A Dream of Death (Detective Lincoln Munroe, Book 1)

  Spirits in the office were hard to track, high one moment as people thought about the time in between killings, then rock bottom when they realized we had spent the last three days dissecting old case files without seeing anything new.

  It was 9:30 a.m. now and I was well into my third green tea. My son’s mug was sitting in front of me, steam escaping from its rim. Kara had been silent for the last hour. Her desk was clean as she went through file after file on the computer, an approach I had yet to master.

  New photos and documents cluttered my desk with the previous case folders right beside me, ready to pull out for a comparison. There were consistencies: strangulation; the postmortem removal of flesh; the posing of the bodies; the lack of blood; the absence of physical evidence; the borrowed knife left on the bedside table; the woman home alone while her significant other worked the night shift; the rural neighbourhoods; the lack of alarm systems.

  We knew the killer had to stalk his victims to make sure they fit his profile, but we didn’t know how the killer picked his victims in the first place or how long he stalked them for. None of the regular motives fit. It wasn’t sex—the women were stripped, but there were no signs of any sexual contact and the theft of their clothes only meant the killer was cleaning up after himself. It wasn’t money—nothing was ever stolen with the singular exception of Dupuis’s lipstick, again cleaning up after himself. It wasn’t revenge—there was nothing to link the victims together. It wasn’t even the sadistic enjoyment of killing—following Dupuis’s death and Heisenberg’s take on it, the killer didn’t seem to enjoy his crimes. All that seemed left was a twisted sense of duty. He was killing for somebody else’s good. But whose?

  I was pondering this question when my phone rang. I removed it from the holster and checked the call display—private caller. Likely another officer.

  “Detective Munroe.”

  “Link?” I already knew who it was, only one person still called me Link. “It’s Chen-Chen.”

  “I know. Link’s my son’s name now, Chen.”

  “Well aware, don’t care. You’ll always be Link to me. My way of thanking you for dubbing me Chen-Chen.”

  We both laughed. Talking to Chen always brought me back to our days of training, both at Headquarters in Orillia and at the Ontario Police College in Aylmer.

  Not too far from where many of the killings had taken place.

  “Shit.”

  “What?” Chen said.

  “I just thought of something, Chen. You know the case I’m on?”

  “Everyone does, man. It’s big news.”

  “We’ve got nothing, no evidence to link to the killer whatsoever. Perfectly clean crime scenes. But it just hit me, what if the killer is a police cadet at Aylmer? They’d know enough about forensics to keep the scene clean, they’d be able to sneak out at night, kill, and make it back with plenty of time to get back into bed before their podmates woke up.”

  Chen didn’t say anything. I swore I could hear wheels grinding.

  “It’s possible. That would ruin us if it was true. A police cadet serial killer? Respect for the police would take a nosedive.”

  “Yeah, I hope I’m wrong. I probably am.”

  “It’s worth checking out though.”

  “I guess.” I hesitated, unsure I wanted to ask the question. “So why did you call?”

  Chen and I had become very close friends in the thirteen weeks we lived at the college. The dorms there are made up of “pods,” a common living area and bathroom connected to ten small, individual bedrooms. Ten men, two showers, one television, one toilet, thirteen weeks—it made for intimacy. Apparently the women’s pods were nicer but I never found a reason to visit one. Regardless of gender, you either bonded or spent the entire time at each other’s throats. Chen and I bonded.

  Chen was born in nineteen-seventy-six to Chinese immigrants who had moved to Toronto from Beijing. Chen’s mother was seven months pregnant when the plane landed. By accident or fate they settled in the Little Italy area of Toronto and, as is often the case with Chinese families, they gave Chen two names: a Chinese name, Yu, and what they believed to be a strong English name given their surroundings—Vincenzo. Growing up, Chen had gone by Vincenzo, Vincent, Vinny and Vin at various points. By the time police college came around he had switched back to Vincent in an attempt to appear professional.

