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

  I no longer needed Chen as a guide. I walked a direct line to the skull, following a path I had taken before. The skull was positioned just as I had seen it, the dirt washed away from around it, revealing the white bone. It looked fake, like a skull stolen from a medical classroom, too perfect to be real. I could see only minor damage, cracks and wear caused by the passage of time.

  There was no knife dangling above the skull, no message in blood. And much to my delight the skull did not speak to me.

  “We haven’t started excavating at all yet,” Chen said. “We only found it again late yesterday. Last week a couple of interior campers had packed up their tents from the night before and were hiking to their next campsite when they came across the skull. Bones are nothing new to hikers in here—deer, bear, wolves, you name it, and having watched too many episodes of CSI, a lot of people assume they’re human. This is the first one I’ve heard of where they were right.”

  “Hard to mistake this for an animal skull,” I said.

  Chen laughed.

  “When they said it was a skull I knew it was a real one. Then it was just a matter of finding it again.”

  “How long do you figure the body’s been here?”

  “The anthropologist from the University of Ottawa, Dr. Conroy, estimated it was at least ten to fifteen years, given the state of the skull and the complete skeletonization. He was surprised that the body hadn’t been dug up by scavengers, being so close to the surface.”

  “When is the doctor due?”

  “Right now.”

  The reply from behind startled me. This was happening more and more often. My unshakeable detective exterior was falling apart—assuming I had ever had an unshakeable detective exterior. I turned around to see an older male, unkempt hair and beard, standing beside me. Had I not attended university I would have assumed him to be a well-dressed vagrant. I had met a number of professors with similar style, their research far more important than a haircut and shave.

  I stretched out my hand and introduced myself. He shook my hand and said, “So you’re the one with the background in anthropology?”

  “If you call an honours B.Sc. and a single dig a background. I have a feeling Detective Chen here has been exaggerating my qualifications.”

  Conroy smiled. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’m not threatened by you.”

  Had it not been for the genuine smile, I wouldn’t have known how to take his comment, the monotone delivery wiping away all possible traces of humour or sarcasm.

  “I won’t get in your way. Chen just wants me here to oversee this from a police perspective, evidence gathering and that, I guess.” I looked at Chen. “Why exactly am I here, Chen?”

  “You’re an expert, Link,” he said with a wink. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  I shook my head as I made eye contact with Conroy. I was nothing of the kind and these days, so many years since university, all I could be described as was an anthropology enthusiast.

  “Address your staff, Detective Munroe,” Conroy said, as he waved his hand in a grand gesture to the dozen young and eager students standing a short distance from us.

  “What? Really?”

  “Yes, really. Most of these students have only worked archaeological sites. Some have never dug at all. Who better than to direct them on how to perform at a crime scene?”

  “Chen?” I said to a mixture of chuckles and shaking heads. “Right.” I felt like I was being interviewed for the OPP all over again, a board of high-ranked officers judging my every word. Then I called the group over and felt more powerful. All of them were fixed on me and awaiting my direction. If only I could get my children to pay attention so well.

  “My name is Lincoln Munroe, I’m a detective with the OPP out of London. Detective Chen requested I assist on this case. He is the lead detective and will be the person you will all report to should you find anything of note.”This is a crime scene as I am sure you have all deduced by now. Based on your professor’s estimate we are looking at a murder that occurred when you, and perhaps even I, were still children. The first forty-eight hours after a homicide are the most important to investigators when it comes to gathering evidence and apprehending the suspect. We are well outside of that window.”

  I paused for an appreciative chuckle.

  “Everything here will be of interest until determined otherwise. If you dig up something you think is garbage, report it to Detective Chen or to me. It may well be that the only evidence is the body itself. Due diligence is obviously necessary. For those of you who have worked on ancient burials this is different. This person’s family is likely still alive and still wondering what happened to their loved one. Think of them as your mother or father and work as if solving their murder depended on you and you alone.”

  That brought a few nods.

  “Continuity and documentation are of the utmost importance. We will be conducting an excavation of the skeleton and a grid-dig of an area encompassing ten metres square around the burial site. Report to Dr. Conroy for your assignments and further direction. It’s a pleasure to work with all of you.”

  I stepped off of my proverbial soapbox to a slap on the back from Chen. Dr. Conroy said, “A forensic anthropological St. Crispin’s Day. Well said, detective.”

  The blood rushed to my cheeks as the embarrassment I used to feel speaking in public came rushing back.

  * * *

  The dig went on from 8:30 a.m. until nearly 6:00 p.m. We still had light to work by, but I could tell the students were exhausted. The majority of them didn’t seem to mind and were eager to continue working. It was a labour of love for many of them, and those who didn’t enjoy it were apt to rethink their career choice or try to focus on research and teaching. It was not easy work being bent over all day in the hot sun. The dense leaves above us blocked out much of the sunlight but did little to stifle the heat and humidity that seemed to be trapped at ground level.

