It's Not a Rollercoaster
but we can still blame it on Canada
A Due South fanfiction
by
CanonAntithesis
Disclaimer: See chapter one.
Chapter 2
Inspector Margaret Thatcher thought living in the states would mean an end to those ungodly Canadian winters. One of her requirements for an assignment with the RCMP was that it NOT have a line of electrical plugs hanging in every parking lot to keep a car's engine block warm enough that it didn't freeze solid. This winter was as bad as any she had experienced in Ottawa. Maybe for her next assignment, she could try for Vancouver. Of course, she would need to not make a mess of this assignment first. Constable Benton Fraser made that goal a little trying at times.
Winston Churchill once stated about Russia that it was "a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key". Benton Fraser was her Russia and she had no clue where to find that key. They might have almost found it together on the train, but then she stupidly snapped to her senses. She was a female inspector in the RCMP, still a rarity even in the 1990's. It simply would not do for her to lose her head (or more accurately, her heart) to a subordinate, particularly a constable, the lowest rank in the service. What had she been thinking when they kissed on top of that runaway train?
"Damn!", Thatcher exclaimed as she tried to clear her windshield by squirting wiper fluid on the snow and slush covering the glass.
Nothing happened. Nothing happened because the idiot mechanic who serviced her car in the fall assured her that this particular wiper fluid would be sufficient for a Chicago winter. Well, it wasn't. It was frozen and as a result, she could barely see where she was going.
When Fraser called using Vecchio's cellphone to tell her about a potential Canadian connection to a murder those two nimrods stumbled across, Meg had immediately sprang into action. She commanded Turnbull to rearrange her schedule so she could make it to the crime scene. If the truth be told, her days, lately, had been one boring event after the other, separated by odd moments of frozen fingers and toes when a meeting with one financial entity or the other required her to leave the warmth of the consulate.
She arrived at Oak Street Beach and then spent another ten minutes trying to find a parking spot. She remembered coming here last summer, her first summer in Chicago. It was so blessedly hot. This was one of her favorite places in the city, despite the tremendous crowds during those gloriously warm summer days. Despite the bitter weather, today was no different. The place was swarming with police, TV cameras, and insane Chicagoans who had nothing better to do on the coldest day in Chicago history. Finally, she managed to find a parking garage a block away. Normally, she would be wearing a business suit and probably freezing her butt off. However, late this afternoon she had to attend a function at the Mexican Embassy and, in an effort to dissuade the Consul General's wandering hands, she was wearing the dress uniform with its iconic jacket of red serge and blue wool breeches with yellow stripe. And due to this insane weather, she had opted for the winter parka and fur cap. It wasn't fashionable by any stretch of the imagination, but today was not a day for fashion.
When she finally arrived at the frozen lake, the Chicago police had the area blocked off with bright yellow barricade tape proclaiming "Police Line: Do Not Cross". As she approached, Thatcher saw Fraser and that irritating Detective Vecchio standing next to a cloth draped mound, which was rapidly becoming covered with newly fallen snow. She presumed this mound was the body she was there to see. The two men were in deep conversation with a third person who was so thickly covered in winter clothing that she couldn't tell if the person was male or female.
oOo
"This is the coldest I have ever been in my entire life," moaned Ray as he swayed slightly in the blustery wind. "I swear it's dropped twenty degrees since we got here."
Frozen Lake Michigan offered little protection from the elements. The wind seemed to whip first this way and then that, as if the wind, itself, was trying to personally torment them.
"Taking into consideration the wind chill, it feels like −40° out here on the lake," Fraser stated authoritatively.
"Is that Fahrenheit or Celsius?" asked Ray.
"It doesn't matter. It's the same," answered the mountie.
"You're kidding? All this time I thought they were different. If they're the same, then why have two scales? This is such a confusing day."
