“And unfortunately he’s still in jail for his last crime.”
“Besides,” I observed, “these portraits aren’t really works of art, are they?”
“That’s true,” Trade admitted.
Eventually the detectives and the policewoman left and Carl took me to his office, a small room with two small chairs and a small desk overburdened by a computer and piles of old books from the town’s archives.
“Any ideas, Rock?” He was getting used to my new name.
“Whoever did it was angry. Those slashes are vicious. Who are the victims?”
“Thomas Taylor, who was mayor from 1900 to 1908, Albert Forsythe, a councillor from 1900 to 1906, and Ezekiel Martin, a councillor from 1900 to 1903. They served two-year terms in those days, but I think Martin died before the end of his term.”
“So the one thing the victims have in common is their service on council from 1900 to 1903. Did anything significant happen during that period?”
“In Blandsville? Does anything significant ever happen here?” But despite his civic cynicism, Carl brought the volumes of council minutes for the relevant years. For several hours, with a brief break for lunch, we leafed and sneezed our way through the dusty records of meetings long forgotten, reading about battles over budgets, debates over mill rates, and arguments over speed limits for horseless carriages. The most controversial issue we found was in July, 1902, when one Nathan Slugg was fined for repeatedly leaving garbage on the road in front of his house. He protested, lost his appeal, and swore “eternal vengeance” on the members of the council who had persecuted him.
“But that was over a century ago,” said Carl. “The councillors are all dead and Nathan too, unless his ghost is stalking the Town Hall, wielding a knife.”
“Does nasty Nathan have any descendants in Blandsville?”
We checked the latest directory and telephone book. There were no Sluggs in town now.
“That’s good to know,” I joked.
“But they’re could be somewhere else.”
“Yes, but what are the chances of finding them? There are thirty-some million people in Canada and seven or eight billion in the world and the current Sluggs, if there are any, could be anywhere in McLuhan’s ‘global village’.” We sat silent at this impasse. Then an idea broke through.
“What if one of Nathan’s descendants were a woman and she married an took her husband’s name? That would mean,” I reasoned, “that there could be dozens of neo-Nathans running around with different surnames. But I hope not.”
“Why, Rock?”
“Because we might lose our best — and only — suspect. What we need is a genealogical expert.”
“Presto,” said Carl, but no expert appeared.
“Presto Knowles. I knew him at university. He’s a genealogical genius. He could track down Adam and Eve’s grandparents.”
