The Dead Times

By Kevin Donovan

Four years ago, Jack Temple was a homicide detective. He asked one too many questions and found himself out of a job. Now he is a reporter for the Garden City Times, writing about cops and still asking too many questions.

When the mutilated body of Temples former girlfriend - the Mayors daughter - is found frozen in a local park, Temple dusts off his detective skills to uncover the truth behind the grisly murder. As he digs for clues, Temple finds himself drawn into the most difficult and dangerous investigation of his career.

As an FBI serial killer investigation team takes an interest in the case, Temple taps old friends and bitter enemies to pierce the mystery - why does the FBI believe so many cases are connected? In what becomes an international manhunt he questions whether murder suspects arrested are guilty or just a cover for the truth.

In the Dead Times, Temple must use his wits and his fists to save himself and get the story of a lifetime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781462049189

Kevin Donovan

Kevin Donovan is an award winning Canadian journalist who investigates police, government, business and charity. His nose for hard news has taken him to Afghanistan, Iraq and to an exploration of Toronto’s crack smoking mayor Rob Ford. Donovan is the author of ORNGE: The Star Investigation that Broke the Story; and the co-author with Nick Pron of Crime Story: The Hunt for the Body Parts Killer. He lives in Toronto with his wife and two children.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

S tay down! Jack Temple’s corner man yelled. Temple rolled to his knees, listened to the referee count eight, and struggled to his feet.

It’s just a charity fight, Jack! his corner man shouted. Temple sucked in a ragged breath, waited for the ref’s nod, and moved in on his opponent. Round Ten of a ten-round bout for heart disease. The crowd, mainly cops, was not in a giving mood. Junior Fisk was the favorite.

You should have stayed down, Temple, Junior taunted, easily bouncing away from Temple’s weak left hook. Junior Fisk was younger, faster, and stronger. A vein pulsed at the corner of Temple’s uncut eye, and he felt every one of his thirty-seven years.

You’ve got no business being in the ring! somebody shouted.

Temple’s eye caught the clock. A minute to go and behind on points. Despite the headgear, his left eye was swollen half shut. He tasted blood behind his mouth guard.

Junior danced around his blind side and attacked. A cheer rose from the stands at the Boys Club. Temple dodged Junior’s jab, but a quick right cross sent him reeling against the ropes.

You’re finished! Temple heard a voice thick with Scottish brogue call. Junior’s dad and corner man, Larry Fisk. You’ve always been a loser, Temple!

Junior landed a kidney punch, and Temple used its momentum to spin away into the center of the ring. Forty seconds, the dusty clock told him. A new sound rose above the crowd’s chants of Junior. Junior. Junior!

Jack! a sharply familiar voice called. Focus!

Temple cleared sweat and blood from his eyes and looked in the sound’s direction. He caught a length of blonde hair, a red shirt, and jeans pressing through the crowd near the ropes. Abruptly, Junior Fisk was forgotten.

Focus, Jack! the blonde shouted again.

Temple shook his head from side to side and lowered his arms. The crowd’s frenzied cheers swelled, and Junior took his cue, jumping forward to land a roundhouse blow. He never made it. Temple stepped to one side and sent a hard jab below the ribs. He heard Junior grunt.

Twenty seconds on the clock. Turning on his heels, Temple slammed a right jab to the same spot. Junior doubled over in pain. Temple stood him up with a left uppercut and followed with two straight rights to the head. Junior teetered on his heels and sank to the canvas. The fickle crowd erupted, and Temple heard the dull roar of his name being repeated by a hundred voices. Retreating to his corner, Temple watched the ref count Junior Fisk out with two seconds left.

After he’d showered and the Boys Club medic had seen to his eye, Temple walked back out to the ring. The club manager was counting the cash.

Not bad, Temple. More than $2,000 in donations. Even Larry Fisk said it was a good night. Don’t think his kid thought so.

Anybody hanging around?

Just her, the manager said, pointing to a chair near the front door.

Temple smiled and walked over. It’s been awhile.

Six months, said Vicki Winston.

Temple jerked a thumb back at the ring. Thanks for your help tonight.

You just needed a little reminder. Vicki stood up. She was tall and slender. Straight blonde hair framed a pretty face with green eyes and full lips. Let’s get out of here.