"He means that −40° is where the Fahrenheit and Celsius scales intersect," stated the well-wrapped man who had just walked up. "Hello, I'm Mort Gustafson. I'm from the ME's office and I've been assigned this case." Although his voice was slightly muffled through the thick scarf which encircled his face, the two police officers understood him perfectly well.
"Who'd you piss off, Mort?" quipped Ray. "It's colder than a witch's tit out here."
"Indeed," Gustafson inhaled slowly through his scarf.
"Dr. Gustafson," Fraser said politely, as he proceeded to introduce himself and Ray.
Just then, the wind shifted and Benton caught a whiff of a very familiar and pleasant scent in the air. Without another word, he walked away from the men and headed directly towards Inspector Thatcher who was standing at the edge of the cordoned off area.
"Vecchio, you say? That's Italian for old. Did you know that? But of course you did. After all, you're Italian too, right? Puccini is one of my favorite Italian composers."
Then the doctor did a most peculiar thing, he started singing in Italian, more precisely, Italian opera. Ray looked around frantically for Fraser, only to see him running across the lake toward Thatcher who'd finally arrived.
How could Fraser leave him alone with this loon?
"O mio babbino caro,
mi piace, è bello, bello.
Vo'andare in Porta Rossa,
a comperar l'anello!
Sì, sì, ci voglio andare!
e se l'amassi indarno,
andrei sul Ponte Vecchio,
ma per buttarmi in Arno!..."
oOo
Meg saw Fraser lift his head and sniff the air, moving to zero in on some unseen odor until he turned directly toward her. Their eyes locked momentarily until Meg broke the moment with a sardonic lift of her left eyebrow.
That man was so infuriating. He had smelled her. From across a frozen lake with scores of people roaming around, he had picked out her scent.
Fraser quickly ran across the snow-covered lake toward her and lifted the barricade tape so she could enter the crime scene.
"Inspector," Fraser said in greeting, "so good of you to join us so quickly, sir."
She ducked under the tape and he gallantly offered her his hand. She nodded to him curtly as she accepted his help.
"Constable," Thatcher said as a terse greeting. "Well, let's not just stand around freezing all day. Show me this supposed Canadian."
"Yes, sir. Right this way."
However, neither of them moved until Thatcher glanced down, drawing Fraser's attention to the fact that he was still holding her hand. His already flushed-with-cold cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink and he immediately apologized as he dropped her glove-covered hand. Even through layers of Thinsulate, she felt an instant loss of heat when his hand left hers.
oOo
The two mounties approached just as the doctor was finishing his aria.
"...Babbo, pietà, pietà!
Babbo, pietà, pietà!"
"Thank God you're back, Benny," Ray ran over to greet Fraser as if he was his long lost brother. He thumbed back in the direction of the doctor, "That guy's a whack job. And, oh my God, you two look like matching bookends."
Ignoring Ray's non sequitur comment, Fraser said, "Nonsense, Ray. That's an aria from Puccino's Gianni Schicchi. I assume he chose that song because of its reference to Ponte Vecchio since it contains your name."
"Yeah, he said something about that right before he went off on that opera thing."
"From what I heard, Ray, I think he did a remarkable job ... considering."
"Considering what? That he's a lunatic?"
"No, detective," interjected Thatcher, "Considering he's a man. That aria is traditionally sung by a soprano."
"That's right. It's one of Puccino's most recognizable pieces," added Fraser.
"Ah, two lovers..." Gustafson addressed the two mounties as he walked over to join them.
Thatcher and Fraser both flushed furiously and simultaneously stepped away from each other when they realized they were standing shoulder to shoulder.
"...of Italian opera," finished the good doctor. "I'm Mort Gustafson, from the Medical Examiner's Office," he said as he held out a mittened hand to Thatcher.
The Inspector cleared her throat as she gathered herself together and nodded to the doctor. "Meg Thatcher, Liaison Officer, Canadian Consulate."
"Now..." Gustafson rubbed his hands together briskly. "Let's see what we have here before I freeze to death."
