Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

I assume you’re treating this as a murder?”

      “It’s suspected foul play at this point,” Marshall said. “But I think that’s kind of academic in this case.”

      “Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

      “I’m afraid not.”

      “You think it could have been some crazed fan?”

      “We really don’t know. That’s why we’re trying to talk to as many people as we can, as soon as we can. We want to catch this guy as quickly as possible.”

      Cormier nodded and looked down at his BlackBerry.

      “That’s Quinn. He’s back with Mrs. Ritchie. If there’s nothing else, you can go over to his office.”

      “That would be great, thanks.”

      “If there’s anything I can do to assist in the investigation — and I mean anything — I want you to let me know. Here’s my card.” He handed them each a business card. “You can call me anytime, day or night. I’ll tell media relations to give you direct access, given the circumstances.”

      “We appreciate that,” Marshall said as an assistant appeared at the door to escort them to the GM’s office, just down the hall.

      They rounded a corner and spotted McAdam standing at the door of his office, talking to a young woman seated at a desk outside. As they approached, he extended a massive hand toward Marshall.

      “You’re with the Ottawa Police?”

      “David Marshall and Jack Smith,” Marshall said, and they all shook hands. Smith noticed McAdam’s grip was strong and cool.

      “Come on in, have a seat.”

      McAdam arranged his large frame into a chair as the two investigators sat opposite. They had both seen plenty of him in the papers since he had come up from Florida last spring, but he was much more impressive in person. He had been a defenceman back in his playing days, with a reputation for hard hitting and the ability to drop the gloves with the best of them. Looking at him across the desk, Smith could imagine him being an imposing figure at the blue line. He noticed the scarring around the right eye and remembered hearing that McAdam’s career had been cut short by an injury in his early thirties, but not before he had won a Stanley Cup with Boston.

      “Thanks for seeing us. I know this has got to be a tough day,” Marshall opened with his now-familiar refrain.

      “I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, gentlemen.” McAdam sighed and leaned forward in his chair. “Before we get started, can I ask if you have any leads?”

      “We’re still in the information gathering stage, but there are a few things that we need to follow up on, and I’m sure there will be more.”

      “You probably can’t discuss it anyway. Ongoing investigation, that sort of thing. It’s gotta be a murder investigation though, right? I just met with Mrs. Ritchie and she saw the body. I mean, Jesus….”

      “We were at the scene when he was pulled from the canal,” Marshall said.

      McAdam shook his head. “It’s just such a … shock, and such a goddamn waste.”

      “Maybe if we can ask you some questions about Curtis and his relationship with the team we can get to work, and let you get on with yours,” Smith offered.

      McAdam nodded. “Of course.”

      “How well did you know Curtis?”

      “I can’t say I knew him all that well, personally. In my position, you have to look at the player first, and the person second. Personality’s important, don’t get me wrong, but you can be the nicest guy in the world, and that’s not gonna get you noticed in this league.”

      “So when did you become familiar with Curtis, the player?”

      McAdam paused. “I started hearing about him a couple of years back, when he first broke into the OHL. I was down in Florida at the time, but all the teams have their scouts out there. It was well-known that he was someone to watch for — someone special.”

      “And you were instrumental in bringing him here?”

      The GM gave him a bleak grin. “I can’t really blame you for wanting my head on a platter, as a fan.”

      “I guess his death leaves you with a bit of a gap to fill.”

      “That’s the understatement of the year. And that’s what’s so damn ironic,” he continued. “A kid like that, you can see him going to L.A. or the Big Apple and getting himself into trouble, in over his head with a lot of money and the wrong people around him. Maybe he gets into drugs, or even it’s just random crime — that’s the reality of big city life in the States. But here? I would have thought Ottawa was the safest place he could possibly be. And then this happens. I still find it unbelievable.”

      “You mentioned the money,” Smith interjected. “What happens now, with his death? I assume the team doesn’t have to pay out the full contract.”

      “No, there’s a one-time benefit of … I assume we’re talking confidentially here, right? I can’t have any of this getting into the press. Mrs. Ritchie’s got enough on her mind.”

      “The press isn’t going to hear it from us.”

      McAdam leaned forward in his chair. “Curtis named his mother as the beneficiary, so she’s entitled to a half a year’s salary. You may want to talk to Curtis’s agent as well. He was working on some endorsement deals. I don’t know if they had gotten to terms yet.”

      “We’re due to speak to him later this afternoon.”

      “And the salary payout,” Smith asked. “Does that come from the team, or an insurer?”

      “That’s a good question. In twenty years of hockey operations, I’ve never been in a situation like this. We’re kind of in uncharted waters.”

      “I guess that’s why you’ve got lawyers.”

      “We’ve got the best,” McAdam said, with a genuine smile. “My daughter, Melissa, did a lot of the legal work on Curtis’s contract. She’ll be following up on the payouts.”

      “We’ll probably want to talk to her as well,” Marshall said.

      “Sure. I can arrange that.”

      Marshall glanced at a picture on the wall behind McAdam, and realized the team in it was arranged around the Stanley Cup.

      McAdam followed his gaze and turned to take in the picture. “What a battle that was, and what a great bunch of guys. It was a real team effort — something I’ll never forget.”

      Marshall nodded. “How about Curtis? How did he fit in with the guys here? Did the other players get along with him, and vice versa?”

      “Yeah, sure. Like any rookie, it takes a while to integrate yourself into a team, and it’s even harder when you come with the kind of hype he generated. But Curtis was doing a great job. He’s a … he was a likeable young man.”

      “The other players didn’t resent his instant star status, or the trades it took to get him here?”

      “There’s always a period of adjustment. Some of the guys I traded were here for a long time. You have to understand, these guys go to war out there every night, and going through something like that forms bonds that go deep — they don’t end just because players move on. But everyone understands hockey’s a business as well as a game. Don’t forget, Curtis had only been through half a training camp, he was still finding his place.”

      “What about off the ice? Did Curtis ever mention any trouble he was having, with other players, or fans, or in general?”

      “Not to me. But our relationship really boiled down to a business one. I didn’t