The Boy Must Die Page 4

“Because of his arms.”

  Butch came up beside Billy. Darren Riegert’s arms had been bent back and tied with a piece of rough binder twine.

  “Look where the twine is tied,” said Billy. “Why would you tie up someone just under the elbows?”

  Billy turned his back to Butch. “Hold me, Butch. Grab my wrists and pull them back. Now, look at the way the wrists are crossed on the body. Now press my arms tight, at the elbows.”

  “Jesus.”

  “See? I can push you away, no problem. Elbow you away.”

  “Okay. So why not tie you at the wrists?”

  “Exactly. And look at the wrists.”

  They leaned towards the body. Both wrists were marked with X cuts, dried streams of blood leading down into the palms of the hands. The left wrist lay crisscrossed flat over the right.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “This boy was tied up after he’d been cut. No way you could slice your victim with a knife with his wrists tied close or at the angle these are. The victim could elbow his way free in one shove. And see the twine. It’s not very tightly knotted. I’m surprised it didn’t slide down the kid’s arms. When you bagged the body, was the twine like this? Loose?”

  “I don’t recall thinking the twine looked odd, but you’re right. It was too loose, tied more like a bow on a birthday present than a hog tie.”

  “Look at the right hand. The palm is smudged with blood. But the left palm. . . .”

  “Yes. Only a streak or dribble. From the wrist wound.”

  “This body was bleeding standing up. I’d guess that smudge in the right hand was from holding something bloody.”

  Billy snapped off his gloves, undid the apron, and switched off the overhead table light. He and Butch unfolded a plastic cover and pulled it over the body. Billy stepped back and gazed at the form under the cover before completely removing his paper mask.

  “Ugly things were done, Butch. Could’ve been a game. A ritual.”

  “Sure bugs the hell out of me. Where is this coming from?”

  “And the tampering is post-mortem from the angle of those arms. Rigor mortis had already started in when they were bent back. Which means the time of death and the time when the arms were tied back were at least three to four hours apart. Rigor mortis starts from the head and goes down to the lower limbs. And with the hanging, the angle of suspension would speed up the process. There is more than ritual here, or a show-off killing. The perp may be playing a game with us, trying to trick us or mislead us. Or we have a real psycho on our hands. . . . Necrophilia, maybe? Hawkes will let us know that with the tissue and fluid analysis.”

  “Beats me. So you agree a second pair of eyes was a good idea?”

  “Sure thing. The question is, where do we separate the killing from the game?”

  As they washed their hands at the scrub sinks, Billy recalled a body he’d encountered five years earlier in Vancouver. “A woman hanged in a garage,” he said. “Turned out she’d committed suicide. Her son later confessed. The mother had suffered a nervous breakdown and in desperation hanged herself with an extension cord. The son said he was so embarrassed that he went into the garage, tied the feet, and slashed them — post-mortem — with a razor blade and then slipped on the pillowcase so the police would think his mother had been murdered by a sadist.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I need to see the murder site, Butch.”

  “It’s pretty well bagged by now.”

  “I know. But I’d like to do a walk-around.”

  “Let’s grab a bite at Mac’s on the way. I’ll radio Johnson and have her hold on to Miss Bird.”

  Justin Moore trained his eyes on the changing traffic light, trying to calm himself. He clutched the steering wheel of his mother’s battered Oldsmobile and slowly counted under his breath, aware of a police cruiser idling at the intersection across from him. Five minutes to go. Five minutes from here to Yianni’s store. It was nearly 11:30 in the morning, the time Yianni said to come by. With payment. A bit of luck and Yianni would say, “Kid, you did good, don’t worry, you can pay the rest next time.” The light turned green. Justin watched the cruiser turn north before he stepped on the gas. Don’t be late, he warned himself, as he thrust his hand into his right pants pocket to make sure all the twenties and fifties he’d gathered were still there.