  Three weeks into college most of us were using last names for everyone, partly due to the shirts we had to wear in defensive tactics training: white with our last names on them in large black letters. The Vincent fell by the way side and Chen became the moniker applied. We were sitting in the common area watching a football game on the television when I realized if we dropped the ‘Vin’ and the ‘zo’ our dear friend became Chen Chen. It stuck, and made its way with him to his new posting up near Algonquin Park.

  Chen and I had taken very similar paths, finding ourselves at homicide desks within a month of each other. We tried to keep in touch, but we’d been able to do it less than we would have liked. Facebook had changed that, making it easy to see what the other was up to and giving us a forum to share photos of our children—another realm in which we showed marked similarities. Chen’s son was born two months before Link and his daughter a week and a half after Kasia.

  “I need you out here.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “What for?” An echo. “Were you even listening last week?”

  I scanned through my memories with little luck. I barely remembered Chen calling me and obviously I had forgotten the topic completely. Something about a missing body?

  “I’ve been busy here. Remind me.”

  “We’ve got a shallow grave burial in Algonquin Park, looks like an old one. Camper found a skull sticking out of the dirt and called it in. They had to leave the area to get a cell signal and then couldn’t find their way back to it. Took us a week, but we finally found the remains.”

  My eyes stood unblinking and my heart began to race. I could hear the heavy pounding in my chest. Nothing else existed in the room save for me and the phone.

  “I… I…”

  “It’s alright, Link. I know you’re busy. We need you for two days tops. They’re excavating the body later today and I was hoping to get you here. You’re the only detective we have with a degree in anthropology, not to mention experience on a dig site in university. We’ve got a professor from University of Ottawa coming to oversee the dig and he’s bringing some students to assist.”

  “So what do you need me for?”

  “You’re our police perspective. You’re uniquely qualified, Link.”

  I was getting enough control over myself to play it cool. “Flattery will get you nowhere. We’re busy as hell here, Chen, I don’t know if I can get away.”

  “My boss has already approved it. The plane is leaving Windsor in twenty minutes and is ready to touch down in London to pick you up. It’s on its way to Ottawa to do some traffic enforcement on the four-oh-one there.”

  I thought of objecting again, but knew I had to go. It wasn’t just helping out an old friend or that he’d gone through the trouble of having it approved on his end. The dreams, there had to be a reason they were so realistic. What was I missing? I couldn’t understand why I would be having borderline prophetic dreams about what could have been a decades old murder. And Algonquin? Why a place I had never been? All I knew was that I needed to find out more.

  “Give me a rundown on the terrain, Chen.” The perfect question. He would assume I would be wondering about how to go about the dig.

  “Lots of trees, pretty flat though. About a hundred metres tops from a river, fast moving bugger too, wish I’d brought my canoe. It’s pretty rocky but there’s a decent amount of soil, more than enough to bury a body in.”

  It was a match. Next question.

  “How about the weather?”

  “Gorgeous. Not a cloud in the sky and the sun is shining, there’s a nice breeze too. Couldn’t have asked for a better
day.”

  And the knife? Did the skull talk? These were the questions I couldn’t ask. Time to put my visions to the test.

  “Chen, you might want to get some tarps ready. You’ll be soaked soon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s going to piss down rain like you would not believe.”

  “What the hell, Link, you a meteorologist now too? Or maybe a psychic? The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen and we aren’t supposed to get any rain up here for a few more days.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll ring you back if I can make it.”

  I hung up the phone on a very confused Chen and gave Kara the benefit of being first to hear about the request for my services. My next order of business was to call Detective Inspector McCaffrey and convince her to let me go. It was a hard sell, but with Dr. Heisenberg’s theory that we would be without work for a few more days, Kara’s undeniable abilities and the additional detectives on the case I won out. I had to; there was not a chance that I wouldn’t be on that plane even if I had to face neglect of duty charges to do it. Of course, it helped that I swore to McCaffrey that if another murder occurred I would be at the scene before the coroner removed the body if it required me chartering a private plane out of my own pocket.

