Chapter 3

By the time they arrived at Orchard Park, it was getting dark, and just as the blue Mazda crossed over the railroad tracks, they saw a police car that was sitting perpendicular to the dirt road blocking their path. As soon as the Mazda was facing the back of the police car, a muscular policeman got out of the car and approached the Mazda. Mark turned off the engine once he saw him coming. The policeman was dressed all in black and had three yellow letters on his front and back that showed O.P.P. (Ontario Provincial Police). The police car was black and white and also had an O.P.P. written on both sides of the car. Mark had always hated the new look of the Ontario cruisers and thought the policeman looked like they were driving zebras on wheels than police cars. It was mostly Toronto now that still had the standard red, blue, and white colours.

            Mark put down his window as the police over leaned into the car and said to Mark in a stern deep voice,

            "I'm sorry sir, but you're going to have to turn around."

            "But officer, our cottage is down that road," explained Mark.

            "Well then if you please follow me, I will lead you to it."

            "Would it be alright if I sat with you in your car?"

            "Sir, we do not allow non-police-officials to enter our vehicles."

            Mark reached into the glove compartment, took out a small white business card, and handed it to the police officer. The police officer took it from Mark's hand and glanced at it.

            "I used to be a detective, officer. If you don't believe me, I have my licence to prove it."

            "That won't be necessary," stated the police officer, as he handed the card back to Mark. "We could use you here. Does the lady know how to drive?"

            Alice was insulted, but Mark soon set the police officer straight.

            "The lady does know how to drive and would be preferred to be addressed as Alice, for that is her name you see."

            "Oh I'm so sorry," said the police officer. "How do you do Alice?"

            "I am very well, how are you?" asked Alice cheerfully, but then soon realised she had asked a stupid question.

            "Not so well, I’m afraid. Name's Ben Tide, by the way."

            Ben outstretched his hand and Alice and Mark both shook it.

            "Mark Flinn."

            "You mean Detective Mark Flinn," corrected Ben.

            "Ex-detective." 

            "Well here, you'll be addressed as Detective Mark Flinn. Now if you would come with me, detective."

            Mark grinned as he opened the driver door, it had been a while since he had been addressed as "Detective".

            Once Mark was outside, standing in the chilly air, Ben turned to Alice and said,

            "Just follow me Alice until you see your cottage, I'm taking Detective Flinn to the crime scene."

            "Our cottage is right beside the Rhinert's," said Alice.

            "Oh, well then you'll be seeing it too. Has your son ever seen a dead body?"

            "A dead body!" cried Richard. "Wow something interesting has hit this dull place."

            "No," said Alice, ignoring Richard. "Except for television and movies, which I haven't been able to control."            

            "Well they look a bit different face-to-face in real life. Luckily for you, she's hidden out of sight, so your son won't ruin that reputation."

            "Damn," muttered Richard.

            "Thank you officer," said Alice.

            "Call me Ben."

            Then Ben tipped his police hat and headed into his car.

            "You know, the funny thing is, is that I came to cottage country to avoid the crime, but it seemed it somehow followed me," said Mark, once they were in the car and driving along the dirt road.

            "Unfortunate I know," said Ben. "Wish it was still nice and peaceful here, sadly conflict is everywhere in this world. Conflict turns to anger, anger turns to hate, and then before you know it boom! Someone's dead. Well you would know all about it."

            "Sure do, what's the story this time?"

            "Have no idea. Woman by the name of Patricia Mabel was renting the Rhinert's second cottage and heard screaming coming from the cottage next door. Next thing you know, we show up and find Mrs. Rhinert lying in the ditch in front of the park covered in blood and not breathing."

            "Messy, and that park's just across from all of us. She didn't go very far before she died."

            "Well we don't know about that, but we do know that she was shot in the chest with a twenty-two caliber pistol. That's all I know. Detective Malcolm knows more but he doesn't like to spread too much information with us regular cops."

            "Oh well, all you guys really need to know is how they died and why they died."

            "Pretty much."

            "You created us detectives so we could deal with the messy business and come up with a conclusion."

            "Guess that could be one reason. Anyway, we're here," said Ben as he stopped the car.