  At five-foot-eleven, with blond hair and blue eyes, Justin Moore looked very much like his late father, a man Justin had both loved deeply and feared. How disappointed his father would have been seeing his only child ruining his life. “You are nineteen, Justin. A college degree ahead of you. All tossed away for a man unworthy to shine your shoes.” Tears welled in Justin’s eyes. “Dad, what am I going to do?” You can never tell with Yianni. You should never have gone to him. What did you think would happen? Sure, you needed the dvd player. You deserved the laptop, the Cross pens. And the Sony thirty-six-inch stereo surround. There was always cash before Dad died. Lots of it. And guys get loans. But you should have stopped to think. Triple interest? You didn’t imagine it could apply to you. And what about the cashmere coats? Justin hated this blaming ritual. This morning, he had only twelve hundred dollars to pay Yianni, money scraped together from his friends at college and the remains of his savings account. Of course, Yianni always demanded cash. He’d laughed when Justin suggested he pay down his debt with a piece of the Moore family silver. “Go to your bank, kid,” Yianni had said. What a joke! Justin knew his bank would refuse. Justin’s father had left behind a failing business, and in the year since his death the remaining Moore collateral, the family home on Baroness and Aunt Marion’s Ashmead Street mansion, what everyone called Satan House, had financed loans to pay back taxes and creditors’ bills. Besides, Yianni could act like a mad dog broken loose from its chain if he sensed someone was trying to cheat him. Remember the car dealer. He had borrowed a thousand only, then been late with payment. One night, the loan shark drove the car dealer to Fort Whoop-Up Park, took out a blowtorch, and burned the man’s shirt off his chest.

  Wiping his mouth, Justin pulled the Olds into a parking space, shut off the engine, and closed his eyes. Only six thousand left. It seemed like a million. He climbed from the car, checked his hair and his jeans in the cracked side mirror, and walked across Dawson towards a brick building with the sign “Mountain Man Sports.” Yianni put up a good front. Paid his taxes. Kept his store clean. When he dealt dope or handed out small loans, it was always off-hours. Justin paused by the door of the store and patted the wad of dollars in his pocket. For good luck. Inside, the clammy, cool air made Justin think of a dungeon. He strolled past the clerk at the counter and went to the white door of Yianni’s office. It swung open slowly with a touch of Justin’s hand. He saw the desk, the ashtray in the shape of a bull’s head, the posters of Greece, the leather couch. Smoke and aftershave filled his nostrils. An exotic mix of cinnamon and lemon and oil.

  Yianni Pappas was lying on the couch, his shirt open. A thin gold chain hung around his right ankle. His left hand sported a long pointed nail on its baby finger. “My personal coke spoon,” Yianni once joked.

  “Justin.”

  Yianni rolled up. He spoke in a liquid voice. His mouth was small; his larger upper lip jutted over the lower in a permanent pout.

  “Coffee?”

  “No thanks, Yianni. I can’t stay.”

  “You look tired, my friend.”

  “Look, Yianni.”

  “Here. Sit down.”

  “Look, I know. . . .”

  “Sssh. Have a Pepsi?”

  Yianni opened a mini-fridge by his desk. The shelves were stacked with cans and bottles of pop.

  “No. Thanks anyway. Look, Yianni.”

  “Justin. You’re in a big hurry. Slow down.”

  “I don’t have all your money, Yianni. I’m sorry.” Justin reached into his pocket and yanked out the wad of bills he’d brought. “It’s all I could pull together, honest. But listen, Yianni. . . .”

  “Just
in, shut the fuck up. You’re upsetting me. Slow down. Have a Coke?”

  “Okay, okay.” Justin pulled in his stomach to settle the burning panic. “A Coke.”

  Yianni reached into the fridge, slid out a Coke, opened it, and handed it to Justin.

  “Justin, please sit down. Drink your Coke.”

  Justin sat and watched Yianni stub out his cigarette and start counting the bills. Yianni lit a fresh cigarette, not breaking his count. Justin studied the ceiling wondering if he’d leave this airless room with a broken arm or a burnt face.

  “Good kid. This is good.”

  Justin sat forward.

  “Drink your Coke. Relax.”

  Justin took a short gulp. The sweet fizzy mouthful caught in his throat, and he began to cough. Stepping over to him, Yianni slapped Justin gently between the shoulders.

  “There, there, kid. Slow down.”

  The cough died. The room seemed to brighten a little.

  “Justin, this is not what I was hoping for, but it’s a start.”

