John Charles Lowery died playing naughty nurse underwater in a self-made ziplock.
SATURDAY MORNING PRODUCED ANOTHER IMMACULATE BLUE sky. Again meteorologists were promising eighty degrees.
Three spring beauties back-to-back. Perhaps a Montreal record.
LaManche called around nine. A courtesy, not required. I like that about him.
The chief's autopsy findings were as I expected. Other than slight atherosclerotic disease, Lowery had no preexisting medical conditions. No traumatic lesions. Some pulmonary edema. A blood alcohol level of 132mg/100 ml.
Cause of death was asphyxia due to oxygen deprivation. Manner was accidental, in the context of autoerotic activity.
By ten Ryan and I were zipping south toward Hemmingford. His mood was upbeat. A rocking Friday night? Light traffic? Too many doughnuts? I didn't pursue it.
I did ask the length of Laurier/Lowery's residence at the address to which we were heading. Ryan said a very long time.
Given that, I queried Laurier/Lowery's ability to stay off the grid. Ryan relayed a complex story of lax rental agreements and changing proprietorship. Bottom line, when the last landlord died without heirs, Laurier/Lowery simply stayed on. Instead of paying rent, he paid taxes and utilities in the deceased owner's name. Or some such scheme.
The conversation turned to Jean Laurier/John Lowery's unfortunate demise. How could we resist?
"So Lowery got his kink on bundling in plastic, going deep, and beating off in a pond." Ryan's tone was tinged with distaste.
"Dressed as a nurse."
"Apparently he changed in the canoe. The duffel contained jeans, socks, sneakers, and a shirt."
"Must take good balancing skills."
"It also contained a flashlight."
"Suggesting he went to the pond at night."
"Wouldn't you?" Ryan shook his head. "I don't get it. What's the kick?"
Having no life, I'd done research the evening before, learned that the term autoerotic refers to any solitary sexual activity in which a prop, device, or apparatus is used to enhance sexual stimulation. I knew Ryan was fully aware of this.
"Most autoerotic activity takes place in the home," I said.
"Gee. Why would that be?"
"Death is usually due to the failure of a preestablished escape mechanism."
"Lowery probably lost his snorkel, then panicked and dropped the knife he was using to cut himself free."
"That's LaManche's take. And it's plausible. Most autoerotic deaths are accidental. The person chokes or smothers, due to hanging, or the use of a ligature or plastic bag. Also in the mix are electrocution, foreign-body insertion, overdressing, or body wrapping."
"Body wrapping?"
"A plastic bag over the head is fairly common, body wrapping less so. Last night I read about a sixty-year-old man found rolled in fourteen sewn blankets, his penis wrapped in a plastic bag. A forty-six-year-old man was discovered wearing seven pairs of stockings, a dress, and ladies' undies cut to allow Mr. Happy a front-row seat. A twenty-three-year-old schoolteacher died sporting a plastic mackintosh, three cotton skirts, a raincoat, and a plastic-"
"I get the picture. But what's the point?"
"Heightened sexual excitement."
Two killer blues swung my way. "I can think of better routes to that end."
Oh, could he. I felt myself blush. Hated it. Focused on what I'd learned the night before.
"Autoerotic arousal derives from a limited number of mechanisms." I ticked points off on a hand. "One, direct stimulation of the erotic regions." My thumb moved to middleman. "Two, stimulation of the sexual centers of the central nervous system."
"As in strangulation or hanging."
"Or the use of a head covering. It's well known that cerebral hypoxia can heighten sexual pleasure."
My thumb went to ring man.
"Three, creation of fear and distress in the context of a masochistic fantasy. Spice things up with electrocution or immersion, for example."
"Weenie-whacking submerged can't be all that common."
"There's actually a term for it. Aqua-eroticum. I found a few cases reported in the literature. One victim used an ankle rock, just like Lowery."
Ryan turned onto Highway 219. We passed the pond, and a few minutes later pulled to the shoulder beside a mailbox with the number 572 hand-painted on one side. An SQ cruiser was already there.
Ryan and I studied the house.
Laurier/Lowery's small bungalow was set back from the road and partially obscured by a thick stand of pine. Green frame. One story. Small storage shed attached on the right.
As we walked up the gravel drive, I noted freshly painted trim and neatly stacked wood. A large garden in back appeared recently plowed.
Catching movement through a window, I turned to Ryan. He saw it too.
"Bandau better not be pulling more of his Lone Ranger bullshit."
