В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
The old man had penned the words “queer” and “travel” next to their names.
I found nothing in any directory for the name Ockleman.
Ilya Fabian was listed at an Amherst address in the Gay Village. The phone was answered on the first ring.
I introduced myself and asked if I was speaking with Ilya Fabian.
I was.
I asked if the gentleman was the same Ilya Fabian who had operated a travel agency on Ste-Catherine in the late eighties.
“Yes.” Wary.
I asked if Ockleman and his partner had used or visited the basement of the property during their tenancy.
“You said you’re with the coroner?” Wariness now edged with distaste.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh my God. Was someone dead down there? Was there a body in that cellar?”
What to tell him?
“I’m investigating bones found buried below the floor.”
“Oh my Gawd!”
“The material is probably quite old.”
“Oh my Gawd! Like The Exorcist. No, no. What was that movie with the little girl? The one where they built the house over the cemetery? Yes! Poltergeist.
“Mr. Fabian—”
“I’m not surprised about that basement. Patrick and I took one look at that wretched, stinking, filthy cesspool and never set foot in it again. Made my skin crawl every time I thought about all that creeping and breeding going on below my feet.” Fabian gave “creeping” and “breeding” at least four e’s each. “That basement was alive with vermin.” Four i’s to “alive.” “And now you’re telling me there were corpses down there?”
“Did you ever use the cellar for storage?”
“God forbid.
Bit squeamish for a tour operator, I thought.
“Did your agency specialize in any particular world area, Mr. Fabian?”
“Patrick and I arranged gay travel packages to sacred places.” Sniff. “The era was a bear market for spiritual journeys. We folded in eighteen months.”
“Patrick Ockleman?”
“Yes.”
“Where is Mr. Ockleman now?”
“Dead.”
I waited for Fabian to elaborate. He didn’t.
“May I ask how and when your partner died?”
“He was run over by a bus, of all things.
“Thank you, Mr. Fabian. If follow-up is needed we’ll be back in touch.”
I disconnected. Fabian and Ockleman seemed unlikely candidates for serial killers, but I underlined the number and made a few notes.
The next name listed was S. Ménard. Beside it Cyr had written “pawnshop” and the dates 1989 to 1998.
