The Dead Times

There was a dead body in the park. 
Jack Temple put the phone down, got out of bed, dressed quickly, and drove through snowy streets to the crime scene. When he was a homicide cop, there had been a lot of calls like this, painfully early in the morning. He was a newspaper reporter now, but one thing had not changed. Dead bodies still woke him up. 
Temple circled the dark streets around Gages Park, looking for police cars. It was fiercely cold, but he turned the heater fan in his truck down a notch and fiddled with the dials on the scanner, listening for cop chatter that would tell him where to find the body. Gages Park covered one hundred acres and was heavily wooded in places. 
"Use the south entrance," crackled one voice, probably the first patrol officer on the scene. 
"10-4," the dispatcher replied. "Unit 22, proceed to the south entrance of Gage Park. Ferguson from Forensics, Nash and Fisk from Homicide are on the way." 
Temple grinned. Ferguson was a pal. Nash and Fisk were not. The dispatcher inquired about the condition of an elderly man who had discovered the body. 
"Pretty badly shaken up. And cold." 
Temple took a cue from the unseen patrolman and stopped at Bob Baker's Donuts, a popular franchise named after a famous, but dead, National Hockey League defenceman. He bought two steaming coffees at the drive-thru window, two chocolate glazed donuts, and then headed through the crumbling lion statues that guarded the park entrance. 
It was 5:45 a.m., Sunday, January 24, 1999, Temple's thirty-eighth birthday and his first day off in a month. The call from the city desk's overnight editor had ruined that. A long warm swim at the Boys Club and a workout on weights and the speed bag had been Temple’s plan for the day. It was six weeks since his win over Junior Fisk, but Temple was still stiff and sore. Hopefully, this would be quick. Past the lions, the road wound down a steep hill. Glad of the rugged treads on his new tires, Temple watched the headlights of his four-year old Toyota 4Runner glint off ancient, gnarled oak trees on either side of the road. The boughs were heavy with the fresh snow that had been falling when Temple got home the night before. But the road was clear. A patrol car was starting up the hill as Temple reached the parking lot at the bottom. 
"Morning Jack.” The driver was a cop Temple knew from his days on the force. 
"Hi Mitch. Any problem with me having a look?" 
"Probably. We're marking off the crime scene now and Homicide is taking its sweet time. How the hell did you beat them here?" 
"I have an editor who is worse than Huntingdon," said Temple, a reference to the sergeant who had trained them both years ago. "What time did the plough come through?" 
"Around three, three-thirty we figure." 
"What do you have out there?" 
"Dead girl." 
"Murder?" 
"Number 13 of the year. 
"I'm just going to park here, okay?" Temple pointed ahead to the spot where three other patrol cars were stopped, their engines steaming the frosty air. 
"You’ll be somebody else’s problem. I'm off in fifteen." The patrolman waved his hand and drove up the hill to wait for Homicide. 
This section of Gages Park was a wide-open common bounded by a tree-lined ridge on all four sides. It was low lying, a natural bowl that was popular as a soccer pitch in summer. Above and to the north a suspended railway track carried the open air portion of the city's main east-west subway line. The nearest stop was a twenty minute walk away. Past the woods on the north side was a well-to-do residential neighbourhood, big stone houses and a few luxury condominium towers. One of the few neighbourhoods left in crumbling Garden City that would actually be shocked at murder. 
The patrol officers were laying yellow police tape in a wide radius around a mound in the snow about twenty yards from the parking lot. The body. It was covered by a bright yellow sheet of plastic, at least the torso and legs were. An arm extended up in the air, perpendicular to the corpse, rigid as a flagpole. Even from Temple's distance he could see the fingers of the bare hand. He had an absurd desire to walk over and slip his warm gloves on the dead body. 
Temple waved at the patrol officers and climbed out of his truck. He was not overly tall, just shy of five foot ten inches, but he was well muscled through the arms and the chest and he tried to carry himself as if he was over six feet. From beside his truck Temple surveyed the scene. Just outside the police tape was the elderly gentleman, dressed in a black coat and red pants, stamping his feet. Cross-country skis lay on the ground beside him. He had a miners’ light strapped to his head and the beam jiggled and jumped across the snow as he moved. A dog, it looked like a border collie, stood obediently at the man's feet. Buttoning his heavy overcoat to the neck, Temple stuffed the donuts in his pocket, grabbed the coffees and walked over. As both policeman and reporter, Temple operated with two simple rules. Talk to everybody and listen to what they say. 
"This will help," Temple said, holding out one cup. He got a quick smile in return. 
"You a detective?" Steam curled around the old man's grey beard as he lifted the lid of the styrofoam cup. 
"Used to be. Reporter now. Jack Temple. Garden City Times," Temple reached out a handshake. 
"Martin Wagman. Call me Marty. Do you have a column?" The man took off his right glove and grasped Temple's hand, then warmed his bare fingers on the cup. 
“Nope.” 
"I love the columns in the Tribune. Hang on. How does a detective get to be a reporter?" 
"By asking too many questions." Temple took out a small notepad and jotted the man's name down. Squinting, Temple pointed to the light and was rewarded by the man clicking it off. "It's a cold one Marty. Getting colder." 
"It’s the wind. Cuts to the bone.” 
Temple nodded, feeling his way gingerly. The guy looked pretty rough. He had to remind himself that most people were not accustomed to seeing dead bodies. 
"Sun will be up in an hour. Better time for skiing, I figure." 
Marty was enjoying his coffee, drinking it steadily, no doubt feeling good about doing something normal. "It's nice when nobody's around. Stars are out. Crisp morning air. No sound of traffic. Good time for thinking." He patted the left side of his chest. "Had two heart attacks you know, gives you lots to think about." 
There was a frozen stain on the man's dark blue coat. "How's your stomach," Temple asked, deciding to keep the donuts in his pocket. 
"I threw up when I saw it. The body I mean. Guess I feel a little foolish, being sick. Never seen anything like this before." 
"Anybody else around when you came through here?" 
"Not a soul." 
Marty said he and his dog had taken this path early in the morning for the last month, since his grandchildren had given him skis for Christmas. Clean air, good exercise, just what the doctor said he needed to make it to his eighties.