The outer door stood open, its frame gouged and splintered at the level of the knob. Ryan and I entered directly into a living room sparsely furnished with what looked like Salvation Army castoffs. Bandau was in it. Hearing footsteps, he turned.
At Bandau's back was a desk holding a MacBook Pro that appeared fairly new. Its cover was open.
"Not jumping the gun again, are we, Agent?" Ryan's smile was icy.
"No, sir."
"You entered ahead of the warrant."
"Just securing the scene."
"Let's hope that's true."
Bandau offered nothing in defense or apology.
Ryan and I moved methodically, unsure what we were seeking.
In the kitchen cabinets were chipped tableware, cleaning products, supermarket shelf goods, and enough home-canned produce to outlast the next coming.
The refrigerator offered the normal array of condiments, dairy products, lunch meat, and bread. No caviar. No capers. No French bottled water.
A plate, glass, and utensils stood drying in a green plastic dish rack. A half-empty bottle of Scotch sat on one counter.
The bath, like the kitchen, was surprisingly clean. Over-the-counter meds and personal products in the medicine cabinet. Cheap shampoo and soap in the shower.
The bedroom was equally unremarkable. Double bed with gray wool blanket, pillow, no coverlet. Side table with lamp, clock radio, and lubricating eye drops. Wooden dresser containing boxers and tees, one striped tie, a half dozen pairs of rolled socks, all black.
The closet was the size of a mailbox. Jeans and shirts. Black polyester pants. One bad sports jacket, tan corduroy.
On the floor were two and a half pairs of boots, one pair of oxfords, and one pair of sandals, the kind with tire treads for soles.
The overhead shelf held stacked magazines.
Ryan pulled and scoped a couple. "Hell-o."
I read the titles. Tit Man. Butt Man.
"The guy's flexible," I said.
Ryan chose another. Lollypop Girls. The lead story was headlined Park It in My Panties. I tried to decipher that literary gem. Gave up. The request made no sense.
I looked at Ryan. His eyes were doing that scrunchy thing. I knew a panty suggestion was coming my way.
"Decorum, sir."
"Hither we yonder to fair computer?" Ryan asked demurely.
"Hither is not a verb."
"Let us forth, flaxen-haired maiden."
My eye roll may have attained a personal best.
"I yield to my lady's superior skills."
"Thank you."
"And to her unclean undies." Whispered.
Smacking Ryan's arm, I hithered to the desk.
Bandau continued staring out the window, feet wide, elbows winging, hands clasped behind his back.
"No phone," I said. "No cables. Did Laurier have an ISP account?"
"Meaning?"
"Internet Service Provider. Like Videotron or Bell."
"Not that I found record of."
The Mac whirred to life, asked for a password. I tried PASSWORD. 123456. ABCDEF. Various combinations of Jean and Laurier. Laurier's address and street name. All of the above jumbled, reversed.
No go.
LOWERY.
Nope.
YREWOL.
I took the initials JCR and converted them to number positions within the alphabet. 100318. Flipped the sequence. 813001. Reversed the initials to RCJ. 180310. Flipped that. 013081.
Still the little cursor defied me.
Picturing a phone, I tried the digits associated with the letters LOWERY, 569379.
I was in.
When the computer was fully booted, I checked a fan-shaped icon on the far right of the toolbar. Three stripes. I clicked on it.
"He pirated signal from the neighbors." I pointed to a network code name. Fife.
"Can he do that?"
"The Fifes probably use their phone number as their password. A lot of folks do. Laurier knew or looked it up. Or maybe he asked permission. Anyway, once the password is entered, the computer remembers and automatically selects that network. The Fifes can't be far away. The signal's weak but sufficient."
As Ryan jotted the name Fife in his spiral, I noted applications.
Standard Mac stuff. Numbers. Mail. Safari. iCal.
Laurier/Lowery had stored no spreadsheets or documents. He'd entered no contacts into the address book, no appointments into the calendar.
"He didn't use e-mail," I said. "Or iTunes, iPhoto, iMovie, iDVD."
"I see."
Another eye roll. "Let's check what he found amusing on the net."
I launched Safari and pulled up the browsing history.
In the past two weeks the user had researched mulch and fertilizer, corn hybrids, scuba diving, hypoxia, poison ivy, copper wire, roofing tiles, North American squirrels, Quebec dentists, and a variety of vitamins.
"A site called robesoniandotcom was visited six times," I said.
Ryan leaned close. He smelled of male sweat and a "Don't worry, be happy, mon" cologne. Bay rum, I think.