LITMIR.BIZ

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second officer peered over Paquette’s shoulder at the pan. “Wallet’s missing. Looks like there’s no ID whatsoever. Who’s to say it’s even the Jane Doe’s?”

      Paquette had begun poking in side pockets, removing more soggy bits of paper. At this point, he glanced up. “It’s not been in the water very long. The fabric’s not degraded, the vinyl’s still shiny and the print on these papers is still pretty clear.”

      Green looked at the sixty odd feet between the purse and the body. “It’s hers. The killer took all the ID out, weighted it with rocks, and tossed it into the water, probably hoping the current would carry it farther away. Which was a risk, because he had to know we might find it. He must have thought it was a greater risk to carry it with him.”

      The second officer snorted. “Yeah. Like what guys’s gonna walk down the street carrying that thing?”

      Green turned to give the officer a closer look. Constable Jeffrey Weiss, his tag said. He was dressed in a casual sports jacket with his tie trailing loose and his blond hair curling over his collar. He had high, Slavic cheekbones, and beneath the peak of his jauntily set baseball cap, his blue eyes stared back, almost in challenge. Green had seen that look before. Cocksure and cynical, the mark of a lousy cop. Yet there was an intelligence in the man’s gaze that gave Green pause. An instinct for the job, which could not be taught.

      Green turned back to the purse. “Lou, can you dry out the pieces of paper? Maybe one of them will give us some answers.”

      Paquette gave him a long, exasperated stare. “Gee, I thought I’d just chuck them. I suppose you want these answers like yesterday? When I’ve got a whole scene to process.”

      Green chuckled. “Bob here is in charge of the case. I’m sure you’ll get it to him as soon as you can. After all, it’d be nice to know who she is. It helps the investigation no end.”

      FOUR

      The tragedy of Jane Doe’s death yielded one dubious bonus. When Green finally made his appearance in Barbara Devine’s office, she was so distracted by this new crisis on her turf that she forgot most of the tedious items on her agenda.

      “Three murders in less than a week, Mike! Last year there were eight in the whole year. Ottawa is the laughingstock of the criminal world. While our politicians squabble about funding tulip festivals and light rail projects, the drug lords and the pimps are moving in and setting up shop. What are your drug squads doing? And Vice? Selling tickets to the show?”

      She had shut the door to her third-floor office and closed the blinds on her fabulous view of the turreted museum across the square—sure signs that their meeting was not for the public eye. Or ear. She perched on the edge of her chair, the wings of her black lacquered hair skewering the air, and as she built up steam, her face grew almost as crimson as her nails.

      Green leaned back in his chair with deliberate calm. “It’s too early to classify this as a homicide, Barbara. MacPhail’s doing the autopsy tomorrow. But in any case, there’s nothing to suggest drugs or prostitution.”

      “Then you find it, or wrap this case up before the six o’clock news. If it’s her lunatic husband, nail him before the women’s groups have a field day claiming the streets are not safe. If it’s drugs or vice, I want ammunition so I can go to the Chief for funds. Who’ve you got leading the investigation?”

      “Detective Gibbs.”

      She stared at him in disbelief. “Gibbs is afraid of his own shadow.”

      Green checked his own flare of anger. “The senior guys are all on the Byward Pub murders.” At your insistence, remember, he thought, but kept it to himself. He wanted to escape with as little meddling from her as possible. “Gibbs has nearly three years in Major Crimes, and he knows what he’s doing.”

      “Then I want you checking his every move, as I will yours.”

      It took him half an hour to talk her down sufficiently that she remembered the rest of her agenda, so it was well past noon when Green emerged from her office. He had a splitting headache and a roiling stomach that rebelled at the least thought of food. He paused for an ill-advised cup of coffee before heading to his office.

      He had barely settled down to pry the lid off his coffee when Paquette marched into his office with a plastic evidence bag in his hand. His thick brows were set in their customary frown, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of excitement as he laid the bag down on Green’s desk.

      “Gibbs figured you’d want to see this.”

      Inside the bag was a small ticket stub from VIA Rail. Even though it was faded and creased, Green could clearly see that it had been purchased in Halifax two weeks earlier. Halifax was a good fifteen hundred kilometre, twenty-four hour train ride from Ottawa, not a trip one would make on a whim.

      “I found it in one of the small zippered pockets,” Paquette said. “Our guy obviously didn’t notice the pocket when he cleaned out the purse.”

      It was probably dark, Green thought, and when you’ve just murdered someone, you’re not usually at your sharpest. Thank God for stupid bad guys. He felt his headache fade, and he managed a genuine smile. “Thanks, Lou. I appreciate the quick work.”

      Lou nodded grudgingly. “Gibbs said to tell you he’s already on the phone to Halifax Missing Persons.”

      “Excellent. Any other useful papers turn up in the purse?”

      “Shreds of Kleenex, gum wrappers. The woman chewed a lot of gum, maybe trying to quit smoking. Receipts from Pharmaprix and Loeb grocery store, both here in the Vanier area in the last week, but unfortunately all paid with cash.” He turned to head out the door, and paused. “Oh, and a pamphlet from the new Canadian War Museum.”

      Green’s interest quickened. The victim’s jacket had been military. One military connection might have been random, but two connections, however remote, formed a lead. He was just about to call Gibbs when the man himself loped into his office, almost colliding with Paquette on his way out. Gibbs had his notebook open to a page covered in tight, meticulous writing, and he looked so focussed he forgot to be afraid.

      “Halifax MisPers has nothing, but I sent them the DOA’s photo and description. And Lou said he’d run her prints through AFIS as soon as he gets them at the autopsy tomorrow.”

      Green nodded. Both were appropriate lines of inquiry, but they were still looking for a needle in a haystack. Besides AFIS, the national fingerprint database, the Department of National Defence had its own fingerprint file of all Canadian Forces military personnel, but it was designed to permit identification of casualties in wartime. It would be a stretch to convince DND that the unidentified Jane Doe might qualify as a victim of war.

      But it was worth a try, particularly if it could get the case solved by the six o’clock news.

      More likely, though, Green suspected that his efforts to connect with the military would take closer to a week, and require official request forms in quadruplicate. In the post 9/11 world, no one was more secretive than DND, except the spooks. So he was surprised when his call was returned before the end of the day by a Captain Karl Ulrich from Human Resources at DND headquarters. Green thought the rank fitting, a captain being at about the same level of the food chain as an inspector.

      But the speed of the response did not mean good news. “Our fingerprint files are not searchable,” the Captain intoned, as if reading from cue cards. “Not like AFIS. Even if National Defence could authorize access in this case, we would require the individual’s name and service number in order to locate the file.”

      “And if that information becomes available, what process does the Ottawa Police need to follow to get access?”

      “Well, there’s a form . . .”

      Of course there’s a form, Green muttered privately after he’d jotted down the procedure and thanked the Captain for his help. Probably the first of many, requiring signatures

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