  We found nothing aside from the skeleton itself. Dr. Conroy had overseen the excavation of the skeleton and had called me over at various times to show me the progress and ask my opinion on things. But he was humouring me. From the way Chen had spoken of him, the man did not need assistance.

  “Detective,” he said at one point, “I think we have cause of death.”

  I knelt next to the site to find that the dirt had been cleared from the rib cage. One rib on the left side of the body was missing and the rib above it had been cut through mere centimetres from the sternum. Exactly the same wounds I had seen in my dream.

  A surge of adrenaline brought me to my knees. My stomach heaved and I rose against my will, then ran as fast and as far as I could before vomiting on the damp ground. The trees spun around me, twirling in a chaotic dance as my head reeled in pain and I choked on the remnants of my breakfast. I was on my knees again, staring at my loss of control, when I felt the faint touch of a hand on my shoulder.

  “Link?”

  “I’m fine, Chen. I’m fine.”

  He tightened his grip.

  “Just give me a minute, Chen.”

  He removed his hand. Light and cautious steps echoed like thunder in my ears as Chen backed away, leaving me to myself.

  A few minutes later the nausea had subsided and the throbbing in my ears had faded to little more than a dull drumming. I stood up, brushed the dirt and leaves off of my formerly clean suit and returned to the crime scene.

  “Must be the heat,” I said, lying through my foul-smelling teeth. “You have any gum, Chen?”

  “Sure.” He handed me a pack. “Have a few pieces, for our sake.”

  I forced a smile and turned back to Dr. Conroy. I was just about to ask him to tell me what he had found when Chen interrupted.

  “Hey, Link? You sure it’s the heat? I mean, hell, aren’t your ancestors from the Congo?”

  “Only on my father’s side Chen. My mother is Irish and hates the heat. Can we get on with this?” Sometimes having detectives for friends makes having frien
ds difficult.

  Conroy went back to business, saving me from Chen’s interrogation. “Parts of the skeleton have shifted over time, you’ll see some parts are higher than others. The skull was the highest point. See here, beneath the skeleton?”

  “A tree root?” The root was thicker than my arm and ran the full length of the skeleton.

  “Looks like that might have helped push the body to the surface.”

  Conroy was looking straight at me now as if Chen were no longer there. “It would take a sharp knife and a lot of force to make this cut.” Conroy pointed to the severed rib. “It’s a clean cut, and although it’s too early to say for certain, it’s just above where the heart would have been. Cause of death may have been a knife wound to the chest.”

  A hunting knife, wooden handled with a silver blade. That would be the murder weapon.

  “We’ll find the missing rib fragments as we dig further. Based on what I can see here, dimensions of the pelvis and the size and shape of the skull, I would say we’re looking at a Caucasian male, in his thirties. The wisdom teeth have fully erupted and there is significant wear on them. I should be able to narrow down the age after the bones have been removed and I make it to the morgue. I’ll take some soil samples from under the body as well. Once I’ve done the postmortem I’ll send a bone off to CFS for a DNA profile.”

  “Thanks, doctor,” I said as I took my leave feeling more hindrance than help. CFS, The Centre for Forensic Sciences, was located in Toronto and was where police services sent evidence to be analyzed. They were capable of performing DNA matches, analyzing blood samples for drugs or alcohol, and performing a vast number of other tasks as required.

  “Can you send the damaged ribs as well? They might be able to get to work identifying the weapon.” Conroy looked at me and nodded.

  The excavation had gone well. Two thirds of the area had been dug out to a depth of fifteen centimeters. It was unlikely that the murderer would have buried the body in one place and evidence in another. The purpose of searching the area surrounding the body was to attempt to locate anything that may have been discarded by the killer or belonged to the victim and had been buried under years of leaf litter.

  Conroy had been right—the rib fragments were at the bottom of the grave, resting on the undamaged ribs. His cause of death was looking accurate; the bones had been cut leaving a smooth edge on either side. Forensic analysis once the skeleton had been removed would assist in determining the weapon used.

  There were no other visible injuries on the skeleton to account for cause of death. There were healed breaks on the right femur, left ulna and the index finger and middle finger on the right hand. The victim apparently lived a rough life, and medical records might help identify him.

  We broke for the night, the skeleton removed by the coroner, who was less than happy to make the trip. The skeleton would be in the morgue by sundown, the students dosing up on Robaxacet, and Chen and I enjoying a beer or two since the scotch had disappeared the previous night.

  Chen promised me that we would be done by noon tomorrow and I would be flying back into London, ready to work the following day. Kara had sent me a few text messages with nothing new to add. She had been following up on the possibility of a police cadet being the culprit but with four hundred students at the police college (nearly three hundred males) it was not an easy task.

  It was late by the time I made it back to the hotel room. I only hoped that Kat hadn’t decided to put the kids to bed early. The phone rang only twice before I got my answer.

  “Daddy,” Kasia said.

  “Hey, honey. How was your day?”

  “Good. We went outside for gym class and played on the climbers. It was fun.”

  I smiled. “That’s awesome. Are you guys getting ready for bed?”

