Once Upon a Time by Barbara Fradkin Page B

“Call Gibbs. He’s looking into Walker’s war record. Get him to check immigration too and have the reports ready when we get back.”
    *    *    *
    â€œWhy are you so interested in a twenty-year-old barroom brawl, Mike?” Sullivan took his eyes off the narrow country road long enough to glance questioningly at Green. They were on their way out to the Walkers’ country house, having left a disappointed pair of OPP officers behind at the station. Sullivan had seen the curiosity in Kennelly’s eyes and had tried to persuade Green to let them participate in the inquiries, since it seemed a slow day in Renfrew County, but Green was adamant. He didn’t want extra officers he didn’t know trampling all over the evidence in the house. The extent of Green’s diplomacy had been to assign the officers the task of setting up interviews for them in the afternoon with people who knew the Walkers.
    â€œBecause it’s out of character with what we’ve learned about Walker,” Green replied, “and it seems to be a mystery. Maybe his neighbours and acquaintances can shed some light on what he was really like.”
    â€œThey won’t tell us a thing, I can guarantee you that. A couple of big city cops barging in out of nowhere? Forget it.”
    Green grinned at him. “Give me some credit.”
    The directions Ruth Walker had supplied were clear and precise, but even so, after the fourth turn into progressively narrower back roads, Green was glad Sullivan was behind the wheel. All around them stretched nothing but drifting snow, icy fields and the grey lace of barren trees against the sky. Ruth had been surprised when the two officers had asked her permission to search the house, but she had not hesitated an instant. If she had anything to hide, Green thought, she seemed confident it wouldn’t be found.
    When they finally turned into the long, narrow lane, they saw the Walkers’ white clapboard cottage set in a windswept clearing at the end. It looked shabby and neglected in the harsh morning sun, and as they drew nearer, Green saw it was badly in need of paint. Sullivan plowed up the lane, parked about fifty feet from the house and surveyed the snowy expanse stretching to the house. At first glance, it seemed to be unbroken except for the tire tracks leading from the shed to the front door and then to the lane.
    But as they began their approach on foot, Green suddenly held up his hand.
    â€œDon’t move!” He squatted in the snow, peered at the tracks, then took out his notebook and glanced up excitedly.
    â€œCome look at this! Carefully! What does this look like to you?”
    Sullivan studied the marks in the snow. Inside the tracks, at roughly two foot intervals, the tire markings were blurred in an oval shape. “Like someone has smudged the tire track. To wipe out something?”
    Green’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “The tire tracks are partially erased by the wind and snow, and that stopped about noon Wednesday. Before Walker was even discovered dead. But these marks are clear. Someone has walked in this tire tread since the snow stopped, and has tried to smudge over the footprint as they went. Which suggests someone has been out to the house since the Walkers left but tried to conceal that fact. Do you still think his death was natural causes?”
    Sullivan backed up carefully. “I’ll get the camera.”
    Thirty minutes later, they had a roll of detailed photos of the tracks leading up to the house and of the footprints in the snow at the front door. One set of partially obliterated prints with a deeply treaded sole led from the front door and trampled around in an aimless circle before disappearing at the edge of the tire track. Suspecting the prints were Eugene Walker’s, Green made a note to check his boot soles. Inside two of these large boot prints were the remnants of smudged smaller prints