GRAVE PROGNOSIS: A NOVEL
By Daniel Kalla

Chapter Twenty

The next morning everyone crowded around Trevor’s desk to read the front-page story in Vancouver‘s Province newspaper. "Women Murdered at Nightclubs—Serial Killer Involved?" the headline screamed. The story told of at least two women murdered at clubs in the city, implying there might have been others. According to the reporter, Jason Olsen, his sources within the VPD had suggested that the two women weren’t connected. He further postulated that these women were chosen at random by a serial killer. Inspector Trevor Andersenn, listed as the chief investigator, had declined to comment.

"I think the sharks smell blood," Armit said.

"How do they know all this?" Ken asked.

"Don’t blame the chief," Trevor said grimly. "I was there when he made his statement. There’s definitely been a leak, which means there’ll be more." He folded the newspaper and put it in his desk, then updated Ken and Armit about the latest Keith Kozak developments, telling them that the photographer had been located in the Dominican Republic and was due back in Vancouver on Sunday. After that he asked them what they had learned from the friends and family of Sarah Evans.

"Not much," Ken said. "We couldn’t connect her to either of the other victims or Kozak. The latest boyfriend is an absolute mess over this. He did mention something about Sarah feeling like she was being followed a month ago, but she never gave him any real details. Fits the pattern, anyway." He shrugged. "I don’t think the people we interviewed could be considered suspects. There was no mention of any shady characters in her past except a previous boyfriend who disappeared a couple of years ago right after knocking her up."

Trevor narrowed his eyes. "She was pregnant? Did she see it through?"

"No. She had an abortion."

"Didn’t you say Katie Turco had an abortion a couple of years back?"

"Yeah. So what? Go to Port Coquitlam or any other suburb and find me a girl who hasn’t had an abortion."

"Oh, that’s nice!" Sandy groused. "My niece lives in Port Coquitlam."

Trevor sighed. "Look, why don’t you guys find out when and where Katie and Sarah had these abortions? Meanwhile I’ll talk to Monica and find out if she’s ever had one."

Sandy left Trevor’s office to answer his ringing phone. When the receptionist from downstairs explained who wanted to see him, he smiled for the first time that day. He instructed her to send the man up to Homicide, then returned to Trevor’s office. "Ken, there’s a man coming up with important information regarding the Wild Kingdom murders. I’ve got to run to another meeting. Do you mind interviewing him?"

"Whatever," Ken said, waving a hand.

When the receptionist knocked on Trevor’s door, Ken accompanied her to one of the interview rooms, where a tall man with black hair waited.

Fifteen minutes later Ken burst into Trevor’s office. He didn’t seem to find it odd that Sandy was still there instead of attending his supposedly important meeting. "I think our murderer just confessed."

"Really?" Sandy said.

"This guy, Pat Logan, that you sent up. He’s not an exact match with the drawing, but he fits the basic physical profile. With a little prodding from me, he admitted to poisoning those girls. He says there are others that we don’t even know about. He’s a bit vague about the details, but he says he wants to make a full statement. He tells me he can’t live with the guilt anymore. I think—" Ken stopped when he noticed the other three detectives smiling. "What’s so damn funny?"

"How’s Father Pat today?" Sandy asked.

"Father? He’s not a priest."

"No, we just call him Father because he’s a big fan of the confessional. I don’t think there’s been a murder in this city in the past ten years that Pat Logan didn’t confess to."

Ken wasn’t amused; in fact, he looked as if he were about to decapitate someone, specifically Sandy.

"Relax, Ken," Sandy soothed. "Now that you’re with Homicide, you were bound to meet Logan at some point. He’s a harmless old nut, but he’s obsessed with crime, especially murder. He reads a story in the paper, makes up a few of the details, then confesses to the crime. He’s very convincing. I was fooled the first three or four times. Consider this your initiation."

The other detectives laughed, but Ken didn’t join in.

