Chapter 11

Schubert is called to a double murder. A discovery leads him to believe his killer from Blue River is on the move.

Chapter 11


Ten minutes later, Peters pulled up outside Schubert’s house. The “lull in serious crime” Schubert had hoped for was over in less than a week. He settled into the front seat steadying himself as the squad car bumped unevenly over the rutted snow. Aside from the hum of the dashboard heater, they rode in silence. There would be conversation soon enough. Schubert felt despondent, the thought of a quiet evening at home with friends dashed.
A pale glow of light spilled from the window of Stern & Goldman—Assayers, illuminating the filthy snow along the board walk. Corporal Jason Simpson met them at the scene. He was a bear of a man, standing well above six foot six. That and his mutton chops created the (undeserved) air of a no-nonsense cop not to be trifled with.
“Not pretty, sir.” His deep bass voice echoed through the empty street.
“Initial report?” Schubert asked, entering the crime scene, Fauré running rampant in the back of his mind.
“Two dead. One a stabbing, the other shot twice: gut and a headshot,” Simpson replied, opening the door.
“Sounds like an execution,” Peters said, to no-one in particular. He steeled himself, the sight of two more dead bodies a burden to his overcrowded memory of corpses.
It was the same for his boss. No matter how man bodies Schubert had seen, the bile rose and he fought the need to vomit. Blood had neatly pooled around each victim, the intense color and soft, rounded corners a bizarre contrast to the violence of each death. He could never reconcile that barely an hour ago, these were living, breathing men, most likely looking forward to a quiet evening after dinner. Now, both were dead flesh, their existence wiped clean as if they’d never been alive. 
He knelt next to the closest victim. More wasted lives, Schubert thought to himself. And for what purpose, only to end up like this.
“Not just stabbed,” he observed, “but a perfect throw between the hyoid and larynx.” 
“How do you reckon?” Peters tried to hide his skepticism and did a poor job at it. 
“It’s basic vocal anatomy, something I’m well aware of. The knife was thrown—had to be. There’s no indication of an upward thrust, no lacerations. The killer wouldn’t use a downward motion. The victim’s face would get in the way.” Schubert checked the dead man’s clothing. “No defensive slashes to the arms. Believe me, no one is going to stand still when a knife is involved.” 
“Any identification on our first victim?” Schubert asked Simpson.
Simpson passed over a wallet. 
“Only his CO identification card. Name of Siegfried Janzen.”
“Odd name for a Mennonite,” Schubert said, mostly to himself. 
“What’s so peculiar about the name ‘Siegfried’?” Peters asked.
“Not familiar with your history of non-violence, Peters? Siegfried; Richard Wagner; the Ring Trilogy; Norse mythology—more blood and violence than we’ll see in a lifetime. It’s not something a pacifist would name her child.” 
Dammit! Schubert cursed the stupidity of his words. Peters had seen his fare share of blood and violence in the trenches of the First World War. 
Simpson led them to the second victim. The crime scene photographers passed them on the way out. 
Schubert knelt beside the second corpse. 
“Who’s this? The proprietor?”
Simpson handed Schubert a second wallet. 
“Itzhak Stern, one of the owners.”
Stern had a neat hole in his skull and a single rivulet of blood had dried on his eyelash. His gut was soaked in blood. Stern’s eyes had yet to turn dull–he seemed to be staring into the distance, ignoring Schubert. He closed the man’s eyes. 
“Anything missing from the safe?”
“Most likely cash,” Simpson replied. “We won’t know for sure until the ledger is found and cross referenced with the contents of the safe.”
“OK gentlemen—initial thoughts?”
“Someone targeting Jews?” Simpson said to no one in particular. 
“Perhaps,” Peters added. “We’ve got anti-Semites in Whitehorse, but Janzen doesn’t fit. The killer is skilled with a knife, but the gut shot,” he hesitated. “That was meant to inflict pain, nothing else. The killer wanted him to suffer.”
“Agreed,” Schubert replied. He thought about Dickinson in Blue River. “All the more interesting that Stern received a coup de grace. Significant of what, I’m not yet sure. Why not let him bleed out? I mean, that’s why you shoot someone in the gut.” 
Simpson said: “I think you can rule out mercy. The killer probably didn’t want Stern to talk.”
Schubert didn’t like what the conclusion he was slowly arriving at: had Wraith arrived?
“Did anyone nearby report hearing gunshots?” he asked.
“Initial canvas suggests no one heard anything,” Simpson answered.
Schubert cursed. “These damn frontier towns. People hear gunshots all the time.”
“Or he used a suppressor,” Peters offered, “although that seems unlikely. You can’t buy one of those on the street. The Yanks would have a machine shop, though.”
Schubert felt his gut tighten. If an American were involved, the paperwork would bury him for weeks.
“Hopefully, we can rule them out but God knows there are a lot of guns at their camp. Whoever he is, access to that kind of hardware isn’t easy to come by, even for law enforcement.”
“It is one working theory, sir,” Peters said.
Schubert was nearly out the door when Simpson called him back. 
“I found this inside the hem of Stern’s jacket,” he said, walking towards his boss, hand outstretched. 
Schubert knew by the color what it was even before he examined it. But the knowledge brought him no comfort—it served to confirm his earlier suspicion.
Wraith.
“Is Kaiser Wilhelm on one side and a twenty Mark stamp on the opposite?”
Simpson checked. “Right on both accounts, sir.” He passed it over. “How did you know?”
“A similar coin was found in Blue River, in a murdered man’s cabin, hidden in a lock box. Stern has one here. There is no way in hell that this coin could be found in two places and not somehow be related. Peters, inform Blue River. I’m going to get on the shortwave to Vancouver. Also, get a hold of Veteran’s Affairs once more. Ask them if any vets have relocated here.” Schubert made for the front door. “And while you’re at it, go to the CO camp tomorrow and gather information on Janzen. What’s his connection to the killer?” He stopped, under the lintel. “My money says Wraith has moved on to Whitehorse, he’s here. I want to know who he is, who he is meeting and why.”
Schubert left the assayer’s office and stood in the cold night air, trying to clear his lungs of the iron stench of blood. Fauré’s tune, reminiscent of stumbling, drunken bumble bees in summer vied for his attention, attempting to push away the night’s death, but those images held fast. Death, it seemed for now, would remain his companion.

A few hours later, Schubert was home. Geneviève and James had both gone to bed. The fire burned warmly in the stove. Once in his room, he stripped from his clothes. He had a closer look at his trousers—there were blood stains on the knees. He threw them in the corner, disgusted. His head was pounding, so he washed down a couple of Aspirin with some whisky. Would sleep come or would he be haunted by the woman in his dreams? He thought of Geneviève down the hall and something akin to desire began to stir. He felt ashamed by it. He closed his eyes and wished for oblivion.

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