LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      “He’s in here somewhere,” said Ryan as he accessed the news database. “I don’t know why you don’t just phone the cops and ask for his name.”

      “Because they’ll want to know why and I’m no good at lying, and they’ll think I’m nuts if I tell them my theory.”

      “They’d have a right to think you’re nuts, and what makes you think the coroner in charge of this case will be any more receptive to you?”

      I shrugged, my stomach already in knots over what I might say to him. I walked over to the window and looked out across the fields. Ryan’s office had a beautiful view of the escarpment, and at this time of day, with the sun turned to gold on the cornstalks, it looked like a piece of a paradise.

      “He’s an academic. Maybe I can appeal to that side of him.”

      The quiet pinging went on. Ryan was into the newspaper database now, scanning the papers from the day after we had found the body. While Ryan worked on his computer I rummaged through our camping gear. It was gathering mould in the corner of his mudroom where we kept all our camping gear and where we’d just dumped our packs after our trip. I began sorting through it and making a pile of laundry. We’d both studiously ignored it, hoping the other would clean them out and throw the sweaty clothes into the laundry. I sighed as I pulled out sleeping bags and clothes. I separated them into two piles, “dirty” and “okay for another year.” I picked up my khaki pants, every pocket bulging. I threw out all the garbage and checked the other non-garbage pockets, pulling out my knife and a wad of scrunched-up blue paper. At first I couldn’t remember what it was, and I unscrunched it carefully. It was covered in doodles and scribbles. It had been smeared by the rain and the rapids into almost illegible handwriting. I could make out what looked like the word “antlers.” Then someone had scribbled and circled a few lines; there was something that looked like “red welt ock” followed by three numbers and something that looked like “NV.”

      I shrugged and tossed it in with the other garbage.

      “Here it is.” Ryan’s voice interrupted my thoughts and I came over and stood behind him, peering at the black letters on the Macintosh screen.

      “Duncan MacPherson.”

       chapter nine

      It was some time before I actually got through to Dr. MacPherson, partly because I dreaded the call but also because once I got my nerve up and realized I had no choice, protective secretaries at the anatomy lab at the university and at the Coroner’s Office in Dumoine gave me the runaround. Finally I pleaded an emergency involving life and death and used the “Dr.” before my name without mentioning that I was not a medical doctor.

      I introduced myself over the phone as Dr. Cordi O’Callaghan, but before I could tell him why I was calling he said, in a deep, throaty burr, “Cordi O’Callaghan? We’ve met.”

      “We have?” I racked my brains but the name was not familiar at all. How embarrassing.

      “At the butterflies and moths convention, Albuquerque. I showed you my luna moth job.”

      Memory flooded back. There was only one guy who had had a beautiful, green-yellow luna moth with its spectacular 4.5-inch wingspan and two long elegant tails.

      “Right! I remember you. You’re the one …” I stumbled to a halt, the unspoken words hanging in the silence worse than if I’d said them.

      “That’s right,” he finished, chuckling. “The one with a nose to rival Pinocchio.”

      Oh God, I thought. Why was I always putting my foot in it?

      “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean —”

      “It’s all right. It is an identifying characteristic, after all.”

      It sure was, I thought. I couldn’t remember anything else about him except his nose! It dominated his entire body!

      “What can I do for you? Something about Jake Diamond, I presume? You were the one to find the body, weren’t you?”

      “Yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten the police would have told you that. I’d like to get some information from you about the autopsy results, if that’s okay.”

      His voice dropped an octave, became guarded, cautious, professional. “Surely you know that that information is confidential unless, between friends, there’s a damn good reason it shouldn’t be. Is there?”

      Oh God, I thought. This isn’t going to work. My mind went blank and then, in disbelief, I heard myself say, “I think his death might not be as straightforward as it sounds.”

      There was a long silence. I could hear him breathing at the other end as we both took in the implications of what I had said. I thought he was going to hang up, and it served me right, too, for putting my cards on the table right away, but instead, surprisingly, his voice warmed … and was there just possibly a trace of amusement in it?

      “I think perhaps we had better meet, my girl. Tomorrow? Nine a.m?”

      “I can manage that, thanks,” I said, biting off the “my boy” before it got past my tongue. It wouldn’t do to alienate him.

      “Would you mind bringing your butterfly keys? I have a butterfly I’d like you to identify.”

      I smiled as I hung up. So that was it, was it? You scratch my back, I scratch yours, I thought.

      The following day it was pouring rain and windy as hell. It took me just under two hours to get from my farm to Dumoine and then another twenty minutes to locate the anatomy building, which for some reason wasn’t on the university campus, which housed one of Canada’s first northern medical schools. There was nowhere nearby to park, and my raincoat and light canvas hat just weren’t enough to keep the wet from running down my neck as I walked back from my parked car. The rain was horizontal and my shoes were squelching by the time I reached the building.

      The pathology department was in an old turn-ofthe-century stone building near the centre of town. I walked up the wide stone steps and through the large wooden doors. It was an imposing building, built with grace and built to last. I didn’t bother looking for the elevator. It was only three flights up and I hated the cramped feel of elevators anyway.

      On the third floor I walked down the corridor looking for room 303. As I neared the end of the hall I could hear the quiet murmur of voices. The door to 303 was open and the murmurs were coming from there.

      I peered around the door. The room was huge, with tall lead-paned windows climbing to the vaulted ceiling, the massive stone arches pink from the granite from which they were built. There were perhaps eighty students gathered in groups of four around tables draped with white cloths. They were whispering in the quiet, almost clandestine atmosphere. The sickly sweet smell of formaldehyde permeated everything.

      I juddered to a halt when I realized, with a sickening gag, that all those shrouded forms were cadavers. If he’d wanted to unnerve me he had certainly succeeded. My eyes clung to the figure closest to me with uneasy fascination, as if looking at just one would make it seem better. I’d never been in a human anatomy lab before, with dozens of still, wrinkled figures lying prone on all those tables. Some were still partially draped where the students hadn’t moved on with their scalpels, others lay exposed, the white shroud missing and their pasty, leathery, wrinkled bodies half dissected.

      I pulled my eyes away from the surreal scene and reached out for the doorframe to steady myself. There was a tall sturdily built man seated at a desk just inside the door, his back to me. When I’d regained my equilibrium I cleared my throat, and he turned around.

      No mistaking him. The nose stood out like a huge tuber someone had unkindly stuck to his face. I forced myself to look at his eyes, grey-blue; his grey-silver hair, almost non-existent; his mouth, behind a thick grizzled beard, all paling into insignificance next to that gargantuan nose. If anyone could claim the right to cosmetic surgery this man could. I marvelled at

Скачать книгу