Mike spent the entire day visiting paramedic stations and hospitals, informing them how best to deal with cases in which carfentanyl poisoning was suspected. By the time he got home, it was almost 6:00 p.m. He was drained from repeating the same explanations and fielding numerous questions. It was human nature, he supposed, but the paramedics, nurses, and physicians had been far more interested in the details of the police case than in treating any potential carfentanyl poisoning.

He phoned Monica and arranged to pick her up in thirty minutes, then wasted most of that time deciding on what to wear. In the end, he settled on jeans, a casual shirt, and a blazer, the same outfit he would have picked for any Friday-night walk.

When he and Cassy finally reached Monica’s place, they were fifteen minutes late. His timing was perfect. He thought his obsession with being at least fifteen minutes late was just another secret from the chest of unspoken male insecurities.

Monica met Mike and Cassy at the front door of her building. Her hair was worn up, and over her casual blue dress she wore a gray leather jacket. Mike felt long-forgotten butterflies in his stomach.

"Hi. Who’s this?" Monica asked.

"This is Cassy." He let go of the dog’s leash and she approached Monica to sniff her thoroughly. Cassy’s tail didn’t wag the whole time as she let out a small snort, then returned to Mike’s side, as if to say, "I’m really not impressed."

Monica seemed unperturbed by the cold greeting. She bent over and warmly stroked Cassy. "You’re a beautiful girl, aren’t you?" She scratched the dog behind her ears and rubbed her back. These were two of Cassy’s favorite spots, so in spite of her reservations, her tail began to wag.

"Shall we walk?" Mike suggested. They strolled downhill to the beach, stopping at Bean World. "We better get a couple of coffees. Because, you know, it’s a criminal offense to walk around here without $12 coffees," he explained.

"None for me, thanks. I’ve already had my quota for the day. I come down here every night at six for my therapeutic cup of steamed milk. Sometimes I read or write a bit of poetry. Besides, there’s great people-watching down here." As if to confirm her words, a shirtless man wearing tight red pants and Cat in the Hat-style headgear rollerbladed past them. "You can’t make stuff like that up," she added, pointing at the man.

"Why would you want to?"

After Mike got his coffee, they crossed over to Kitsilano Beach. Their walk took them eastward along the shore toward Granville Island, an area of the city known for its shopping and cultural activities. On a clear day like this one the mountains of the North Shore made a spectacular backdrop. At times like these Mike understood why so many people were willing to brave the relentless rain, growing traffic congestion, and prohibitively expensive real-estate prices to live in Vancouver.

For a while they spoke about the Wild Kingdom case. Even though Monica had heard about the latest victim, she was saddened by the details Mike shared with her. When he finished telling her about the latest developments without mentioning Keith Kozak, she asked, "Have they found Keith yet?"

"Close. They’ve tracked him down to the Dominican Republic."

"He’s probably doing one of the swimsuit editions for some magazine." She stopped and looked at Mike. "He’s not the one you’re looking for, you know."

"I believe you, Monica. But an investigation is like an audit. No stone‘s left unturned and everyone’s guilty until proven innocent."

"I suppose. Is this the first time you’ve been so involved in a case?"

"No. I’ve been tagging along on some of Trevor’s cases for the past couple of years."

"Why?"

"Mainly curiosity. I find this stuff fascinating."

"What do you think makes guys like the Trevor and Sandy do it?"

"Sandy would tell you it’s the great pension plan, but don’t believe him. These guys are passionate about their jobs."

They had reached Vanier Park, just west of Granville Island. It was one of the best dog places in the city. Here Cassy found numerous playmates. She stole some toys from other dogs, encouraging them to chase her. She even found time to taunt a few of the dogs that weren’t allowed off their leashes by their law-abiding masters. As they watched Cassy play, Monica said, "I can’t explain it exactly, but Trevor seems so even-keeled, yet sad. Is it the job?"

Mike cast a suspicious look at Monica. "You’re not one of those annoyingly insightful, near-psychic types, are you?"

"Not usually."