  “You sure?”

  “For a nice clean kid, Justin, you like to spend money, run up bills. I know you. I can help you. You got to trust me. Do you trust me?”

  “Sure. Of course, Yianni.” Justin stood up. “Look, Yianni, the money. I can still. . . .”

  “Sit down. Relax.”

  Justin sat down. Yianni counted the money slowly one more time. After he finished, he wiped his hands with a blue handkerchief lifted from a drawer in his desk. He then stood up.

  “Come out here with me, Justin.”

  “Where?”

  “Relax, Justin. Come out here with me.”

  “This is your storage room?”

  “I put stock in here, yes. Pull on that light chain. I ever show you this?”

  Justin began to sweat. Before him stood a long table with a zinc top. Over it hung a particle board studded with hooks. On each hook was a heavy tool: wire clippers, hacksaw, steel hammer. A blue, brass-nozzled portable blowtorch lay on the surface of the table.

  “You didn’t know I was a handyman, Justin?”

  “No.”

  “You ever use a blowtorch like this one before?”

  “No.”

  “Pick it up, Justin.”

  “Why?”

  “Pick it up. Careful. That’s good. Light, isn’t it? Fits into your palm.”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “It can burn bark off a tree in six seconds. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Put it down gently, Justin. Good kid.”

  “Yianni.” Justin wanted to run. Wanted to be far away, out of this dark oily room.

  “Kid, are you ever jumpy. Let me ask you something.”

  “Yes, Yianni?”

  “You still seeing that girlfriend of yours? You still fucking her? You got to be careful, Justin. You got to play right and play safe with women. You still seeing her?”

  “No. We broke up.”

  “You broke up? I am sorry to hear that. You like to spend money on her? You spent a few dollars on her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. A few.”

  “A bracelet, maybe. Some gold earrings? Am I right?”

  “Yes, Yianni.”

  “Am I right?”

  “Yes, Yianni. You’re right.”

  “I like you, Justin. I’m here to help you. You understand?”

  “Yes, Yianni.”

  “You owe me some money. I’m going to say this only one time. I want you to stick around, don’t go on any holidays, you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Yianni suddenly placed his right arm around Justin’s waist. He held him close, looking into Justin’s eyes. He broke into a soft smile.

  “You’re a good-looking boy, Justin. I’ll tell you what. If you have a little trouble pulling your cash together, and I know six thousand don’t seem much, but it’s the principle of the thing. If you do have trouble, maybe we can work out a different deal. You have to cooperate with me, Justin.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “A little more personal. More one on one. You come here after hours, and we spend some quality time together. Just you and me. Bring your bathing suit. We can go have a swim at my apartment. We got a sauna, too. You like a sauna? Good and hot in there. Makes you feel relaxed, gets you in the mood.”

  “I-I don’t know, Yianni. I never. . . .”

  Yianni released his arm. The odour of his breath and his aftershave hung heavy in the air by Justin’s mouth.

  “Come.”

  Justin followed Yianni into the office, where Yianni sat down at his desk. Watching this short frightening man gather the flattened fifties and twenties into a pile, Justin remembered what one of his college friends had said. “Yianni lives for money, Justin. He gets off on hurting people, too. He’ll push any button he can to get his thrills.” Each time Yianni flicked one of the bills and folded it into a wad, Justin felt his neck tingle.

  “This is the last time you come here without full payment,” Yianni then said, folding the wadded money into a green leather wallet. “You understand? I don’t want a little loan to get in the way of me liking you.”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “Now, kid. You get to the bank. Or to your rich uncle. Or to a rich sugar-momma you can fuck for a loan. Low interest. You get my six thousand and come back here next Saturday. You bring me the cash, full payment, you have a Coke, I count the bills, we celebrate with a joint. Am I right?”

  “Sure. Yes, Yianni.”

  “Am I right?”

  “Yes. You are right.”

  “Until next Saturday.”

  Justin turned and reached for the door handle.

  “Wait a minute, kid.”

  Yianni opened a cupboard and lifted out a small Ziploc bag. In it were clusters of green marijuana flakes. One of Yianni’s dime bags.

