Fifth Son. Barbara Fradkin

fifty. No obvious marks or tattoos, no signs of illness or infirmity. Not someone you’d bring home to meet the wife, mind you. Stinks to high heaven, likely hasn’t bathed or changed his clothes in over a month. Greasy hair, teeth full of debris. His clothes weren’t his—the jacket’s much too big and the trousers were held up with rope. He’d put layers of newspaper under his shirt to keep himself warm.”

      “A vagrant?” Green scanned the village thoughtfully. “Weird place for a vagrant.”

      “Well, that’s the curious thing about our lad,” MacPhail countered. His eyes twinkled and Green knew he was enjoying the tease. “He’d obviously hit a rough patch recently, but his physical health was good, and he was well nourished and cared for. There are no obvious indications of drug or alcohol abuse, and his teeth have enjoyed the care of an excellent dentist. This is not a street person, laddies. This is a respectable citizen whose luck just changed.”

      MacPhail’s chuckle lingered in the air long after he’d tossed them a wink and strode off to ready his van.

      Sullivan gestured to the notes he’d been taking. “If he’s a respectable citizen, then someone, somewhere, will be looking for him. I’ll run this description through missing persons to see if we’ve had a recent report that fits.”

      “Not too recent. Remember he hasn’t washed in over a month. Start with reports from August and early September.” Green scanned the quiet street. “What would bring a stranger to a village like this?”

      “Maybe he was just passing through, on his way from Ottawa to Toronto, or back.”

      “And got a sudden urge to go into a church and jump off the tower?” Green shook his head. “This village is not on any of the major roads to anywhere. You have to make quite an effort to get here. No...I think he chose this place.”

      “Well, it would make a good place for a marijuana farm. Cops probably pass through here once a year.”

      Green laughed. “But that still doesn’t explain the church. Of all places in town, he chose a goddamn boarded up church. What did it mean to him?”

      “Maybe nothing more than a place to keep warm,” Sullivan replied. “We’ve had heavy frost the last few nights.” Sullivan’s practical mind had an answer for everything except the nagging doubt in Green’s gut. On purely police procedural grounds, it was far too early to rule out the possibility of foul play. The lack of defensive wounds and the apparent randomness of the death said very little on their own without forensic examination of the crime scene and a thorough canvas of the town. Perhaps the man was an utter stranger to the town, perhaps not. Perhaps he had a personal connection to something—or someone—that had drawn him here.

      “Ask the duty inspector if we can get the mobile command post down here and some extra men—”

      Sullivan was drawing a sketch of the square, and he looked up skeptically. “Mobile command post? For this?”

      Green grinned. “Why not? We’ve got an unidentified body, a possible missing person, a crime scene covered in blood, MacPhail, Cunningham... Besides, the big, huge, shiny truck ought to impress the hell out of the locals. And while you’re getting it ordered up, I’ll just wander over to talk to the man who found the body.”

      Before Sullivan could mount an objection, Green headed across the square to St. James’ Church, the elegant red brick structure with an ornate silver spire. The minister of St. James had been making a routine check of the boarded up church when he discovered the body. If he had responsibility for keeping an eye on the place, perhaps he knew something about its history as well.

      Green found Reverend Bolton in the rear of his church, ostensibly bent over his paperwork but actually keeping a keen eye on the drama through the leaded panes of his office window. The stubby man, who still looked a tinge green from his ordeal, blotted his glistening bald spot with a sodden handkerchief and blinked rapidly as he listened to Green’s request.

      “Oh, Ashford Methodist Church has been closed for over fifteen years now. When Reverend Taylor retired, you see... It was a small congregation of mainly old timers, and when he left, most of them came over here to St. James.” He watched the Ident team doing a slow sweep of the tall weeds. “It’s a lovely old building, really. We’ve tried to do various things with it over the years. Community suppers, day cares, even school plays, but the last while... Well, the stone interior just became too expensive to heat. So it’s been up for sale, probably will be bought by some upscale couple from Ottawa.”

      “How many entrances are there?”

      “Just the two. That front door and a small one out the back. Both are kept locked, of course.”

      “Who has the keys?”

      “I have a set, which I gave to the police when they arrived. And of course, there’s a lock box from the real estate company on the door at the rear.”

      “Would any of the former congregants still have keys?”

      “After all this time? I shouldn’t think so, but I can’t be sure. Reverend Taylor was rather...” Bolton paused as if searching for tact. “Generous about such things, so it’s possible. But you should ask him.”

      Green’s eyebrows shot up. “Is he still alive?”

      A ghost of a smile slipped across Reverend Bolton’s lips. “Last I heard he was still preaching up a storm in Riverview Seniors’ Home outside Kars.”

      Green jotted down the address, then paused thoughtfully. “Do you have any idea who the dead man was?”

      “None at all. It’s hard to tell, of course, but I don’t think he’s from around here, at least in my tenure. However, if you want someone who knows just about everyone who ever lived here, Reverend Taylor is your man. But—” Again that ghost of a smile. “If you’re planning on going up to Kars to speak to him, you’d better have the afternoon to spare.”

      Three

      Unlike Ashford Landing, which had so far managed to evade the spreading tentacles of modern Ottawa, the village of Kars had been overtaken by well-to-do urbanites seeking the privilege of green space and tranquillity at the end of a long day. Reverend Taylor’s nursing home predated this gentrification, however, and squatted unadorned beneath scraggly, overgrown cedars at the edge of the highway. A few greying Muskoka chairs sat on the front veranda, but in the chill of October, none were occupied.

      The two detectives found Reginald Taylor holding court in what the nurse euphemistically called the games room. The air was hot, stale and smelled faintly of urine. Most of the occupants lined the walls in wheelchairs and turned blank, disinterested stares towards the door when the two walked in. Four men were grouped around a table near the window, playing cards.

      “Reggie,” the nurse chirped. “You have visitors.”

      Four faces swivelled towards the door, eager for the diversion, but Green had no trouble distinguishing the object of their quest. Reverend Taylor was a bony, shrunken bird of a man with liver-spotted skin and a tangle of white eyebrows. He was impeccably dressed in black with a white clerical collar, and his pale blue eyes danced as if amused by some private joke.

      The merriment died as soon as Sullivan explained to him the reason for their visit.

      “A body? In my church? Great Jiminy Cricket!”

      “Not inside, Reverend. Outside. It appears he may have jumped.”

      “Oh dear, oh dear. I always tried to make it a sanctuary. There is so much pain and hardship in the world as it is, don’t you think, Sergeant? Sullivan, is it? Catholic, I suppose. No matter, my son. We’re all God’s children, and the divisions we make are not the Lord’s. Suffer the children and all that... One of my flock, you say?”

      “Reverend, we don’t know if it was one of your flock,” Sullivan began. “That’s—”

      “No matter, they were all my flock.