  I really hoped that wasn’t going to happen.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later I was standing on the tarmac at London International Airport awaiting the OPP Cessna 206 Turbo used primarily for traffic enforcement. With a top speed of just over two hundred and sixty kilometres per hour it was also a highly effective means of transport.

  Takeoff was nice and smooth for such a small plane, my first experience with anything other than a passenger jet. It was a nice view and the pilot and copilot regaled me with some of the highlights of their careers.

  We touched down after only a few hours in the air, landing on a private airstrip not far from the meeting place—a small hotel well within the confines of the park and an hour from the remains. Chen greeted me by holding the hotel door open as I rushed in and out of the pounding, pouring rain.

  “What are tomorrow’s lottery numbers, you son of a bitch?”

  A pleasant greeting. “Check your horoscope, ass-hat. How the hell should I know?”

  “Link ‘Nostradamus’ Munroe predicted the weather just fine. I figured he’d be able to give me a leg up on the lotto as well. Looks like you left him back in London and brought boring Link along.”

  I slugged Chen in the right shoulder before lacing into him with a tirade of expletives. Old friends and college buddies have a unique way of communicating. Chen and I were no different.

  “Seriously, how’d you do it?”

  “I don’t know, Chen. Just a feeling.”

  “Alright, who killed the bastard then?”

  Another punch to his shoulder. “For all I know, Chen, it could have been you.”

  —10—

  I woke bright and early the next day to the sound of Chen doing his morning calisthenics in the adjoining room. There was an old Chinese proverb he often reminded me of: no one who gets up before sunrise three-hundred and sixty days a year will fail to make his family rich. Chen seemed to live by this. He was the first to rise every day at college, a five kilometre run and forty laps in the pool done before the rest of us even stirred. Not being a morning person, it was one of the few things I hated about Chen.

  Without my calendar I had to think for a moment; June fourteen—I wondered what the word of the day had been. I didn’t dream again last night, which surprised me; the proximity alone should have been enough to trigger another entry into my own private hell. But my sound night’s sleep may have been the aftereffect of a mickey of scotch split between Chen and I—Glenlivet, a good specimen yet still affordable.

  I showered, shaved and got dressed; my black suit packed carefully in my overnight bag. I only brought one shirt and tie—Chen made it clear that I would only be here two days. Despite the terrain we would be facing protocol remained and I had no choice but to wear a suit.

  Downstairs Chen and I met in the lobby of the hotel. It was 7:15 a.m.; Chen was never late. “Any new predictions?” he asked as he approached.

  “Yeah, you’re paying for breakfast.”

  Chen laughed and nodded. I was right of course, but Chen wouldn’t drag me all the way down here then expect me to pay for my meals.

  “Obvious,” he said. “Any others?”

  “Keep asking questions like that, and you’ll regret it.”

  Chen took a fighting stance. “Big words, tough guy.”

  “Let’s go. Those other guys took my plane away. Hopefully you have a car?”

  “SUV. We’ll need it to get as close to the scene as I’d like to.”

  We walked out to the parking lot and got into the vehicle, Chen taking the wheel of the black and white Chevrolet Tahoe. The crime scene was a short distance as the crow flies, however the terrain required a more deliberate path and a reduced speed. The conversation was stagnant both during the ride and our early morning meal at a small and out of the way family run restaurant. It amazed me that even here in the midst of what seemed to be a forgotten world, wilderness lost in time, one could still find a good bacon and egg breakfast.

  We spoke little and as is often the case it was the words we never said that formed the real conversation. Our breakfast rushed, we were back on the road with little time lost. I knew Chen believed in fate—that everything happened for a reason and that each person had a specific role to play as the wonders and mysteries of the universe unfolded. Perhaps I shouldn’t have predicted the downpour of rain; Chen was not one to take such matters lightly.

