I stared down. Brightman was encased in a body bag, a heavy green vinyl bag like a suit bag. As Katadotis began to work back the zipper, I felt slightly sick. I looked away. The zipper stuck. With a grunt, Katadotis gave it a yank. I forced my eyes back. But he must have worked the zipper the wrong way, or possibly the body had been put in upside down; in any case, my first view of Harry Brightman in person consisted of his ankles and feet: stiff, splayed out, the toes separated and curved like claws.
"Jesus Christ," Katadotis muttered, and zipped him back up. But somehow the absurdity of all this relieved my feelings and I relaxed. Struggling with the zipper, Katadotis tried again, but there seemed to be no choice: he had to reveal the whole body to show me the head.
Skinny: ribs like blue shadows under the skin.
Shriveled: an intricate patina of wrinkles where the neck merged with the chest.
A smaller man than I'd expected…
Harry Brightman, taken by May Brightman with her own Brownie, Georgian Bay, Aug. 1, 1949.
I tried to summon up that photograph, like a ghost, to see how it fitted this late corporeal home, but in thirty years Brightman had changed. The hair, though, was more or less right, still thick, an indeterminate brownish-gray color. As for the rest of his face… there was scarcely anything there. For one ghastly instant, I was back in that woods, looking down at my father. But then that passed. No, this mess had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with anyone now.
Steadying my voice, I said, "He must have held the gun away from his face."
Katadotis, surprised at this professional observation, gave me a look. "That's it. We figure five, six inches at least. They do it like that if they want to wipe themselves right off the face of the earth."
Was that what my father had wanted? Another moot question: as unanswerable here as it was in front of his grave. I nodded. "All right, Lieutenant."
Katadotis took up his clipboard. Holding it a little away from himself, he intoned, "Do you, Robert Thorne, to the best of your knowledge and belief, identify the human remains you now see before you as those of Harold Charles Brightman?"
"I do." My voice sounded ridiculously solemn, but Katadotis nodded happily and filled in his form. "If you could just sign here, Mr. Thorne…"
I scrawled.
"Great. That's it."
Eyes front, we made our way out. We rode the elevator in silence, though Katadotis gave me one shifty look, as if mildly embarrassed — perhaps he was wondering if I'd noticed that he'd neglected to zip Brightman back up. But my own performance, I decided, didn't give me the right to criticize others, and when the elevator jerked to a stop, I made straight for the open air. Fussing with his coat, Katadotis said, "Better she didn't have to go through that, Mr. Thorne."
"Yes."
"Anyway, you wait here a minute and I'll get a car. Then we'll head out to the pound."
He walked away. Turning my back to the wind, I got a cigarette going. So that was the end of Harry Brightman. There was nothing anyone could do to him — or that I could do for him. And perhaps it was all for the best. I looked at my watch. Getting on toward three. I probably wouldn't get away until four, and I guessed that Toronto was a good three hours away. So say seven-thirty. Not that it made any difference — I'd have to spend the night at May's anyway — but if she was feeling all right, I'd go home tomorrow. Yes. Go home, then come back for the funeral — expensive, but I'd prefer it. Get this out of my mind, get back to work… But then I swore under my breath. The trouble was, I didn't want to get back to work, I wanted to find out what had happened to Harry Brightman. Fact: someone had broken into my house and gone through my mail. Fact: someone had broken into Brightman's the night I'd been there. Fact: that same person, a Russian, had pointed a gun at me last night in Halifax. All of this had to mean something. But that meaning, whatever it was, kept running up against the last fact: Brightman had killed himself. I'd pushed Katadotis and an earlier detective — the one who'd actually conducted the investigation — about as hard as I could and there appeared to be no chance of foul play. Conceivably, someone might have forced Brightman to write that note, but he'd bought the gun of his own free wilclass="underline" the clerk remembered him and claimed that the purchase was entirely normal. What I'd discovered was probably connected with Brightman's killing himself, but, now that he'd done so, it didn't make much difference. Nothing could bring him back now. And even if he'd been blackmailed or otherwise hounded to death, discovering the reason, even the person who'd done it, wouldn't do him any good and might only hurt May.
Tossing my cigarette into the gutter as Katadotis pulled up, I got in beside him. No, I thought, there was nothing to do but resign myself, sit back, and watch this miserable city slip by. The place matched my mood and as we turned down toward the river, something of this must have shown on my face, for Katadotis grunted, "Quite a town, Mr. Thorne."
I kept my voice neutraclass="underline" it was his home, after all. "Everyone says it's a lot better than it used to be."
A smile flickered. "Mr. Thorne, my father came here fifty years ago to work on Henry Ford's line, and he thought it was paradise. Now it's like something you pick up on your shoe."
I wasn't going to give him an argument. We turned onto Jefferson, broad, empty, and desolate. We passed blocks of low, anonymous buildings: cheap furniture stores; liquor stores; warehouses, abandoned and filthy. Further on, set well back from the road, I saw a large apartment block, a sign in front of it advertising "Elegant and Secure Living." All the faces on these streets were black, though beyond lay Grosse Pointe with its lily-white Park, Farms, Woods, and Shores. But long before this we turned onto St. Jean, part of a veritable war zone. Down the right-hand side of the street stood the empty, burned-out shells of small frame houses. A whole neighborhood had been razed — the fire next time had been this time, and I asked, "That's not still left from the riot?"
"Sure. And collecting a little insurance."
Porches leaned; window frames dangled; tongues of soot licked up walls. The sidewalks had been abandoned and thistles and weeds were invading the street. Bouncing and heaving, the car lurched over ruts in the ruined road. On the left, a chain link fence appeared, with the auto pound beyond. Signs flashed by.
KEEP OUT!
Premises TV Monitored
VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED
TOW TRUCKS ONLY ALLOWED IN YARD
PARK CAR ON STREET
WALK IN!
I began to understand why they'd wanted to release the car today — in this neighborhood, no one wanted responsibility for an antique Jaguar any longer than necessary.
Ignoring the signs, Katadotis turned in at the gate and drew up beside a small shack. I waited while he went inside. A smell of exhaust and burned rubber tainted the air; a winch whined in the distance. Like fossilized bones of the creatures for whom they were named — cougars, mustangs, bobcats, ramchargers — the remains of thousands of cars were scattered everywhere and whole body shells, flattened, were stacked up like hides. It was a Pop Art masterpiece, a landscape of the surreal; and since the cars impounded for traffic offenses were arranged in rows and segregated by make, the place even had the peculiar order of certain dreams. Motown U.S.A. The perfect expression of the place, I decided, was indeed a museum of road junk.
Katadotis reappeared, accompanied by a mechanic dressed in overalls.
"This is Jerry, Mr. Thome."