  “I don’t do this very often, kid. ’Cept for my preferred clients. You are special, Justin. Here. Take it.”

  “No thanks. It’s okay, Yianni. . . .”

  “Come on, kid. Don’t hurt my feelings. You don’t want a gift from an old friend? It’s on the house. You can’t say I never cut you a deal when you was buying from me. Remember?”

  “Yes, Yianni.”

  “So take it. Give it to your ex-girlfriend. Fuck her and have some fun.” Yianni dropped the bag into Justin’s open hand.

  “Now get your ass out of here.”

  Outside on the street, Justin noticed the sky for the first time that morning. Empty. Clear. “A bit of time,” he whispered. He began to shake and went to pull up his collar as if he were wearing a heavy coat. Think, think. He felt the dime bag in his pocket. It wasn’t more than fifty bucks worth, not even to that kid who hung out at Sheree Lynn’s. He didn’t want to think about the barrier tape, the police cars outside Satan House. Poor Auntie Marion would’ve freaked if she knew everyone called it that. He remembered Cody. Dead in the basement last December. Justin wondered why the police had never questioned him. Thank God. Selling dime bags to the two boys was definitely illegal, but Justin still needed more than a few small dope sales to pay off Yianni. Who could he ask for a real loan? He started to run towards the Oldsmobile. His legs were like rubber. The street gave off waves of heat, and he stopped for a moment. In front of him was Boorman’s Men’s Store. Justin spotted a red silk tie in the display window. “Why not?” he whispered under his breath. And without hesitating, he walked into the panelled showroom of the store with its neat shelves of folded shirts and racks of suits. A well-dressed older man walked up to him.

  “Hi, how much is the red tie in the window?”

  Before the man had time to answer, Justin’s stomach contorted. It was like a signal, a warning. Justin blinked, broke into a sheepish grin. “No, it’s okay,” he blurted. Turning, his neck hot with shame, Justin mustered his courage and strolled out purposefully. Once more in the brazen sun, he froze on the sidewalk, his back to the display window. His stomach cut int
o him again. Oh, yes, his mother had always said he was a spendthrift, a compulsive, just like his father. Oh, yes, he knew he couldn’t resist buying something he liked no matter what the price. This was the very disease, the blind need to spend, that drove him towards a man like Yianni. Justin had always known it. But today was the first time he really felt it, and it was like being hit by a bucket of ice water. “It’s all Yianni’s fault,” Justin said. But he knew that was a lie. At this instant, all he wanted to do was hide. All he felt was an urge to cry. Running blindly off the sidewalk and into the traffic, he dodged a couple of honking cars and sprinted down the streets until he reached the place where he’d parked. Inside, he locked the doors and suddenly broke into huge sobs. “I’m sorry, Dad.” And then he leaned his head against the steering wheel, the horn bleating like a frightened animal.

  Two blocks north of the parking stall where Justin Moore sat with windows closed against the June sun, Billy Yamamoto quickly glanced at his watch. The spindly green hands read 12:29. He and Butch were now driving up Ashmead Street, and Billy was finishing off a Colombian he’d picked up from Mac’s coffeehouse. Through the windshield, he admired the canopy of leafy cottonwoods and the immense vault of the sky. “Glad you’re here?” Butch asked. He waited for Billy to answer, and coughed. “This city,” Butch went on. “I’ve been cruising around for almost forty years. Stays the same, but it changes every time I get a chance to look.” He nudged Billy with his right elbow. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” The city was different: smaller, cleaner than Billy had remembered it from high school days. What a change from the Pacific coast. No bouncing rain day after day. The air here did not cut through your skin and make you feel you were rotting from the inside out. Passing the clapboard houses along Ashmead, Billy pictured the nights years ago when the two of them as teenagers had gone joy riding up and down this street. One night very long ago, they’d driven to a dance at a dilapidated hangar in the city’s old Flying Club, and a couple of rednecks had started pushing Billy around, calling him Chinky and Jap. Butch had stepped in, raising his championship fists to defend his friend.

  Butch had been leaner then, shoulders harder from daily workouts, his face framed by tight cropped red hair, his callused knuckles a reminder he was western Canada’s junior amateur middleweight boxing champ.