            Mark got out and it seemed that he had never left the detective business. Crime scene taped was around the pole of a basketball net and around a telephone pole so it hovered overtop the ditch, there were police cars flashing their lights all over the road, and police officers crowded everywhere. Just utter chaos. 

            Mark watched the red and blue lights bounce off the trees and the grass until he saw Ben bring with him an older looking man with curly white hair and a small beard. He was wearing a brown suit with black shoes and a black tie, and white shirt, and looked highly professional. It made Mark feel like some teenager, standing in his red sweater and blue jeans.

            "This here is Detective Francis Malcolm," said Ben.

            Francis looked down at Mark as if he was a child. He was about an inch taller than Mark and Mark was 6 feet tall. He was now standing in front of him and it seemed that Mark's presence hadn't impressed him. When it came to muscle, Mark would say he was a bit muscular than him and Mark was pretty strong given the fact that you had to be, if you had to stop criminals. But Mark's legs were stronger than his arms, since you didn't want to be outrun when chasing one; you wanted them to get tired first.

            "Detective," addressed Francis, in a rough voice, as he stuck out his hand towards Mark.

            "Detective," addressed Mark, as he shook it.

            "No offence Detective, but I thought only one detective was working this case. And usually the detectives I've seen dress more professionally than sweaters and jeans."

            Mark wanted to hit him, even if he was much older than him, but knew that Ben could probably knock him out in one punch.

            "Detective Flinn has a cottage up in Orchard Park and was coming up to spend some time with his family."

            "I see," said Francis, as he took out a cigarette from his suit jacket pocket and lit it with a small yellow lighter.

            Mark hated smokers and had never been one himself. The smell of the tobacco once it touched the flame was revolting to him and the fact that he could die of second-hand smoke didn't help either. He also hated how everyone always blew the smoke into the air as if they were so much higher-class than everyone else. Mark was tempted to reach for that cigarette and stomp it out on the ground as Francis blew the grey smoke to the ride side of him.

            "But you will consider changing won't you?" asked Francis, gesturing his cigarette towards Mark, as he put away his lighter.

            "I'm sorry," replied Mark, "I left my smoke-free suits at home."

            Francis frowned at Mark.

            "Now if you don't mind, would you care to show me the body you found?"

            Francis led Mark to a black body bag that was now lying on the lawn of the Rhinert's cottage. Mark looked at the bag on the ground and then back to Francis.

            "Don't you think it would be considerate to the public to not have the deceased lying on the lawn for everyone to see?"

            Francis blew some grey smoke in the air in frustration.

            "I decided not to take the body to the crime lab, but have the coroner come here."

            "But even then you could have her lying in the truck of the coroner."

            "He left two hours ago. The body is here just in case I had a need to look it over before it got taken away in the morning."

            Mark realised that there was no point in arguing with this man. Obviously in Toronto the police were more cautious or maybe Francis didn't care about where the body was being placed. But he had least hoped that Francis would've had the body on a stretcher so Mark didn't have to lean down on the wet grass and open up the bag.

He had a feeling that when Francis had access to the body, it had been on one but for some reason it was now on the wet grass.

            As Mark kneeled on his right leg and opened up the bag, he was hit hard with the smell of cigarette smoke and a rotting corpse. He quickly backed away from the body as he coughed loudly.

            "Jesus, talk about a wakeup call," said Mark, in between coughs.

            Francis chuckled as he let out another puff of grey smoke.

            Mark had a feeling he might know why this body reeked of cigarettes. He was really getting sick of this detective. Francis had placed the body on the grass and now had contaminated it with his damn cigarettes.

            Mark stood up and faced the older man, and stared into his dark brown eyes.

            "You weren't smoking when you examined the victim, were you?"

            Francis looked at him very annoyed as he let out a long exasperated sigh of grey smoke into the air. He was standing pretty far away from the body, when Mark had opened up the bag, but Mark needed to be sure how professional this man really was.

            "Mr. Flinn, I may be fifty-five, but I haven't completely lost my head yet. I do not contaminate the bodies I look at. That body smelt like that when I was examining it, except the smell wasn't so strong because it hadn't been isolated in that bag for a couple of hours."

