Free Crime Machine by Giles Blunt Page B

lungfuls of cold air—even Toronto’s atmosphere could be refreshing after the morgue—and headed around the corner to the Forensic Centre.
    “I don’t have anything for you.” This from Cornelius Venn, a bony little stork of a man who always spoke in a strange sub-glottal whine, as if there were a small bottle lodged in his throat. “If I did have anything for you, I would have called. That would have been the proper protocol.”
    What was it with Venn? He always came on as if you had committed against him some well-known outrage, unaddressed by the proper authorities. Delorme made an effort at Buddhist serenity—otherwise she might have smacked him. “Could you just tell us what you have so far?”
    “All I can say is that the heads were severed by a weighted blade. An axe or an axe-like object.”
    Cardinal laughed. Venn beamed a level-four scowl at him.
    “You must be able to tell more than that,” Delorme said. “You have photographs of the wounds. What do you see under the microscope?”
    “Detective, are you aware of
Crown versus Toft
in New Brunswick?”
    “No, Mr. Venn, I am not up to date on New Brunswick case law.”
    “You should be. Rudiger Toft was convicted of stabbing a man to death five years ago, largely on toolmarks evidence. The superior court overturned the conviction, because the so-called expert had testified that the wound in question had been caused by a certain knife—i.e., a particular knife
to the exclusion of all others
, as the law books have it. Which was far beyond his actual expertise. And if you think I’m going to join him in the thin-ice club, you are grossly mistaken.”
    “I’m not asking you to swear to anything. I’m just asking for what you’ve got.”
    “I won’t have anything useful until you have an actual weapon for me to compare with the wounds. I can tell you that both decapitations were performed using the same blade. And it was obviously not the knife in the male victim’s back.”
    “There you go, Cornelius. See, you do have something after all. Don’t sell yourself so short. And you know this how?”
    “There are crush marks in the damaged tissue, which you’d only get with the weight of an axe or something similar. Striations in the neck cartilage are identical in both cases, but totally dissimilar to test markings with the knife.”
    “And what about that knife?”
    “It’s a Bark River Upland hunting knife. Barely used, I’d say. Fixed blade, not folding, in the so-called skinner style.”
    “So the sort of thing a trapper would use?”
    “Let’s not go leaping to conclusions. Yes, it is designed to field dress and skin large game. But point two, it’s also expensive, and point three, it’s a popular item with survivalists. Most trappers these days would be more likely to go for the newer drop-point style of blade.”
    “So it might be the choice of an older man?”
    “Leap, leap, leap, Detective. I’ll just stay on solid ground, if you don’t mind.”
    “Detective Cardinal, did you have any questions for Mr. Venn?”
    “No, indeed.”
    “Okay. Well, I guess I have just one last one.”
    “Really,” Venn said. “How pleasant.”
    “Have you ever considered taking antidepressants? Zoloft? Prozac? Might make your life a lot easier.”
    “Perhaps you’re unaware, Detective Delorme, that the SSRIs have the known side effect of interfering with sexual function.”
    Delorme had to leave before he said any more. She checked her watch and said something about making their plane.
    “Good to be out of there,” Cardinal said when they were out on the street again. “That was terrifying.”
    “Yeah. Weighted blades and all.”
    “No, no. The thought that Cornelius Venn has a sex life.”

8
    S AM DOUCETTE HAD SPENT THE entire weekend shuttered in her room, only coming out for meals. From the first moment she had heard that word,
beheaded
, she had barely been able to move. She told her mother she had a big art project due for