vault and silently pulled out the stretcher. Quickly, almost theatrically, he pulled back the sheet. Cole cried out and Barnaby involuntarily stepped back.
The child's head was missing...
© 2000 Éditions Alire & Luc Durocher
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