"Good. We’ll just call it a lucky guess. But you’re right about Trevor. I don’t think it has a lot to do with his job, though. About three years ago he lost his wife to breast cancer. I only met her when she was already very sick, but I could tell she was a special lady—so stoic and kind. They had been married for almost fifteen years and were still deeply in love. Since her death, Trevor has put his life into his kids from an earlier marriage and in his work." He picked up a stick and threw it for Cassy to chase. "Not to be overly analytical, but I think since he could never make sense of his wife’s death, he tries even harder now to bring closure to the homicides he deals with."

"And you accused me of being insightful?"

They put Cassy back on the leash and walked farther along the seawall. "This is probably none of my business," Mike said, "but from what I hear, you were on the way to becoming the next supermodel. Why did you give it up?"

"Every new model is touted as being the next supermodel."

"You’re just being modest."

"No, it’s very true. Models are like the fashions they promote—hot one season, forgotten the next. But that’s not why I left." She was silent for a few moments, then said, "I never liked the business in the first place. You’re surrounded by insincere people, the work’s grueling, and the lifestyle’s incredibly unhealthy. Most models chain-smoke. If you eat normally, you’re a rarity. If you don’t purge after you eat, then you’re almost a freak. And the drugs!"

She shook her head. "Wait, I’m being unfair. Many models are hardworking women who lead lifestyles as normal as possible, considering the circumstances. It just didn’t suit me. I already had my bachelor degree in English lit., and I always planned to go to graduate school eventually." She took Cassy’s leash from Mike. "When Suzy died, I almost quit. Then Keith and I became seriously involved. We talked about starting a family. I think that’s what finally made me decide to leave modeling."

"Any regrets?"

"Not a single one."

"So then you went to grad school?"

"Yeah. After Keith and I broke up, I started my master’s in English at Simon Fraser University."

"What’s your thesis about?"

"You’re the amateur detective. Guess."

"Hmm." Mike cocked his head and squinted one eye. "Something about the poetry of the beatnik generation?"

"Not bad. Actually, I’m doing a comparative study of the work of Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso."

Mike smiled, then changed the subject. "Trevor told me you were working for a small publishing firm until recently."

She sighed. "That’s true. I was a junior editor. I loved it."

"Why did you leave?"

She sighed again. "My boss."

"You didn’t get along with your boss?"

"No, we got along well enough. But he made it very clear he wanted to get along better."

"Isn’t that sexual harassment?"

"Maybe. But it doesn‘t matter. I thought I was appreciated for my work ethic and skill but, as usual, that wasn‘t the case." They walked without speaking for a few minutes, then she said, "I have no right to be bitter. My physical appearance has opened lots of doors for me. It’s just that my looks have always been a mixed blessing. If a man helps me or does something kind, I never know whether he’s being sincere. Or if he praises my ability and encourages my development, I’m not sure if it’s genuine." She stooped, picked up a flat rock, and threw it toward the water, watching it skip a number of times. "Just when I was ready to believe my boss when he told me I had real talent and he wanted to publish my work, he pinched my ass and asked me to spend the weekend up at Whistler with him."

Mike skipped a stone, too, then said, "The guy‘s a jerk. No doubt about it. But why does it have to be one or the other?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do you know he doesn’t want to publish your work and get you into bed?"

"I never really thought of it like that."

He winked at her. "You forget how complex men can be. You know, I once heard a comedian say, ‘If women knew what men were really thinking, they’d never stop slapping us.‘"

Monica eyed him suspiciously. "And what are you thinking?"

"Look, just because someone’s enamored by your physical beauty doesn’t mean all your other talent is invalidated. Guys like your boss feed off women’s insecurities. You’re a very talented poet, so don’t let that loser make you think otherwise."

She smiled warmly. "You wouldn’t recognize a talented poet if Keats or Byron were standing right in front of you, would you?"

"No, I wouldn’t."

"Besides, you know my life story inside out. I thought tonight I was going to find out about you."

They had finally reached Granville Island. "I’ll tell you what," Mike said. "Stay here with Cassy and I’ll get us a bottle of wine and two of the best vegetarian sandwiches in the city. Veggie okay with you?" She nodded. "After that I’ll tell you my sob story."

