Forty Words for Sorrow

"There's blood on him other than his own but I can't match the type to the semen that was in the envelope- whoever that belongs to, he isn't a secretor. We won't know if it's the same guy until the DNA test comes back- that's gonna take another week."

"A week! We've got kids being murdered up here, Len."

"It takes ten days, that's just the reality. Now, the facial injury: At first, we thought the facial injury was the result of a fall- you know, the guy gets shot, falls facedown and breaks his nose. But we found traces of gun oil in the wound."

"He was hit with a pistol?"

"Exactly. What's amazing is, this victim has nine bullet wounds in him, but he was killed by a broken nose. With the tape over his mouth, he couldn't breathe- aspirated a ton of blood trying."

"What have you got from Ballistics- Beretta? Glock? Gotta be something that shoots nine rounds, right?"

"The microprint is in my fax. He used a regular Colt thirty-eight."

"Can't be, Len. Colt only holds six rounds."

"Like I say, we're not dealing with a man in a frenzy. Bastard takes his time to reload so he can have a little more fun."

"Guy's an animal," McLeod muttered.

"Genital mutilation was postmortem. Dr. Gant thinks the guy tried to literally kick his balls off."

"That links it to Todd Curry, boss."

Dyson nodded sagely, as if he had thought so all along.

Weisman said, "I've told Ballistics to call you direct, soon as they have more on the slugs."

"All right. Thanks, Len."

"I'm not done yet."

"Sorry. Go ahead."

"Fingerprint section picked up partials. Both thumbs."

"You couldn't have. Our body was found nude- not even a belt to lift a print from."

"They lifted them from the body itself."

"You're kidding me. Our guys didn't get anything."

"Little something we picked up at the Tokyo forensics conference last year: soft-tissue X ray. We X-rayed the subcutaneous tissue of the neck- if you get it within twelve hours you can do that and get a decent print. Looks like he tried to choke the guy- maybe before he decided to aerate him. It's on the fax, too."

"Jesus, that's great, Len. Tell 'em we said, 'Thanks, guys.' "

"Better not. Those guys happen to be women."

Delorme dipped her head, smiling slightly.

"You know what stinks?" McLeod said to the whole table. "What stinks is we're buried in leads here. We're practically drowning in evidence. The guy hands us a tape of his voice, for Chrissake, and we can't do anything. He shoots his wad into an envelope for us, and we can't do anything. Now he leaves us thumbprints. It's like we're holding out for his business card or something. Guy's playing with us, and we're not getting anywhere."

"No, we're making progress," Cardinal said, wanting to believe it. "We're doing classic footwork. We just haven't found the connecting link yet, that's all. Something that's gonna whack all these little bits of info together."

"It better happen soon," Dyson said. "If I get one more call telling me to call in the OPP or the Mounties…"

"The Horsemen?" McLeod seemed to take it personally. "The Horsemen don't have any fucking jurisdiction."

"You know that and I know that. Would you care to educate the public on that point?"

"Anyways, the first thing the fucking Horsemen'd do, they'd blow something up, or steal some fucking evidence, or sell some dope to the wrong fucking judge. Besides which, you never know if what they say they're doing is what they're really doing. I'll tell you the problem with the Horsemen." McLeod was warming up now. Cardinal usually enjoyed a good McLeod rant, but not today, please. "The problem with the Horsemen is they're broke. Fucking five-year pay freeze killed 'em. They're all fucking broke, and they're looking for creative ways to make up the difference. I liked it better when they made more money. You can trust a rich Mountie. Now that they're practically fucking homeless, all they're good for-"

The intercom crackled and Mary Flower's voice came over. "Cardinal, OPP's on the line. Patrol unit on Highway 11's got a make on Woody's truck. What do you want to do?"

"Where exactly are they?"

"Out near Chippewa Falls, heading back to town."

"Patch it through, Mary. I'll speak to them from here."

Every cop at the conference table had shifted position; the air in the room was charged.

"Don, we need the war room. Shotguns, body armor, the works."

"It's yours. Fuck the Mounties."

The phone rang, and Cardinal snatched it up. "Detective Cardinal, CID. Who am I talking to?"

"OPP patrol unit fourteen- George Boissenault, here, and my partner, Carol Wilde."

"Are you sure it's our man?"

"We have a blue '89 ChevyVan in view, Ontario plate number 7698128, stolen. Sign says COMSTOCK ELECTRICAL something."

"My show, partners. Your driver is primo suspect number one in the Pine-Curry case. My show, understand?"

"Roger. They gave us the lowdown in muster."

"Good. I want you to follow him, but don't stop him."

"We may have to stop him. He's really hoofing it."