Red Snow by Michael Slade

you remember only the good parts. Looking back, their love affair had been doomed from the start. Gill and Nick had come from different places and were going different places. She was classical music, while he was rock ’n’ roll. Gill was born into money, raised in the sun of Barbados, and blessed with a mother who set an example as a leading pathologist. Nick was born prematurely on a bathroom floor during a blustery winter storm in Medicine Hat, Alberta. Later that night, his dad shot himself. His mom toiled in the laundry of a mental hospital to keep the roof over their heads and food on the table. Having raised hell as a teenager, Nick became a cop to atone for the disappointment he’d caused her.
    What Gill and Nick had in common was what they did in bed. She was a champagne partner for him, and he was a hot young stud for her. That she was turning forty was a factor in the equation. But when the ghosts of his past came haunting, that wasn’t enough to see them through the turmoil.
    Now, scowling down at Nick’s gilded body, Gill was sickened by the stench of lacquer. So thick was the coat of paint that she couldn’t even see the tattoo on his upper arm: an hourglass running out of sand, with the words “Here Comes” above and “the Night” below. But worst of all were his eyes. The killer had left them open, gazing vacantly at the ceiling, then had sprayed the eyeballs with glittery gold.
    Gill couldn’t help it.
    Tears rolled down her cheeks.
    *     *     *
     
    Having never met Nick, Joseph Avacomovitch was all business.
    “I don’t see a wound on the body, do you? He looks serene, as if he’s simply fallen asleep.”
    “Poison?” Dane suggested. “Spiked with a syringe? Maybe there’s a puncture wound beneath the gunk.”
    The Russian turned to Gill as she wiped away her tears. “It seems to me that Nick was painted postmortem, yet there’s not a trace of gold on the black satin. That indicates the killer changed the linen so he or she could display the corpse for maximum shock value. May I turn him over to look for a wound?”
    Gill glanced at Robert for approval.
    The chief nodded.
    The paint was sticky to the touch as Dane and Joseph gripped Nick at the shoulder and hip and eased him onto his side. The sheet adhering to his back was peeled away. There wasn’t a patch on the underside that wasn’t gold, and a careful examination revealed no signs of trauma.
    “Poisoning by mouth?” Dane suggested.
    “Likely,” Joe replied.
    “Where can I do a postmortem?” asked Gill.
    The question drew Robert’s focus to her. The image of Gill dissecting her former lover furrowed a deep crease into his brow.
    “He’s gone,” she said, aware of what Robert was thinking. “All that’s left are Nick’s remains. The answer to who killed him lies in the cause of death. Your pool of suspects will scatter before his body even reaches Vancouver. I’m the pathologist here . I owe it to Nick to help catch his killer.”
    “I’ll assist,” Joe offered, sealing the deal.
    “Instead of the medical center,” Robert suggested, “use the trauma room that’s been created for officers hurt while securing the Olympics. It’s nearby and private.”
    “Hopefully, when we wipe the gilt off Nick, we’ll see how he died,” said Gill.
    “There’s another puzzle,” Dane interjected. “The room was locked from inside . So how did the killer escape?”
    An aisle led from the door of room 807 to the far window. The bed flanked the left-hand wall. Above it hung a framed painting of Whistler and Blackcomb mountains, the rising sun adorning their ski runs in gold. Between the bed and the window, on the side where Joe and Dane stood, there was a door giving access to the adjoining suite.
    “The only way in or out,” said Dane, “is through one of these two doors. The window doesn’t open, and there’s no egress whatsoever in the right-hand side.”
    He gestured from the window to the writing desk,