Highway 61 by David Housewright Read Free Book Online

lieutenant, but they don’t have lieutenants anymore, and it used to be called the homicide unit, but apparently they don’t have homicides anymore, either. Anyway, you’d like him. He’d like you. You both sound very much alike.”
    “Mr. McKenzie.”
    “I’ll tell you what I would tell him—think how much fun it would be to solve a murder that your superiors didn’t even know you had.”
    Whatever bluster I had quickly evaporated while Wojtowick sat straight in her chair and glared down at me, the fingers of her right hand drumming a monotonous rhythm on the desktop. She was a powerful woman, older but not pining for her youth, and without a hint of conflict or doubt in her eyes. She stared at me for what seemed like a long time.
    “Here’s what you do,” she said. “When you leave this place, take a left out of the parking lot, then take another left on Central Avenue. Follow Central to Memorial Avenue and take another left. Keep at it until Memorial becomes Algoma Street. After a couple of miles you’ll see a large building surrounded by a huge lawn. That’s the Lakehead Psychiatric Hospital. Check yourself in. We’ll call your friend Bobby. He can come and visit.”
    “Yeah. Well, listen, Detective, I’m about to piss you off.”
    “It’s Detective Constable, and you’ve already done that.”
    I opened the envelope, slid out the photograph, and dropped it on the desk in front of her. Wojtowick looked closely without touching it, then fixed her eyes on me.
    “Tell me this is Photoshopped,” she said.
    “The man on the bed says it’s not.”
    “Start talking, McKenzie, and I mean right now.”
    I withheld nothing except Truhler’s name. Wojtowick didn’t like that at all.
    “This is Canada,” she said. “Not the United States. You don’t get to make that decision here. If you prefer, I’ll confiscate your passport and incarcerate you as a material witness. You can remain in jail until—”
    “Jason Truhler,” I said.
    “What?”
    I repeated the name and gave Detective Constable Wojtowick his address and phone number. She seemed genuinely surprised that I gave him up so easily and said so. I shrugged it off. I had promised I wouldn’t reveal Truhler’s secrets to Erica and Nina. I said nothing about the Thunder Bay Police Service. I figured I had done my bit by holding out as long as I had under Wojtowick’s relentless interrogation. My conscience was clear, and if Truhler didn’t like it, he could go entertain himself.
    Wojtowick said, “You spoke to the owner of the motel?”
    “Daniel Khawaja.”
    “What did Mr. Khawaja have to say?”
    “Nothing. I botched the interview.”
    Wojtowick raised an eyebrow.
    “Most men I know don’t admit to their mistakes,” she said.
    “What can I say? I’m a helluva guy.”
    “A motel room eighteen weeks after the fact, I’d doubt that there’d be much for the scenes of crime unit to look at.”
    “Scenes of crime unit?”
    “You’ve been conditioned by American TV to call it CSI. I hate TV. Except for Ghost Whisperer. I love that show.”
    “I’ve always been partial to Sons of Anarchy myself.”
    “Why am I not surprised? Come with me.”
    I followed Wojtowick out of her office, she didn’t bother to close the door, and together we made our way down the corridor. She walked with purpose, her stride long, firm, and quick—I had to hurry to keep up with her. She may not have been a Mountie, yet I had no doubt that she always got whatever man she went looking for.
    Wojtowick led me to a large room filled with computer terminals. Several officers were sitting at the computers, but we found an idle unit in the corner. After logging on, Wojtowick called up a list of missing persons reports. It was in alphabetical order and distressingly long. Instead of going through them one at a time, Wojtowick started loading preferences into the search engine, starting with female. That eliminated only about a third of the names. I thought it