            "Alright," said Mark, satisfied.

            "Now, as you can see, you're not really fond of me and I'm not too fond of you. So I understand your accusations. But unfortunately, we are both working to solve this case and I think complete co-operation is needed. So why don't we keep our personal opinions to ourselves and work as partners not enemies."

           

Alright," said Mark again, very glad with that statement. "Can you tell me the time of death?"

            "The coroner said about eleven evening yesterday," replied Francis, as he finally threw his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out.

            "Thank you," said Mark.

            Francis just nodded.

            "So how much work have you got done so far?"

            "I've mostly been waiting for the coroner to get here, but I have talked to the Mabels who are staying in the cottage next door to the Rhinerts who heard screaming come from the Rhinert’s cottage. If you want, I can take you to them."

            Mark nodded in agreement and zipped up the body bag. He then followed Francis to a small yellow cottage that was surrounded by pine trees and apple trees. The cottage had seen better days. Some of the shingles were broken and some of the paint had been chipped off, but it still looked homey. Behind the cottage was a small blue outhouse and Mark had to watch where he was stepping so he didn't trip over the small bluish grey holding tank that had been placed in the clean cut grass. He noticed that flies were beginning to swarm it, so he wondered how much more would this holding tank hold, before the alarm would go off and the sewage truck had to arrive. Most cottages these days didn't have holding tanks anymore and never had need for the "honey-dipper".

            Very close to the holding tank was a clothesline and Mark thought that he wouldn't want to be hanging up clothes so close to the flies and the tank.

            Once the two detectives reached a green screen door, Francis knocked twice, and an elderly woman with long white hair and crystal blue eyes answered the door.

            "Come in detective," said the woman in a sweet voice, as Mark and Francis walked inside.

            Mark realised that the back door lead straight to the kitchen, and it seemed they had come at a bad time because there were dirty dishes stacked all around the counter.

            The woman noticed Mark staring at the mess and said,

            "Oh don't mind those, my husband's supposed to clean them."

            As if on cue, an elderly voice cried,

            "Who's there Trish?"

            "Detective Malcolm and…"

            The woman looked at Mark.

            "Flinn," Mark told the woman.

            "And Detective Flinn!"

            "We have two detectives on this case?" cried the voice.

            "Would you care to come into the sitting room?" asked the woman ignoring the voice.

            Mark and Francis nodded and followed the woman to a space in the cottage that was covered in chairs.

            "Charming man," said Mark, sarcastically to Francis as he followed the woman.

            "He tends to be very lazy," said Francis.

            "How old is he?" asked Mark, quietly.

            "Sixty-five," replied the woman. "Sixty-five, and he acts as if he's above eighty or crippled."

            Mark nodded as he and Francis sat down in two small blue chairs that faced a large red sofa that sat a man with black hair that was going grey in places.

            The woman straightened out her long yellow skirt, sat down, and put her arm around the man.

            "Detective Flinn, meet my lazy husband, John Mabel,” said the woman, introducing John.

            "Trish that's no way of introducing me," said John, insulted.

            "How do you do Mr. Mabel," said Mark, as he stuck out his hand towards John.

            "Please, call me John," he said, as he shook Mark's hand. "Mr. Mabel makes me sound so old. I'm only sixty-five."

            Mark nodded.

            John's hazel eyes scanned over Mark, noticing how he was dressed.

            "No offence Detective Flinn, but you don't look like much of a detective."

            Mark smiled.

            "Please call me Mark. I'm now a road worker, but was a detective, four years ago. I was just coming to spend the summer up at my cottage and am now involved in this case."

            "I once was a road worker," said John, looking proud, "but that was back when I was maybe a bit older than you. Good job, gets your muscles going."

            Then John flexed his right bicep, which looked to be pretty strong. John was wearing a dark green buttoned down short sleeve shirt so already had his arms exposed.

            "Impressive," noted Mark. "I haven't been in the business for quite that long. I gained muscle throughout my detective work and for the three years I've been as a road worker."

            "Keep up the business."

            "I sure will."

            Francis looked pretty bored with the whole road worker talk, so Mark decided to get down to business.