  But… how did I know about the rain? Why did Chen call me out of the blue to assist on a case hundreds of kilometres away while I was in the middle of a serial killer investigation? How did I know the details of the scene and its location? And how, in the midst of a major case, did I get leave to travel to Algonquin Park to assist on an excavation? I often joked with Chen that the universe had better things to do than micromanage the minutiae of my life. But maybe Chen was right.

  Or maybe it was all just a coincidence, especially the rain.

  No matter how many hours of thought I put into this, I would never be able to determine the reason for it all. There was no choice but to follow along blindly and hope that all would become clear in time. I had my doubts. And my fears. A part of me never wanted to realize the truth, whatever it might be.

  Chen was steering us down a narrow road. The thick canopy of trees overhead lent an aura of twilight to the otherwise bright day. A small sedan approached as I was lost in thought, staring out the windshield without an ounce of attention paid. I didn’t notice the vehicle’s headlights turn on. They didn’t draw my attention until they began flashing, drawing my attention outward once again.

  It was the same pattern I had seen in my first dream. But this time, the pattern started at a different point. I shifted in my seat, panicked hands rendered useless from a rush of endorphins as I clawed my belt for my cell phone. I removed it and fumbled at the keypad, taking three attempts to unlock the device. I typed ‘Morse code’ into the internet browser and within seconds I had the Morse code alphabet in front of me. I remembered learning it as a kid, just for fun, but it was long since forgotten.

  Deciphering the message was not a simple task, especially since I had to fend off Chen’s questions. He hadn’t mentioned the lights, and I was going to assume he couldn’t see them.

  The pattern was clear in my mind. Long, short, long, short, short, short, long, long, short, short, short, short. The problem was where did the pattern begin? How was it broken up into individual letters?

  I started at the end—four shorts in a row was an odd combination and limited me to H, II, EEEE, ES, or SE. And that was only if the long before the four shorts wasn’t connected.

  “Five minutes out, Link.”

  Chen’s announcement caused further panic. I ne
eded to know what it meant, what my dreams were trying to tell me. I worked fast but it was to no avail, there were too many possible combinations. Why had I seen the lights, what triggered my vision? I was thinking about the dreams, about fate, about finding the truth.

  That was it, it had to be.

  I looked back to the alphabet: T, long; R, short, long, short; U, short, short, long; T, long; H, short, short, short, short. TRUTH.

  Stifling a victory cry I checked it again, then verified my findings again and again until we arrived within walking distance of the scene. Chen parked the vehicle and I was left to consider the significance of the message at another time.

  * * *

  The road had been rough, rocks and mud and fallen branches in the path of our vehicle. Chen had guided us through and over all of the obstacles with a master’s touch and I, I had not noticed a thing. Looking back up the path we had come down I was amazed by my own determination and single minded focus.

  Chen escorted me to the scene. Fresh markings on the trees had been left to guide our way. Through the foliage I could make out a yellow line, stark contrast to the green and brown that filled my vision. There were faint voices coming through the trees as well as the footsteps of someone moving through the underbrush. This area was not well-traveled, likely seen by only a few determined hikers and campers each year. Those who did see this area likely came by river—canoes and kayaks being popular methods of travel through the nearly eight thousand square kilometres of the provincial park.

  As we approached the scene I was struck by a sense of familiarity. This was my first visit to Algonquin Park, ever, and yet, it felt as though I had been there before. Images flashed in my mind: my father standing strong before the trees as the sun rose in the morning; my father again, weariness in his eyes as he carried me through the woods; and waking up to the sun breaking through the trees, my skin wet with dew.

  My father had taken me camping once before when I was just a child. But that had been to Cyprus Lake, a park near Tobermory at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula hundreds of kilometres away. The terrain was similar—rocky ground, coniferous trees, cold, clear waters. I must have been confusing myself, distant memories blurring the lines between the past, present and imagined.