Temple’s truck was on the street. They walked slowly. He was careful not to touch her, but wanted desperately to slip his hand into hers.

I thought it was over, he said, pausing beneath a streetlight. The top buttons of her coat were undone, allowing Temple to admire her neck.

No, she corrected him. I told you I had to think about things.

I see.

What were you trying to prove in there?

That I could still do it.

Vicki studied Temple. He felt her taking in the angry cut over his blue eyes. His messy black hair. The jaw that he always thought was slightly too big for his face. The nose that sometimes seemed too small.

You look like hell.

Temple took both her hands in his. You don’t.

CHAPTER ONE

T here was a dead body in the park.

Jack Temple put the phone down, got out of bed, dressed quickly, and drove through snowy streets to the crime scene. When he was a homicide cop, there had been a lot of calls like this, painfully early in the morning. He was a newspaper reporter now, but one thing had not changed. Dead bodies still woke him up.

Temple circled the dark streets around Gages Park, looking for police cars. It was fiercely cold, but he turned the heater fan in his truck down a notch and fiddled with the dials on the scanner, listening for cop chatter that would tell him where to find the body. Gages Park covered one hundred acres and was heavily wooded in places.

Use the south entrance, crackled one voice, probably the first patrol officer on the scene.

10-4, the dispatcher replied. Unit 22, proceed to the south entrance of Gage Park. Ferguson from Forensics, Nash and Fisk from Homicide are on the way.

Temple grinned. Ferguson was a pal. Nash and Fisk were not. The dispatcher inquired about the condition of an elderly man who had discovered the body.

Pretty badly shaken up. And cold.

Temple took a cue from the unseen patrolman and stopped at Bob Baker’s Donuts, a popular franchise named after a famous, but dead, National Hockey League defenseman. He bought two steaming coffees at the drive-thru window and two chocolate glazed donuts, and then headed through the crumbling lion statues that guarded the park entrance.

It was 5:45 am, Sunday, January 24, 1999, Temple’s thirty-eighth birthday and his first day off in a month. The call from the city desk’s overnight editor had ruined that. A long, warm swim at the Boys Club and a workout on weights and the speed bag had been Temple’s plan for the day. It was six weeks since his win over Junior Fisk, but Temple was still stiff and sore. Hopefully, this would be quick. Past the lions, the road wound down a steep hill. Glad of the rugged treads on his new tires, Temple watched the headlights of his four-year-old Toyota 4Runner glint off ancient, gnarled oak trees on either side of the road. The boughs were heavy with the fresh snow that had been falling when Temple got home the night before. But the road was clear. A patrol car was starting up the hill as Temple reached the parking lot at the bottom.

Morning, Jack. The driver was a cop Temple knew from his days on the force.

Hi, Mitch. Any problem with me having a look?

Probably. We’re marking off the crime scene now, and Homicide is taking its sweet time. How the hell did you beat them here?

I have an editor who is worse than Huntingdon, said Temple, a reference to the sergeant who had trained them both years ago. What time did the plough come through?

Around three, three-thirty, we figure.

What do you have out there?

Dead girl.

Murder?

Number six of the year.

I’m just going to park here, okay? Temple pointed ahead to the spot where three other patrol cars were stopped, their engines steaming the frosty air.

You’ll be somebody else’s problem. I’m off in fifteen. The patrolman waved his hand and drove up the hill to wait for Homicide.

This section of Gages Park was a wide-open common bounded by a tree-lined ridge on all four sides. It was low lying, a natural bowl that was popular as a soccer pitch in summer. Above and to the north, a suspended railway track carried the open-air portion of the city’s main east-west subway line. The nearest stop was a twenty-minute walk away. Past the woods on the north side was a well-to-do residential neighbourhood, big stone houses and a few luxury condominium towers. One of the few neighbourhoods left in crumbling Garden City that would actually be shocked at murder.

The patrol officers were laying yellow police tape in a wide radius around a mound in the snow about twenty yards from the parking lot. The body. It was covered by a bright yellow sheet of plastic—at least the torso and legs were. An arm extended up in the air, perpendicular to the corpse, rigid as a flagpole. Even from Temple’s distance he could see the fingers of the bare hand. He had an absurd desire to walk over and slip his warm gloves on the dead body.

