Stone Cold Dead

"You Jasper?"

The burly construction worker looked down at his name badge on the left-hand side of his chest, then up at the trench-coated figure and grunted. "Yeah, I am. You the cop?"

"Stu Markham." The detective's badge appeared in his hand, then just as quickly disappeared back into his trenchcoat. "I'm with Metro homicide. You the guy who found the body?"

Jasper cast a glance toward his fellow workers. Most pretended not to notice. A couple looked away. "Yeah," he said. "I'm the one." He glanced suspiciously at Markham's shadow. "What about him?"

"Oh, him," Markham said, acknowledging the notebook brandishing suit with a toss of his head. "Richard Gaspé. He's a reporter. Ignore him."

"Gaspé, huh," Jasper said. "French?"

"Non," Gaspé replied with a grin, "French Canadian."

Markham popped a Juicy Fruit and started to chew, wishing that smoking was still allowed in Toronto. Bogart always had a cigarette. Why couldn't he?

"So, where are you hiding this body?" he asked stuffing the wrapper into his pants pocket.

"Follow me," Jasper said as he walked off.

Markham looked at the chiselled walls. "Get some pictures of this will you, Gaspé? We might need them as evidence."

Gaspé sighed loudly but a second later, Markham could hear the flash charging up.

"So what are you guys building here?" Markham said as he followed Jasper down the rocky passage.

"We're buildin' the Sheppard subway line."

"Isn't that finished yet?"

He glanced over his shoulder at Markham. "The level three extension," he said with a sigh. "Don't you listen to the news or take the subway?"

"Yeah, sure. Every now and then. Are we there yet?"

Jasper rolled his eyes. "Just around this corner."

Three construction workers sat huddled near the prone figure, their lamps casting an eerie illumination on the lifeless form, the first light to hit the deceased for a long time. Just above the eye sockets, a neat circular hole pierced the skull, a silent testament to the poor soul's unfortunate end. Beside the body was a glistening blue metal case. The handle lay a centimetre forever from his reach.

Confused, Markham reached forward and rapped the figure's chest with his knuckles. "It's a rock," he said. "The station told me some guy got killed down here." He looked back at the fossilized humanoid form, empty eye sockets staring blindly at him across the millennia. He scrunched his face into a particularly unBogartish frown. "This isn't even a guy!"

Gaspé was already madly snapping pictures. "Cow-lynn!" he was saying. "Cow-liss! This is incredible!"

"Yeah, amazing," Markham sighed. He couldn't see much glory in solving a murder that had occurred millions of years before he was born. Or much chance. Gaspé's nearly hysterical laughter broke Markham's self-pity.

Gaspé looked at Jasper and the other workers with admiration. "It's beautiful!" he said. Then, turning to Markham, he added. "After today, this town will be more famous for fossils than Drumheller," he said. He licked his lips maniacally. "And I am going to be famous!"

Markham's face remained locked in confusion. "Drumheller?" he said. "Who's Drumheller?"

# # #

"Look, Markham. We don't need you anymore," Colonel Cochrane Weyburn said. He stopped at the double doors to the lab, turned to the detective and grinned, showing off his newly-capped teeth. "The military is taking care of this and the university is more than adequately equipped to solve any mystery. Go home."