Dead Politician Society

Chapter 1: Clare

Ugh. Dead mayor. Duh. She wished she could take back the question.

Cloutier shook his head and muttered, “Politics.”

“Okay.” She'd prefer science—more straightforward than the heady word games of history and social sciences. But she’d pull all-nighters to get up to speed. A student would be easier to play than a reporter or a political assistant.

“I’m not sure it is okay.” Cloutier frowned, which made his thick jaw go slack, like an oversized pug dog. “You’re taking your life in your hands when you go undercover. I told the brass to get someone older. Could’ve sent someone in as a mature student. But the brass didn’t think it would have the same effect.”

Clare said, “Is there a reason I’m only half undercover, using my real first name?”

“To avoid one classic rookie tell—if you don’t react on impulse when someone calls your name.”

“I won’t—”

He put a hand in the air to stop her. “We’re sending you into a job where we think you’ll be socializing with a killer. Our first priority, always, is to bring you back alive.”

“Thanks.” Clare wasn’t sure whether to feel protected or insulted.

“You’re also keeping your apartment, your wardrobe, and pretty much everything about your regular life except your backstory. Again, this is non-traditional. And frankly I think it’s a mistake too. But it’s a rush job. You’re being thrown in fast so no more politicians die. If possible.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“This isn’t a permanent transfer.” Cloutier broke a piece from his donut. “Screw this case up and it’s back to petty crime.”

“I know.” Again, fair. Most cops had to put in years in uniform before their first undercover case. She’d been on the force three months. “So how did the mayor die?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Do you live on this planet?”

Clare eyed Cloutier’s dutchie, the doughy chunk of raisins and flour and sugar. She wished she had one of her own, or something greasy, like bacon or sausage, to soak up her mild hangover. But last night’s man had been worth it. Kevin. An electrician whose hands could work her body like a fuse box. She let his memory satiate her stomach-grumbling hunger.

Cloutier said, “Hayden Pritchard died at last night’s Working Child benefit. You may have heard of it—the fundraiser gala held each September to soak up donations from stars in town for the film festival. He collapsed in his own vomit. It was all over the news.”

“I know where he died. What I meant was, have we ruled out natural causes? Was it poison? Something else?” Clare tried to keep the edge from her voice, but it was hard when this growling giant seemed compelled to let her know how ineffective she was, before she'd even had a chance to prove herself.

“Just read this.” He passed a printed email across the stained Formica table.

Hayden Pritchard: July 27, 1954-September 6, 2010

We hereby launch our campaign to create a political utopia for the real world. Hayden Pritchard made a dramatic exit from life last night, facilitated by the poison we slipped him.

Pritchard became mayor thirteen years ago, at which point he began to skilfully destroy the city’s economy. He spent piles of money to cultivate all kinds of fringe votes, and when he went over budget, he simply raised taxes to compensate. Small business owners closed up shop or moved to the suburbs in response to punishing tax hikes, and Toronto was ranked the worst place in the Western world in which to do business.