Temple waved at the patrol officers and climbed out of his truck. He was not overly tall, just shy of five foot ten inches, but he was well muscled through the arms and the chest, and he tried to carry himself as if he was over six feet. From beside his truck, Temple surveyed the scene. Just outside the police tape was the elderly gentleman, dressed in a black coat and red pants, stamping his feet. Cross-country skis lay on the ground beside him. He had a miners’ light strapped to his head, and the beam jiggled and jumped across the snow as he moved. A dog, it looked like a border collie, stood obediently at the man’s feet. Buttoning his heavy overcoat to the neck, Temple stuffed the donuts in his pocket, grabbed the coffees, and walked over. As both policeman and reporter, Temple operated with two simple rules. Talk to everybody, and listen to what they say.

This will help, Temple said, holding out one cup. He got a quick smile in return.

You a detective? Steam curled around the old man’s grey beard as he lifted the lid of the Styrofoam cup.

"Used to be. Reporter now. Jack Temple. Garden City Times," Temple reached out a handshake.

Martin Wagman. Call me Marty. Do you have a column? The man took off his right glove and grasped Temple’s hand, and then warmed his bare fingers on the cup.

Nope.

"I love the columns in the Tribune. Hang on. How does a detective get to be a reporter?"

By asking too many questions. Temple took out a small notepad and jotted the man’s name down. Squinting, Temple pointed to the light and was rewarded by the man clicking it off. It’s a cold one, Marty. Getting colder.

It’s the wind. Cuts to the bone.

Temple nodded, feeling his way gingerly. The guy looked pretty rough. He had to remind himself that most people were not accustomed to seeing dead bodies.

Sun will be up in an hour. Better time for skiing, I figure.

Marty was enjoying his coffee, drinking it steadily, no doubt feeling good about doing something normal. It’s nice when nobody’s around. Stars are out. Crisp morning air. No sound of traffic. Good time for thinking. He patted the left side of his chest. Had two heart attacks you know, gives you lots to think about.

There was a frozen stain on the man’s dark blue coat. How’s your stomach? Temple asked, deciding to keep the donuts in his pocket.

I threw up when I saw it. The body, I mean. Guess I feel a little foolish being sick. Never seen anything like this before.

Anybody else around when you came through here?

Not a soul.

Marty said he and his dog had taken this path early in the morning for the last month, since his grandchildren had given him skis for Christmas. Clean air, good exercise, just what the doctor said he needed to make it to his eighties. He liked going early in the morning, and then coming home in time to make breakfast for his wife, who was confined to her bed. This morning, he had almost stayed home, the snow overnight had been so heavy. He was part of a group of older skiers who called themselves the Coffin Dodgers, and he had a mind to rest up for the Dodgers’ regular mid-morning trek. He had bundled up and set out anyway. Just after 5:00 am, he came upon the body.

Blackie went off the path and started pawin’ and lickin’ at this thing. I skied over and pulled him back. You never know what a dog is getting into. Then I saw her.

You could tell it was female?

When I got close. Marty’s coffee was getting low, and Temple topped him up with what he had left in his own cup. It was a significant gesture. There were few things in life Temple liked better than coffee. I was poking away with my pole, clearing the snow, and I hit her face. That’s when I got sick. He wiped his hand across his eyes. She was just lying there in the snow. Some kind of a ski mask over her face. But I knew it was a girl. The hair. Long and blonde. Like my granddaughter.

That’s rough, Marty. I still remember the first body I saw. Never gets easier, Temple lied. How high was the snow?

Covered the body, drift came up to, well, I guess about to her elbow. Marty shivered, stamped his feet.

Take it easy. Say, how did you call the cops?

Cell phone, Marty said, reaching into his pocket and pulling a flip-phone out. My daughter gave it to me. Said if I was going to go out by myself in the park, I should have it. Funny, you know?

What’s that?

When your kids start looking after you.

Temple heard the angry slam of car doors and the even angrier voices of Rick Nash and Larry Fisk of Homicide. He turned and saw them chewing out the young patrolmen Temple had waved to. He could hear the patrolman protesting, saying he thought Temple was a detective. Stan Ferguson, of Forensics, had neatly bypassed them all and was inside the yellow tape kneeling over the body. Temple moved closer to Marty.

You come through here the same time yesterday?

Sure did.

And you didn’t see anything?

Not a soul.