He lifted back the cloth to reveal the naked body of a young woman splayed out on the snow. She was blue and slightly bloated and the mere sight of her sent a chill down Meg's spine. After swallowing the sudden build-up of saliva in her mouth, the Inspector in her started to visually examine the body. That's when she noticed the maple leaf tattoo on her lower spine. She supposed that was why they called her. It seemed like a stretch to her, but if she had learned one thing in working with Benton Fraser it was that he had remarkable instincts.
"Help me turn her over," commanded Gustafson.
Fraser reacted quickly, while Vecchio grumbled but helped nonetheless. They turned the woman's body over and Vecchio was the first to react.
"Whoa." Ray couldn't help his reaction. "Is that normal for Canadian babes?" Surprisingly, he directed his question to Inspector Thatcher.
"Excuse me?" she snapped.
Ray flushed at the intensity of her glare. "Well… you know… her private … area. Is that a common thing for women in Canada to do to themselves?"
Now it was Thatcher's turn to blush. "How the hell should I know?"
"Well, you're a Canadian woman, right?" He phrased the question in such a way that it appeared that he wasn't actually sure if she was a woman or a Canadian.
However, it was Fraser who answered his question.
"Actually, I believe it is more common in Brazil, hence the name."
"What name?"
"It's commonly known as a Brazilian wax, Ray."
"Oh, yeah? And which of your grandmother's books did you read that in?"
"Excuse me, but would anyone care to know my opinion?"
All three of them turned to the doctor who was still crouched next to the body. He now had his mittens off and was starting to look very cold.
"You know about Brazilian waxes?" asked Vecchio.
"I was referring to the victim," Gustafson said, trying to bring the focus back to the question at hand. "So you say she was held under the water, presumably by the rope around her ankle?"
Fraser answered, "That is correct. We believe that one of the swimmers cut the rope and released the body."
"Swimmers?" asked Thatcher.
Vecchio, who was finally starting to focus on more than the dead woman's nether regions, answered. "Yeah, a bunch of nuts who like to swim in freezing water. We've got them all down at the station for questioning."
"Well, I'll be able to tell more once I have her on the table, but I'm guessing she's been dead for at least a week or so."
"A week?" exclaimed Vecchio. "How's that?"
"When a cadaver goes in the water, the air in the lungs start to be replaced with water, causing the body to sink. Once submerged, the body stays underwater until the bacteria in the intestines and chest cavity produce enough gas—methane, hydrogen sulfide, and carbon dioxide—to float it to the surface like a balloon."
"Except that this body was tied down," observed Thatcher.
"Correct," agreed the doctor.
"So, did she drown?" Vecchio asked.
"I won't know for sure until I examine her, but I'd have to say that the bullets probably were a contributing factor."
"Bullets? What bullets?" Vecchio's raised voice came out in an embarrassing squeak.
"They're difficult to see because of the body's bloating, but there are two distinct holes here … and here," Doctor Gustafson said as he pointed with a ruler to her upper chest and lower stomach.
With that, Gustafson stood and started to pull his mittens back on.
"I'm ready to transport her now. I should be able to start the autopsy later today. I assume you'll want to be there."
"Yeah, yeah… we'll be there. Just give me a call. Okay, Doc?"
The medical personnel quickly gathered up the body and placed it in a black body bag and carried it quickly to the nearby ambulance. The doctor followed gratefully behind them.
Vecchio turned to the two mounties.
"Well, I gotta get back to the station and oversee all those frozen witnesses and see if one of them is our killer. Could you check with the Port Authority and see if they have any video of the area? They should be expecting you." the detective directed the question to Fraser, assuming that the inspector would be going back to the warmth of the consulate.
Fraser nodded in agreement, but Thatcher spoke first.
"I'll go with Fraser. That way he'll have a ride to the ME's office. You can call me when you find out the time of the autopsy. We'll meet you there." She handed him her business card. "My cell number's on there."
The two men stared at her in surprise.
"What? If she really is a Canadian citizen, it's my duty to help find her killer."