  “Yep. Mommy’s just going to read to us. Link wants to talk to you. Bye.”

  I didn’t even have time to say bye back before Link was on the phone.

  “Guess what?”

  “What, buddy?”

  “I got two goals in soccer today.”

  I beamed. “Nice work.” He had been practicing hard lately and it had obviously paid off. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Gotta go, mommy wants the phone. Bye, Daddy.”

  Again, off the phone before I could respond.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Kat. Good day?”

  “Not bad, yourself?”

  “Hectic and hot. We should be done fairly early tomorrow, then I’ll be on my way home.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Never underestimate a woman’s intuition. I hadn’t had the chance to tell her why I needed to go. I guess the details of my dreams that I had filled her in on were enough for her to figure it out.

  “Not yet, but there has to be a connection. Why else would I be having these dreams? Everything is coming true. I think I’m remembering…” I hesitated, unable to say it for what it could mean. “…something.”

  “Well, hurry home. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I hung up the phone and put my head in my hands. My next call was to Chen’s room to cancel on the beers. I was asleep by ten that night, exhausted both physically and mentally.

  There would be no sound sleeping tonight, of that I was certain.

  —11—

  I enter hell once again and stand alone in the middle of the partially excavated crime scene. The skeleton still lies, unmoving, in the ground. I walk around the area, searching for… something, anything. There’s nothing. The knife is absent and the skull is free of blood. My body aches, duller than before but enough to remind me of the pain I had suffered on my previous visits.

  I sit down in the dirt beside the skeleton hoping for another message. I am in control, I choose where I go and what I do. I have never had a dream like this.

  This time I want to stay.

  I walk through my subconscious and dig through memories long since buried. The skull bears no messages, no writing in blood. A knife flashing the word ‘truth,’ a skull asking the question ‘why.’ I try to understand the messages. The victim asks why and the knife will lead me to the truth.

  I look at my surroundings and can’t shake the thought that I have been here before. The area is so familiar, the trees and the river recognizable. I know of no way to prove that my reality and my dreams are one in the same.

  Birds chirp overhead and insects fill the breaks with their own music. I sit on the ground, damp to the touch yet leaving me dry. The rushing river and wind in the leaves provide the backing vocals to nature’s orchestra. Peaceful, serene, I revel in a dream that has not left me battered and broken.

  My quiet reflection is shattered as the day turns to night. A full moon high in the sky brightens the world around me. Screams echo through the trees, two men. Their voices are raised, a muffled argument. One voice is filled with hatred and fear, the other with pure, unbridled rage. I close my eyes and focus to locate the source through the dark.

  A branch breaks beside me and I open my eyes. The men are fighting now, a vicious tangle of limbs flailing around on the ground. I see no faces, make out no features—just two silhouettes in a darkened night.

  All of the pain comes rushing back and I can’t move, my mind slips away and I lose consciousness.

  The morning light breaks through the trees when I come to, a mound of disturbed dirt to my right and one of the men standing to my left. Pain distorts my vision and all I see is the blurred shape of a person, tall and well-built. My eyes close against my will and I force myself to keep them open, squinting to see the man in front of me.

  He leans down and runs his fingers through my hair before I black out again.

  —12—

  I awoke with more questions than answers. Mysterious men, a fight that led to the death and burial of one of them and an unknown victor. There was no stopping the onslaught of images and thoughts that ran through my mind
.

  I sat up and eased my way out of bed, my left arm throbbing between my wrist and elbow. I couldn’t move it and it dangled uselessly at my side. The pain reminded me of the only bone I had ever broken, my left ulna at the age of eight.

  Of course. How stupid.

  It had been on the camping trip with my father that I had broken my arm and suffered numerous other injuries. A tumble down a rocky embankment left me remembering nothing of what had happened before the fall to a while after. “Amnesia,” the doctors had told my father. “Common following major trauma. He should regain most of the memories eventually.”

  I never had, and a thought of that accident hadn’t crossed my mind in years. I had been eight years old and in a cast—my only worry was trying to hang out with friends who didn’t know what do with me. I couldn’t swim, play ball or ride a bike. The majority of the summer was spent on the couch watching reruns of cartoons and waiting for my bone to mend.

  The pieces were beginning to turn over, parts of the picture being revealed while the rest sat blank—brown cardboard backings staring back at me, waiting for me to flip them over and piece them together.

  If only there was someone left who could help me. My mother had passed away two years ago after losing her battle with cancer. My father was still alive though only in body. His mind was gone, the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s taking everything from him. Thinking of my father filled me with guilt. It had been more than a year since I’d visited him, and it was only as an afterthought that I thought of him anymore. The man I knew had been gone so long he didn’t even know his wife had died.

  When he had first gone into the nursing home, I had traveled home to Chatham once a week to see him. The visits became less and less frequent as his condition worsened and he began to lose track of my identity. I could be an orderly or a nurse, the cable repairman, a phone technician, a cleaner or a plumber, a priest or a doctor but I was no longer his son to him. He had forgotten me and I, with no excuse other than my own weakness, had forgotten him.