What about this morning? Ski tracks, footsteps, stuff like that?

Marty frowned, and then tapped the light on his head. This thing casts a pretty wide beam. Just fresh snow everywhere. If there were tracks, I would have followed them because it’s easier.

The detectives were approaching. Rick Nash was Temple’s age, a smooth talker, smart guy. His main problem was his weight, easily 275 pounds though he was about Temple’s height. Larry Fisk was midforties, wiry, a nasty cop infamous for torturing suspects into giving a confession. His favourite method, department legend held, involved pliers and the suspect’s testicles. Somehow, Fisk had managed to keep his detective’s shield all these years, despite a stack of complaints from the public. Fisk had been a boxer in his younger days, and he and Temple had gone some rounds before, both in and out of the ring. Temple had only been partly truthful when the old man asked him why he was now a reporter. There was another reason: Larry Fisk.

Temple turned around and made a big show about being polite. Marty Wagman, this is Detective Nash and Detective Fisk. They probably want to ask you some questions.

Fisk walked between Temple and the old man.

Get out of here, Temple, Fisk said sharply, anger exaggerating his Glasgow burr.

What took you guys so long, Fisk? You have a problem squeezing Rick into the car again?

Nash grinned, but said nothing. He and Temple had been partners—he’d heard worse. The neatly trimmed, military-style moustache on Fisk’s lip vibrated.

Babysitting your kid after the pounding I gave him? Temple said, smiling.

Get out of here, Fisk repeated, louder this time, thrusting his head forward.

Onions, Temple said, sniffing. Onion rings and beer. You’re picking up bad dietary habits from your partner.

Fisk moved closer. His chest all but touched Temple’s. His eyes were black specks. Fists clenched, ready.

Go ahead, Temple breathed. Why hold back?

Fisk’s mouth made a chewing motion like he was rolling his next words around, testing them, looking for just the right retort.

Temple beat him to it. Your problem is I’ve got a right to be here, as long as I don’t get in your way. Right? Don’t you want to interview your witness?

Fisk was not stupid. Punching a reporter in front of a civilian witness would not look good. He took a deep breath, let it out, took one step back, and turned to the old man. Mr. Wagman, why don’t you go to my car with Detective Nash? He’ll get your statement.

Without looking at Temple, Fisk marched off. Temple followed him as far as the yellow tape. Until four years ago, Temple had lived on the other side of that line. Then a black teenager was shot dead by a cop, and Temple had pushed the investigation harder than police brass wanted. The cop who shot the boy was Larry Fisk.

The sky was lightening. Temple took his first look at the corpse, now completely visible because Stan Ferguson and his technicians had pulled off the yellow sheet and were carefully brushing the snow away. She, if indeed it was a ‘she,’ was wearing a ski jacket and matching pants, Bunsen burner-flame blue. She was lying on her right side, legs slightly curled together. Her right arm lay against her body, the gloved hand reaching to her knee. Her left arm still stood straight up. That’s what Marty Wagman’s dog had noticed, standing above the fresh fallen snow. Temple could see that the fingers of the hand were extended straight out, as if grabbing for something just out of reach.

Lucky that arm was standing up, or we might not have found her ‘til spring thaw. Stan Ferguson had left the body and joined Temple at the yellow tape boundary.

Tell the old man how lucky he is, Temple said.

Ferguson was one of the senior men in the civilian-run Forensics Department. That gave him clout with Homicide. He motioned Temple in for a closer look, despite an angry glance from Fisk. Temple had worked with Ferguson on a number of murders when he was still a detective. They had a more recent, albeit secret, connection. Ferguson was one of Temple’s sources. After Temple joined the paper, his editor assigned him to investigate a tip that a group of forensic lab workers were using city equipment and time to conduct tests for private companies. Instead of implicating Ferguson, who was involved, Temple turned him into a source, exchanging information for anonymity.

The black wool ski mask was still in place. A cascade of hair made a blonde frame, in stark contrast to the black mask.

See the ice crystals? That’s frozen mucous. She was warm and alive and breathing when she hit the snow. Ferguson signalled to his two technicians, who went to the van and returned with shovels. When Fisk gave the word, they would scoop up the snow around the body, place it in bins and take it to the lab for melting. Water was easier to search than snow. Then the frozen body would be pried loose, bagged, and taken to the morgue to be thawed for the autopsy.