"Oh, okay. Umm…" Ray started to dig around in his pocket until he came up with an old 7-11 receipt. It took another half minute to find a pen, but he was finally able to hand her his phone number, albeit wrinkled and slightly smeared.
Vecchio clapped his hands together with loud bang.
"Alright, people. Let's get going."
As Vecchio walked away, he heard the Dragon Lady ask Fraser, "What's with the Elmer Fudd hat?"
oOo
"I apologize for disrupting your day, Inspector."
Benton Fraser sat ramrod straight in Inspector Thatcher's immaculate Lexus LS 400. Although they were meant to be a luxurious amenity, he found the heated leather seat a bit disconcerting. It was as if some unknown person had just vacated the seat and he was absorbing that person's body heat. He gripped his muskrat fur cap tightly, but it wasn't helping. It was his habit to constantly worry his Stetson around and around in his hands. It seemed to be therapeutic and soothing in every manner of tense situations. Unfortunately, the muskrat cap brought no comfort whatsoever.
"It's not a problem. The day looked to be quite boring," Thatcher replied as she expertly maneuvered the vehicle out of the parking garage and back out onto the snow packed streets.
In less than two blocks, she slammed her foot on the brakes simultaneously as her hand hit the car horn when a city trash truck barreled out in front of them.
"Crazy American driver!"
Even though Benton was a perfectly adequate driver, he preferred the wide open spaces of western Canada, rather than the tense city driving of Chicago. In fact, he longed for just such solitude right now.
Once they started moving again and Benton's heart had stopped pounding in his chest, he decided to try and continue the conversation with his superior. He seemed to find himself unusually nervous around her and this erratic car ride wasn't helping things.
"Umm, I doubt an afternoon viewing video surveillance tapes will be what one would call exciting."
"You haven't met the new Mexican Consul General. Trust me, a little boredom will be a welcome change from having to constantly remove his hand from my knee. Why do you think I wore the Red Serge?"
She stopped the car at a traffic light and Benton took the opportunity to tell her, "Red suits you."
Everytime he said those words, Thatcher's heart skipped a beat. Her head tipped to the side, causing her mass of dark hair to fall over the right side of her face, thereby hiding the bashful smile which came unbidden.
Without over thinking his actions or even thinking at all, for that matter, he reached over and gently swept her hair back over her ear.
"You need a hairpin," he said softly.
She turned to look at him, which was a mistake. It was always very difficult to concentrate on anything other than those bedroom blue eyes when she looked at him.
"I seem to have misplaced them all."
They found themselves drawing closer and closer together until their lips were only centimeters apart. Meg automatically tilted her head to the side and parted her lips in anticipation of...
The blare of the car horn caused them to jump apart. The light had turned to green and an angry American driver was telling them in no uncertain terms that he was tired of waiting.
Thatcher immediately gunned the engine and the Lexus leapt into traffic. Fraser sat back in the warm seat and stared straight ahead, afraid to look in her direction.
The rest of the trip went by in an awkward silence until they, at last, arrived at the Illinois International Port District, or as it was known colloquially, the Port Authority. Because of the constantly accumulating snowfall this winter, parking on the street was nonexistent. So for the second time in one day, Meg found herself searching for an accessible parking garage. She was starting to long for her reserved spot back at the consulate.
They pulled into the closest municipal parking garage and found an empty slot below ground level. She quickly pulled her car in. Meg would never park in such an isolated spot if she was alone. However, having Fraser with her made her feel very safe and protected, even if she would never admit it to him. She allowed him to take control while they were inside the dark garage. He opened and closed the car door for her, escorted her to the elevator and made sure she safely exited the garage.
TBC
Author's Notes:
My first love has always been Star Trek and I find that writing dialogue for Fraser involves the same thought processes as writing for a Star Trek Vulcan.
Live Long and Prosper.
Please, Please, Please… if you're out there and you're reading this, let me know by throwing me a review.
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