            "Now John, Mr. Malcolm told me that you and your wife heard screaming coming from the Rhinert's place."

            "It's Patricia," said John.

            "Sorry. You and your wife Patricia heard screaming last night."

            "Yes."

            "About what time was that?"

            "About eleven-thirty in the evening," replied Patricia.

            "Really," said Mark, scratching his chin, "because Detective Malcolm told me that the time of death of Mrs. Rhinert was around eleven."

            "Sandra, her name's Sandra," said Patricia.

            "Sorry, Sandra."

            Mark felt that the Mabels were teaching him how to speak.

            "So, what I can't get my head around is why would you hear screaming when Sandra was already dead? As far as I know, the dead don't scream."

            Mark then turned towards Francis.

            "Detective Malcolm, is it possible that two people were killed last night?"

            "It's possible," replied Francis.

            "Have you searched the Rhinert's place?"

            Francis shook his head.

            "Not yet, I was planning to, before you arrived."

            "Well why don't you check to see if there's another body lying around or if you can find any evidence of any sort that'll help with this case."

            "Aren't you coming?" asked Francis, as he stood up.

            Mark shook his head.

            "No, I'm going to see if I can gather any more information from the Mabels. Meet me back here when you're done."

            "Very well," said Francis, as he popped another cigarette into his mouth.

He didn't like being bossed around by someone younger than him but wasn't going to argue.

"I'll see myself out," said Francis, as he walked towards the back door.

Once the door slammed shut behind him, Mark sighed.

"Thank God, I hate that man."

"So do we," said John for him and his wife. "I'm sixty-five and I don't treat people like s**t."

Mark nodded.

"He had the body bag on the ground."

"Not when we were there," said Patricia. "He was examining it on top of a stretcher."

"I thought so," said Mark.

"Why'd he leave it on the ground, to piss you off?" asked John.

"It seems that's way."

"And he's always smoking and I've always hated cigarettes."

"He lit up one just as I was talking to him outside."

"Awful man."

"Did the body reek of cigarette smoke when you and Patricia found it?"

John nodded, knowing what Mark was getting at.

"Yeah, I thought that too, but it seems unlikely. Patricia called the police once she heard the screaming and then the police later showed up telling us that they found Sandra lying in a ditch and pronounced dead."

"Do you think two people were killed last night?" asked Patricia.

"No, I don't think so. I was just trying to get rid of Francis," said Mark.

"Francis?" asked John and Patricia together.

"That's Detective Malcolm's first name."

"He never told us," stated John.

"Not surprised, he doesn't seem to want to get well aquatinted with anyone."

"Where's you cottage?" asked Patricia, changing the subject

"A couple of cottages down from yours," replied Mark.

"So then you must've known the Rhinert's."

"I knew of them."

"Wait, do you have a son?" asked John.

Mark nodded.

"I think I saw you two drive down the road a couple of times last year."

"Wouldn't be surprised. There's only one way to get out of here; the road ends on the other side and then you're driving through trees."

John nodded.

"Why do you think we heard screams, after Sandra was pronounced dead?"

"I'm trying to figure that out," said Mark, scratching his chin again. "Where's Mr. Rhinert by any chance?"

"Out on a business trip in Toronto. He comes back tomorrow."

"Do you think he killed Sandra?" asked Patricia.

"I can't begin to make accusations so early into this case, but it's a possibility," Mark mentioned.

"Maybe he’s the one that screamed and never left," said John, trying to give Mark ideas.

"That wouldn't make sense," stated Patricia, "that was a pretty frightening scream, besides we watched him go."

"He could have come back," stated her husband.

"I don’t think so."

Mark noticed that Patricia was very strong and firm with her words, unlike her husband who seemed to be always speaking his mind and had a much rougher voice. To Mark, it seemed that Patricia seemed to be more in charge than John was, which he found ironic given the fact that John was older.

"How long are you up here?" asked John.

"Until the end of July," replied Mark.

"Maybe when this is all over, my wife and I could take your family out to dinner."

"That's very kind of you," said Mark, looking at Patricia to see if that was all right.

Patricia nodded.

"But I haven't solved the case yet, so don’t make reservations."

John chuckled.

"Alright."