Gonna have a hell of a time with that arm, Ferguson remarked. Hell of a time.

No chance she was killed somewhere else and dumped here? Temple asked.

Doubt it. Let’s see what else. Ferguson looked the body over. That frozen mucous and saliva is hers unless we’re really fortunate. No blood on outside of the suit, except for one spot. Ferguson pointed at the seat of the dead woman’s pants. There was a dark smear on the blue fabric.

Fisk was making notes, looking closely at the body without touching it.

Temple knelt down. Something about the hair pushed him back.

Strangled? he asked Ferguson, who had stooped to help another technician measure the depth of the snow around the body. A police photographer flashed pictures of the scene.

How should I know? Until this lady is thawed and her clothes and the mask are removed, everything is a guess. Fucking arm is gonna be a problem, though—moving it, I mean. We really have to be careful not to snap it. I’d catch shit for that.

Temple was ten feet away, and he knew he was not getting closer. He liked being a reporter, sometimes more than he liked being a cop. Still, at times like this, he hated being on the outside looking in.

Mouth is closed. Ferguson was still talking. Lips aren’t drawn back from the teeth, so it almost looks like she died peaceful. That arm sticking up tells a different story. Where’s her glove, for starters. Fucking cold last night. I had to take my kid to his hockey game, and I pretty well froze going to the car. And there’s a strange pattern of cuts on the palm of the hand. Like she was grabbing something sharp. Strange. Very strange.

Maybe the dog bit her?

Naw, you can see where the dog went at the arm, but these aren’t teeth marks. More like knife cuts.

Defence wounds?

Maybe. Ferguson stood up, cupping his hands and blowing on them to warm fingers iced by the snow. I’ll make one prediction.

What’s that?

She was raped.

Why?

Take a look at the front of her ski pants. Notice the tag sticking out the front? Those pants are on backwards. I’d say she was attacked, and her killer put her pants back on in a hurry. Wouldn’t have made any difference to him, and it was probably dark when he did it.

Maybe she just got dressed quickly and put her pants on backwards, Temple ventured.

No way. You don’t have kids, so you wouldn’t know. Those are top-of-the-line clothes. Big dollars. People who wear stuff like that always dress right. Which brings me to my next point: this girl came from money, probably from this neighbourhood. That’s why I’m glad I’m not a cop. I don’t envy Fisk or Nash going up to her family’s door. Ferguson had started walking towards the police van, but turned back to face Temple. I guess I don’t have to tell you what that’s like.

Temple went for a walk. He lived alone a few blocks from this park, which had made him the natural person for call-in. Technically, Temple worked on special projects for the paper and was not to be sent out to routine assignments. Technicalities meant nothing to overnight editors. This one had disturbed him with the usual indifference to death, sleep, and birthdays that deskbound journalists store up for just such moments. Get a good story for the Monday paper. A good story in this case meant predictable interviews with grieving relatives, a picture of the dead girl, perhaps the sobbing remarks of a young friend. Better yet, the anguished tears of a boyfriend or husband. Nice to get a picture of him too, just in case the cops charged him. The homicide detective’s credo was search for suspects close to home first. That’s what Temple would have done. That’s what Fisk and Nash would be doing over the next few hours.

Temple had let the editor think he was ticked, but secretly he was pleased. Maybe a clean crime story would clear his head of his last investigation, a too long, three-month probe of several partners at a major law firm. Temple’s stories revealed the lawyers had been laundering stolen clients’ money through Swiss bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. But since his story broke a week ago, Temple had been doing boring mop-up work, writing about the resulting criminal and ethics committee investigations and waiting for the lawsuits.

Jack!

Temple winced at the familiar voice.

What a great fucking day to die!

The Night Stalker, Bill Tyson, had arrived. He wore a heavy oilskin coat, a flat black cap, and construction boots unlaced despite the snow. A camera hung sloppily around his neck, and he ploughed, rather than walked, towards Temple. The Stalker, or a reasonable facsimile, thrived at all large metropolitan dailies. A bizarre creation of all the worst aspects of the job: one-third reporter, one-third cop, and one-third ghoul. Vital to any paper that demands healthy crime coverage twenty-four hours a day. Get it fast, get it dirty if you have to, just get the story. Temple had been called to work the story over the next week, or to its conclusion if need be. The Stalker would flit in and out of this and a hundred other crime tales, picking up gossip and tidbits from cops and other sources in donut shops and bars, preferably the latter. Visiting crime scenes was not so much a prerequisite to the Stalker, but a joy. The Stalker did not crave bylines; he craved the juice of rubbing shoulders with detectives and death. Temple, like most reporters at the Times, tolerated The Stalker because he was useful.

