His focal point was a slated wooden bench positioned at the side of the packed dirt trail that ran parallel to the Rideau River. The bench faced the water and would ordinarily have functioned as a peaceful resting place where a walker might stop to rest and enjoy the view. The middle-aged man presently occupying the bench would not be continuing his journey today… or ever.
The photographer shuffled to the left, giving me a clear line of sight, and I stalled, taking in the victim but distracted by the doctor himself.
Crouched at the deceased’s side, visually examining the body, was Dominique Chevalier, as stunning as the first day I’d laid eyes on him. He was older than my thirty-two years, but by how much, I couldn’t tell. Forty, maybe? Faint threads of silver showed in his tawny brown hair. He might have been younger, but I doubted it.
Lines of distress pulled at the corners of his restive eyes as his gaze flicked from one part of the victim to another as though taking a silent inventory. A tightly trimmed beardcovered his angular and aggressively clenched jaw. He wore the same brown leather jacket I’d seen on him before. It was open partway, displaying a cream-colored button-down underneath. The top few buttons of the shirt were open, and I absolutely did not linger on the notch at the base of his throat between his collarbones or the dusting of chest hair peeking out from beneath.
Dominique’s hair, neatly cut and gelled off his forehead, barely rustled in the wind. He balanced his elbows on jean-clad thighs, his gloved hands dangling loosely between. A medical tote of instruments sat off to the side, the compartments stuffed full of tools and devices used frequently at crime scenes.
Rue nudged my arm, jerking my attention back as she shoved a clipboard and pen into my hands. “This is going marvelously,” she mumbled, fitting booties over her shoes and ducking under the tape. “Try to focus, Haven. You’d think you’d never seen a good-looking man before.”
My cheeks burned as I dashed a quick glance around. Was I that obvious? I wasn’t closeted, but I didn’t go around broadcasting my interests, especially to people I wasn’t close to. The constable waiting for me to sign in remained blank-faced, but I could guess what he was thinking.
I scribbled my name on the form, added my badge number, and tugged a pair of booties over my boots before following Rue under the tape.
Careful not to step anywhere that might disturb the crime scene, we moved toward the bench, stopping a dozen feet away to get a read on the victim and situation.
Rue made a soft, airy whistle between her teeth as she shook her head. “This is… interesting.”
The body was that of a man in his early to mid-fifties. He appeared to be in decent shape and might have been out for anafternoon jog as Elifet had originally suggested, but he did not die of an unexpected heart attack. That much was obvious.
Buffeted by the wind, his sweat-greased hair, more grey than its original brown, flapped comically atop his head. His leathery skin showed a plethora of scars, puckers, and wrinkles. A life story etched into flesh. A history he took with him to the grave. The man wore navy jogging pants with the sportswear company nameColumbiaemblazoned in white letters down one leg. A faded dark spot over the crotch suggested he’d voided his bladder upon death. The matching hoodie was unzipped to his middle, showing a white waffle undershirt—not Hanes or the packaged crap you bought at Walmart, but something of quality. Red Nike sneakers covered his feet, the laces brilliantly white in contrast. With his toes pointed skyward, the patterned soles were visible, dirt-speckled but showing little wear. I guessed they were relatively new.
The man’s head, tilted at an angle, chin aimed high, exposed a stretch of skin marred with several abrasions, including an angry red mark circling his extended throat. It alone told a story. His wide, sightless eyes stared at the leaden sky, lips slightly parted. His hands rested in his lap, fingers curled, palms upturned in what appeared to be an intentionally meditative pose.
What stood out, no doubt the cause of Rue’s comment, was the plastic spike protruding from the man’s chest, green and about the diameter of my thumb. Four inches stuck out, but I had no way of knowing how many were buried inside the man. I assumed, based on its location, that it impaled his heart. Attached to the spike, inserted somehow, was a single white thorny rose. Dangling from the rose’s stem by a silver ribbon was a piece of cardstock no bigger than a Post-it note, dancing and fluttering in the wind. Writing in black ink stood out, but I couldn’t read it for movement and distance.
“He’s been staged on that bench,” I mumbled, stating the obvious.
Rue hummed in agreement, wandered closer, and circled behind Dominique to stand on the other side.
The pathologist acknowledged our arrival. He glanced momentarily at Rue, nodding a cordial greeting, then he spotted me.
His gaze lingered an extra beat, and he subtly took me in with his achingly spiritless eyes. Their color matched the weather—a winter-faded Siberian husky blue with a distinctly darker ring around the circumference. Like the clouds above, they seemed to carry a heavy burden, an inner pain I had yet to understand.
I offered a cautious smile, moving closer so I stood at his side. “We meet again.”
Dominique rose to his feet, his attention diverting to the body as he cleared his throat. “Detective Haven, is it?”
“You remembered.”
“I’m good with names and faces. We worked the Erlander case together.”
“We did.”
“Did you solve it?”
“Yep. Within a week. I’m just that good.” I regretted the flex the instant it left my mouth.
Dominique nodded, and a thick silence grew between us. Did I imagine the extended perusal? Was he surprised to see me? Pleased to see me? I wanted to fill the void, but scrambled, unsure what to say.How are you getting on? Do you like the city? Are you settled in? Why Ottawa? Where are you from? Would you like to go for a drink?
A crime scene was not the time to get personal, and I was too much of a stumbling idiot to make a proper advance anyhow. Rejection was a hard pill to swallow, which was why I tended to avoid putting myself in situations where it might happen.Besides, I really needed to get a feel for the guy before I made a fool of myself. One lingering perusal was not a definitive answer.
I focused on the dead man instead, ejecting all thoughts of sharing private time with the handsome doctor.
The wind blew, bringing with it an out-of-place scent that gave me pause and redirected my attention to the case. Was that coconut? Something tropical? Floral? I couldn’t quite discern its properties, so I sniffed again, but the breeze had taken it away.
Rue circled the bench, examining the victim from a different vantage. “Are you thinking strangulation, Doc?” She pointed to the man’s face. “There’s hemorrhaging around the eyes.”