Mike was gone for twenty minutes. When he returned, it looked as if Cassy and Monica had become fast friends. "What did you feed her?"

"Nothing," she said, surprised by his question. "What makes you think I was feeding her anything?"

"Cassy doesn’t warm to my friends quickly, especially if they’re female. The way she’s lying across your feet like that, only food could win her heart so fast."

They walked to a park just beyond Granville Island, where they sat at a picnic table and ate. Mike told Monica about his older brother and younger sister, both of whom were married. His older brother had two daughters. His mother was a teacher. His father had been a corporate lawyer before retiring after his third heart attack at age fifty-seven. "I promised myself I wasn’t going to end up a victim of the corporate rat race like my dad," he said.

"Is your father still alive?"

"Yes. He’s had two coronary bypasses, but he’s doing pretty well. He’s living with his girlfriend on one of the Gulf Islands. According to my mom, she’s just a child."

"Really?"

"I think she’s legally an adult, considering she’s about fifty years old," he said with a grin. "But both my parents are in their mid-sixties, so the whole thing’s scandalous in my mom’s eyes."

"What happened between your parents?"

"I’m told they were very much in love at one point. But I don’t remember it that way. Dad was never around much. It’s not like they fought a lot. I think they just drifted apart. One day Dad moved out."

"How old were you?"

"About nine or ten, I think."

"That’s a tough age to go through a parental divorce."

"I think it was tougher on my younger sister." He looked out at the water. "My last girlfriend, Andrea, swore that my parents’ divorce cursed me forever when it came to relationships. She said I’d never be able to commit to anybody other than Cassy."

"Was she right?"

"Who knows? But, in the long run, I think Cassy and I’ll stay together." He stood away from the table, knelt, and rubbed the dog’s ears. "How about your parents?"

"Unfortunately they’ve stayed together."

"Why unfortunately?"

"I’m exaggerating. But I can’t describe their marriage as happy. They’re both such perfectionists. It was kind of tough for Anna and me growing up. In their own way I know they love us and try their best. But they focus on the negatives, especially my mom. It’s kind of sad, really. I don’t think she’s a very happy person. I can’t complain, though. We always had one or two dogs around the house."

Mike straightened and sat down. They drained the last two glasses of wine from the bottle, then Monica asked, "So why Emergency medicine?"

"Good pension plan."

She scowled at him playfully.

"Okay, okay. Seriously, I never figured I’d be doing ER work or toxicology. I don’t even know how I ended up in medicine. My mom tells me that even as a young child I was drawn to people who were sick or suffering. She says I was destined to be a doctor."

"I think she’s right. Any regrets?"

"Plenty. But my modeling career was going absolutely nowhere when I made the switch."

They got up from the table and headed back to Monica’s place in comfortable silence. At one point she slipped her arm through his. Mike didn’t look at her, but this small gesture started his heart pounding.

When they reached the condo, there was a slightly awkward moment, which was broken by Monica. "I really enjoyed the walk, Cassy," she said, patting the dog‘s head. "Oh, and thanks for bringing Mike along." Then she turned to him. "Thank you for tonight."

They stood close, nearly eye to eye. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, while he drew her closer. They kissed for a long while; neither of them wanted to end this newfound intimacy. Eventually, though, Cassy intervened. After waiting longer than usual, the dog forced herself between them.

When they separated, Mike asked, "Can we get together again sometime?"

"I’m counting on it. How about I take you out for dinner next week?"

"Okay, but no more of those cheap sandwiches. I want to go someplace nice."

Mike and Cassy watched as Monica walked through the lobby to the stairwell. She flashed a backhanded wave at them without turning around. When she disappeared, he said to Cassy, "Well, girl, I think your master just got kicked in the heart." As they strolled to the car, Mike noticed the two policemen in the unmarked car across the street. One had a broad smile on his face; the other looked a little dejected.

To Be Continued . . .

Daniel Kalla practices emergency room medicine in Vancouver, Canada. He co-wrote the film script To Love and To Perish for Highwire Entertainment (now in pre-production). His forthcoming novel is entitled Lethal Assistance. He can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].