I was out at a big pileup on the expressway when the call came in. Fucking bodies everywhere. Forget that traffic shit though; what’s the deal here, Jack? Dead hooker? University girl have a fight with boyfriend? How about maybe Daddy wacked her cause she was gonna squeal about a lifetime of abuse? Those are the three I’ve heard so far, and it’s not even seven in the morning!

Stalker, you are the most thoroughly grotesque human being I have ever met. Temple meant it as criticism, but knew it would be taken as a compliment. He filled him in on what little he had learned. With no identification of the girl yet, there was little else to do. The Stalker went in close for a look, crossing under the yellow police line like a man walks through his front door. Temple had spent twelve years on the other side and never felt as confident. Fisk made a great show of chatting with The Stalker, pointing to various parts of the body, letting him take pictures. When the body was finally slipped into a black bag and carried to a waiting van, The Stalker hurried over to Temple.

Let’s go for a walk and see what we see.

Temple trudged after him. A team of twenty police officers had fanned out over the park, looking in the trees and across the snowy glade for something, anything, that would help the case.

They walked in silence, following the footsteps of one of the search teams to the edge of the park road and onto its hard-packed snowy surface. Temple wondered if Nash and Fisk would think to talk to the snowplough driver who had come through the park a few hours after midnight. Something blue on a spiky tangle of low bush caught his eye, and he walked over.

What’s that? The Stalker asked.

Cotton running glove, Temple said, inspecting the thin fabric.

How do you know?

I wear the same kind when I jog in the winter.

The Stalker grinned. Better be careful, Jack. With your fucking reputation around the force, that could make you a suspect.

Great. Here, give it to Nash and Fisk, and tell them I found it. Let it never be said that Jack Temple destroys police evidence.

Why not? The Stalker fumbled around in his coat for a cigarette. They’ve got a platoon out here checking for clues, and we find one. They’ll owe me.

What did Fisk say? About the body?

The Stalker reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender metal flask. He took a drink, belched, and offered some to Temple, who waved him off and repeated the question.

Mostly he was bitching about you, Jack. Said you sucker punched his kid. Fisky wants a rematch, one way or the other.

A horn cleared them off the road. The body van rolled on, followed by Ferguson’s car. He slowed, rolled down his window. Temple walked up, and a blast of heat from inside the car warmed his face.

You didn’t get this from me, Jack, but this ain’t no ordinary murder. It’s twisted.

Temple crouched down to hear Ferguson. The Stalker walked to the back of the van and tried to get a few shots of the body bag through the tinted windows.

We got her into the van and loosened some of her clothing. I am talking very twisted stuff here, Jack. Ferguson spent every day looking at the results of human depravity, but it was clear this was something different, something unnatural even by the warped standard of murder. He was having trouble giving voice to what he had seen. Temple kept his mouth shut and waited.

Her torso has been totally sliced open. A big hole. A fucking big hole. It’s so hard to tell everything yet, but this is like nothing any of us have seen for years … Words and breath were coming fast, fighting each other. Ferguson’s face was red and he was sweating. Skin sliced off and then pulled back over. Blood. Lots of blood but all of it frozen and none of it … I mean none of it stuck to the inside of her ski jacket. Makes no sense at all. Forget what I said before about where she was killed. All bets are off now. Somebody killed that girl, gutted her, and dressed her up.

Temple looked over at The Stalker, who had moved off to talk to a group of cops. This sort of information would titillate him. Ferguson’s panic and disgust would be a mystery.

You planning on being anywhere in particular later tonight? Temple asked. Ferguson looked like he wanted to say more.

I might take a break at Copperfield’s for dinner. A few seconds ticked by. Ferguson dragged the back of his hand over the stubble on his neck. The fiery red cheeks were subsiding, giving way to the normal pink of a man with high blood pressure. You just be careful how you use this stuff, Jack.

