“How did you know Wombat was a victim until I told you?”
“You think you told me?” Lasalle said. “Get real. Believe it or not, I don’t rely on cops for my information. I’ve known Wombat was dead pretty much from the moment he was gone.”
“Like I say, how would you know that?”
“His bike. His hog is still right where he left it last time I saw him.”
“Hardly conclusive evidence of murder, Mr. Lasalle.”
“We’re talking about a bike that’s worth forty thousand dollars. Not something you leave unattended for long.”
“Where, exactly, did he leave it unattended?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Cardinal looked at Brackett. “So much for cooperation.”
Brackett whispered in his client’s ear.
Lasalle looked at Cardinal. “It’s not in your jurisdiction, I can tell you that much,” he said. He picked up the photograph again, looked at the headless, handless corpse and shook his head.
“That’s not very helpful,” Cardinal said. “You’re telling me you know where Guthrie was last seen. That his bike is still there. That in all probability he was abducted from this site and then tortured and killed. But you won’t tell us where that is. This must be the biker loyalty we hear so much about. That famous code of honour.”
“He runs the Viking Riders,” Brackett said into his double chin. “Be reasonable.”
“Suppose we call in the OPP or the RCMP to take a look at your clubhouse. How long do you think it would take them to do a really thorough job?”
“It’s got nothing to do with the clubhouse,” Lasalle said. “Give me some credit. Assume I’m not an idiot.”
“At the moment, Mr. Lasalle, all I see is one dead Viking Rider and another one who had a motive to make him that way.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Lasalle said. “None of the Riders did.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because if we had, you’d never have found him.”
Lately, Lise Delorme found herself spending a lot of time thinking about what she would have done had she not become a cop. After finishing her B.A. in Ottawa with a major in economics, she had thought seriously about getting involved in business. But then she had taken a course in business ethics and that had done two things for her: It took the shine right off private enterprise, and it provoked an interest in white-collar crime. It was that interest that led Delorme to the police college at Aylmer and eventually to her six-year stint in Special Investigations, where she dealt not only with internal police matters but also with crimes deemed to be “sensitive”—which is to say crimes committed by sectors of the population that normally consider themselves law-abiding. Bankers, lawyers, politicians and so on.
Working Special had had its moments—arresting a former mayor was a highlight—but it was also a lonely endeavour. Other cops had never quite trusted her. Besides, the people in CID had looked like they were having a lot more fun, and eventually she had asked for a transfer.
Today was one of those days she was regretting that decision. First, she had reread the pathologist’s report on Wombat Guthrie. Histamine tests had confirmed that the horrendous injuries had indeed been inflicted before death. The body had also been virtually drained of blood.
The second reason Delorme felt a pang of nostalgia for white-collar criminals was that she was sitting face to face with Harlan “Haystack” Calhoun, and Harlan “Haystack” Calhoun was a biker through and through. He looked as if he had never seen a white collar, let alone worn one. He was slouched on a plastic chair in the interview room, his snakeskin boots propped on the table.
“Do you not have a lawyer, Mr. Calhoun?”
“I haven’t done nothing. Why would I need a lawyer?”
“If you wish to call the legal aid office, we can put this matter off until you’ve had time to discuss it with counsel.”
“Just ask your questions, and let’s get on with it.”
Delorme pointed out the video camera high in one corner, and the other one off to one side. “We are taping this conversation, and although you are not facing any charges at the moment, I must tell you that anything you say can and will be used against you should any charges be laid at a later time.”
“Big deal.”
The plastic chair emitted a shriek as Calhoun shifted his weight. He sat forward and propped his chin on his two fists.
“When was the last time you saw Walter, also known as Wombat, Guthrie alive?”
“Three weeks ago. Next question.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“The circumstances were I saw him for the last time.”
“Where were you?”
“Clubhouse.”
“The clubhouse off Highway 11? The one where I saw you the other day?”
“How many clubhouses do you think we got?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“Yes, the one where you saw me the other day. Next question.”
“What day was this, exactly? Take your time.”
“It was Tuesday, May 12th, at three o’clock in the afternoon. Is that exact enough for you?”
“What were the two of you doing?”
“Splashing this little biker freak.”
“Splashing?”
“He was doing her one end, and I was doing the other. If you want, we can set up a demonstration.”
“What was her name?”
“Ginger Ale.”
“What was her real name?”
“That’s what was on her ID. She carried it around to prove she was old enough to drink. If that ain’t her real name—guess what?—I don’t care. Wombat called her Ginger.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Fucked if I know. Try Who’s Ho.”
“And what day was this?”
“Tuesday, May 13th, at 3 p.m.”
“You just changed the date. That’s not usually an indication of sincerity, Mr. Calhoun.”
“May 12th, then. People don’t call the Viking Riders when they want sincerity.”
“We want to find out who killed Wombat Guthrie. Are you saying you don’t care? You just told me he was your sex partner.”
Calhoun made a slight movement of the head, and his right eyebrow lifted a little. Although there were several feet between them, Delorme suddenly had the sense that he was sniffing her.
“You’re not answering.”
“How’d you get that cut over your eye?” Calhoun said. “Looks recent.”
“The person who killed Wombat first cut his fingers and toes and genitals off and tried to skin him alive. Do you really have no interest in catching this person?”
Calhoun leaned forward. Leather wept; plastic cried. “I’ll tell you what I’d be interested in. I’d be interested in bending you over and fucking you up the ass a few times.”
He leaned back and smiled.
“Someone said exactly the same thing to me just the other day,” Delorme said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“It was at the Penetang hospital for the criminally insane.”
Delorme snapped her notebook shut.
“Note for the record that Mr. Calhoun is not cooperating with the investigation. This interview is over, subject to resumption at a later date. Good day, Mr. Calhoun.”
“That Cardinal prick around?”
“Good day, Mr. Calhoun.”
Delorme was holding the door open.
Calhoun got up. Delorme felt like honey, seeing the bear approach. She stepped back at the last moment, so that he couldn’t brush against her.
Now that he was out in the CID area, Calhoun shouted. “You tell Cardinal I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”
A couple of heads popped up over acoustic dividers: Szelagy, McLeod.
“Are you threatening a police officer, Mr. Calhoun?”
Calhoun winked at her.