The sun broke over the east ridge and raced across the valley. Temple watched it reach the spot in the snow where the body had lain. Television crews were moving into the park. Temple could see Fisk talking to a camera, probably saying nothing and taking a lot of time to do it. Ferguson put his car into gear. Temple leaned back into the window.

What are you not telling me?

We got the mask off, Ferguson replied, beginning to roll up the window. Look, Jack, it’s not just how she was killed. The car was moving forward now. It’s who was killed.

CHAPTER TWO

T emple sat motionless behind the wheel of his truck, watching the stone house and counting the days since he last saw Vicki Winston alive.

He took comfort from the simple task. Once, while arresting a drug dealer for murder, Temple had been shot in the stomach. Crouched against a street lamp, bleeding heavily, he tried to figure out how many seconds he had lived. Sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, twenty-four hours in a day, and so on. The figure he reached, just before passing out, was something like eight hundred and eighty-three million seconds. Temple rubbed his right eye. An anxious tick had started when Ferguson told him the blonde hair belonged to the daughter of Philip Winston, Mayor of Garden City. How many days since the night at the Boys Club? Forty-three. Forty-two if you only counted full days.

The front door of Number Two Fenton Gardens swung inward. From his vantage point on the other side of the quiet cul-de-sac, Temple watched three men in dark overcoats step onto the porch. Detectives Fisk and Nash came first, and then Lieutenant Vaughan Bingham, Chief of Homicide. Fisk and Nash stood squinting in the brilliant sun as Bingham spoke to a grey-haired man standing in the doorway. Vicki’s father.

Temple waited. He had been there for two hours, steadily destroying the quiet fabric of the neighbourhood. Some children tramped by, bundled against the cold, dragging toboggans in the direction of the park. They gave him a wide berth, as children are taught to these days. Stakeouts like this were common to police detectives and reporters, though methods and goals differed. You waited hours on end for the target to do something, to come home or leave, to show for the camera, give an interview, a statement, or commit a crime. This time, Temple was waiting for his former colleagues to complete that most distasteful of tasks. What was the best way to tell parents that their daughter had been savagely murdered? That the person they had created was now at the morgue thawing, waiting for the further intrusion of the necessary autopsy? That as soon as the parents were up to it, would they mind coming down and making a positive identification? Was there some method that eased the pain? If so, it had always eluded Temple.

Like all miserable experiences in his life, he recalled with absolute clarity the last time he did what the police had just done at Number Two Fenton Gardens. A sixteen-year-old car thief named Martin Lawson was gunned down by an off-duty police officer, Detective Larry Fisk. The family took the news from Temple the way all families do. Confusion, anger, terror, disbelief, and grief, one emotion tripping over the other in a jumble that eventually gives way to a numb ache. Back then, Temple had been the homicide detective who caught the case. He had ruined a nice family’s sleep by telling them their son had been shot in the back of the head. By police. Black family, white cops, a potent mixture. Temple had arrested Fisk on suspicion of manslaughter, and then watched his department close ranks, label the shooting ‘self-defence,’ convince the district attorney not to indict Fisk, and finally push Temple out the door. Now Temple did a different job, one it seemed the general public barely tolerated on a good day. He had a suspicion this wasn’t one of them.

Bingham was shaking hands with the mayor. Temple straightened in his seat. All three cops walked towards two unmarked Chevrolets curled around the circular driveway. Mayor Winston waved, a kind of half-hearted salute, and then closed the door. Fisk’s car pulled out first, drove around the cul-de-sac, and stopped in front of Temple’s 4Runner. Bingham’s car swung in behind. All three men got out. Temple lowered his window and tried not to think about his last night with Vicki.

You’re not welcome in there, Bingham began, leaning in the open window, both hands on the 4Runner’s door. The lieutenant was big like the NFL linebacker he almost had been. Bad knees had forced Bingham to drop out of the Buffalo Bills’ training camp in ’66. Bingham had no visible neck and spoke with the casual authority of big men who considered weight a powerful advantage. We warned the family you were out here.

Thanks for the kind words.

Let me refresh your memory, Temple. You’re not a cop anymore. Our job is to investigate this lady’s death. Your job is to write what we tell you.

Nash and Fisk were doing a cop thing, walking around his truck, peering in the windows, checking the seats, the floor, looking from old Styrofoam