by Dave Butler
Willson turned to look at Berland and knew from the anger on his face that he was thinking about his grandparents.
“Austin clearly has a questionable past,” said Fortier, “but we have no idea if he’s following the same pattern with the new business here, or if what he’s doing is legitimate. There’s a bunch of questions flying around but no solid answers. For me, the most important question is whether there’s a direct link between the business and the recent violent crimes. We’ve got more interviews to do and we’re still waiting on evidence reports. But maybe if we can better understand the business, the answer might become more clear. Are there red flags that we should be looking for as we dig deeper into the business aspect, Court?”
“There are,” said Pepper. “I’m sure your commercial crime guys know these by heart, but I’ll run through them in case you have to go it alone. First, the investment offers high returns with little or no risk, often in some form of guarantee. And those returns are often overly consistent, unlike other investments that go up and down with the vagaries of the market. Most Ponzi schemes involve investments that aren’t registered with provincial regulators, which means that investors don’t have access to information they should, or they’re shown forged or fake documents. They’re also commonly sold by people or businesses that aren’t properly registered. And the alleged investments can be abnormally secretive or complex. From what I’ve read, the end of the scheme is likely near when you start hearing stories about missing or late account statements, late payments to investors, or if investors experience significant delays in getting their money back out.”
“Shit,” said Berland, tossing his pen on his notebook. After a single bounce, it disappeared under Pepper’s desk. “I think we need to talk to some of Austin’s investors to truly get a sense of what’s going on. And judging by our meeting with Austin, it won’t be easy to get those names.”
“How did, uh, journalists do it when they wrote stories about his crimes in the past?” asked Willson.
“When I asked them, they told me it was much easier then because law enforcement officials were already involved in the cases, so there were investigators willing to talk to me … I mean them … off the record.”
Willson looked at Pepper, at Fortier, and then at Berland. “Maybe we can entice the investors out of the darkness like moths to a porch light.”
“What’re you thinking, Jenny?” asked Berland.
“There are two ways we can approach this. The most obvious is to get someone to pose as an investor, get on the inside of the project, and then look for those red flags that Courtney has identified.”
“That would be a job for one of our commercial crime guys,” said Fortier, “if I can convince them to help …”
“Agreed,” said Willson.
“What’s the other way?” asked Berland.
Willson smiled. “If a business story were to appear in the Calgary, Vancouver, and Toronto newspapers, and maybe online, that hinted at financial questions being raised about the ski project by ‘unnamed sources,’ how much would you bet that investors in any of those cities would come out of the woodwork to either push Austin for answers or simply pull their money out of the project? Or, better yet, get in contact with the journalist who wrote the piece to get more information.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that second option,” said Fortier, his brow furrowing. “That crosses an ethical line for me. But if it happens, such an article would have to be skillfully done so the writer didn’t end up facing libel charges. I assume it breaks a number of rules of journalism, as well as sitting right on the line of defamation. Do you know of anyone who fits that description, has that level of skill?”
“I believe I do,” said Willson, glancing at Berland. “There’s a really good reporter at the Calgary Herald whom I dealt with in a previous investigation.”
“I’m sure we can find someone better,” Berland said, looking at Willson. “Based on what we heard last week from Austin and Myers, that kind of media attention is not gonna make them happy.”
“And your point is?” asked Willson.
“My point is that it’s a hell of an idea. And if your Calgary hack friend won’t take the assignment,” Berland said, “then I might know someone …”
“Either way, we should expect some blowback from Austin,” Fortier cautioned. “I want both of you to pay extra attention to what’s going on around you. If Austin and Myers were involved in setting that fire, then they’ve shown what they’re willing to do to those who stand in their way.”
“And I think I’ll pretend I didn’t hear any of that last bit,” said Pepper, frowning, her hands over her ears. “I’ll stick to my numbers and my spreadsheets.”
“Good call, Courtney,” said Willson.
CHAPTER 27
APRIL 9
South of Golden, Ben Fortier turned off Highway 95 into the rural community of Nicholson, dropped down a hill, then crossed a bridge over the north-flowing Columbia River. From there, he steered the RCMP SUV onto McBeath Road and pulled over at a driveway entrance. He turned to Willson in the passenger seat. “The Yoho Park superintendent called you right after the meeting with Court yesterday. What did he say?”
“It seems Austin started making calls as soon as we left his house. As low man on the totem pole, the super was told to call me. He’s in a tough position … smart enough to realize that something’s not right with the project, but experienced enough not to piss off his bosses. It’s called multidirectional ass-covering. It’s like yoga, but more challenging — and much less fun to watch on YouTube. He told me to keep working with you, quietly, but to back off of Austin.”
“And?”
“And I tried to explain to him that based on what I’ve seen so far, the violence and the growing questions about the project can no longer be separated — the two are inextricably linked.”
“Did he buy it?”
“Nope. He told me that his boss got a call from someone in Ottawa, who had received a call from the deputy minister, who had been dragged into the Prime Minister’s Office to explain what I was doing and why. In a classic demonstration of the physics of shit flowing downhill, always picking up speed and volume, I’m being told to stop what they’ve called my ‘rogue investigation into Stafford Austin and his project,’” she said, using air quotes, “and to leave any questions about the project to the review process.”
“Your name was mentioned in the lofty halls of Ottawa? In our outfit, that’s not normally a good thing.”
“Not in ours, either,” said Willson with a smirk. “Seems I’ve pissed off someone way up there. Can’t help but wonder why …”
“Did Church actually tell you straight out to stop what you’re doing?”
“He’s too devious for that. He said he’d been told to tell me that government at the highest levels wanted me to stop. And that he was passing on that message. So I told him I heard the message and understood it.”
“But you didn’t say you were going to stop …”
“Nope. And I’m sure he suspects I’ll keep going. He wants to keep his bosses happy, but he also doesn’t want to be the guy who’s later accused of trying to cover something up.”
“You’re not worried about what they’ll do if you don’t stand down?”
“Being on the wrong side of the bureaucracy isn’t breaking new ground for me, Ben,” she said, staring at Fortier with eyes like laser beams. “To be honest, I’m more concerned about what they’ll do if I do stop. Who’s got the balls to hold them accountable?”
“So, you’re telling me you’re not going to stop … even though your boss told you to, and even though Austin and Myers may have less than subtly threatened you.”
“They did threaten both me and Mike, Ben. There’s no question of that. But that just makes me want to dig deeper, although now I’ll have to be more careful. I have no plans to walk away from this. Which is why I’m pleased that we’re talking to Leo Springer
today. I think he’s a missing piece in this puzzle.”
“Well, I do like your spirit, Jenny.” Fortier put the car in gear. “Let’s see if he’s home.”
“Wait,” said Willson, putting her hand on his arm.
Fortier put his foot on the brake. “What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you and Courtney were engaged when I suggested meeting at her office?”
“Oh … it didn’t cross my mind. I thought everyone knew. You two are friends from high school, so I thought she would’ve told you.”
“We hadn’t talked in fourteen years. It was news to me.”
Fortier looked at her blankly, like he had no idea what was going on. He probably doesn’t, thought Willson. Bloody clueless male.
“It’s not an issue between us, is it?” he asked, his face wrinkled in confusion.
“No,” said Willson, turning away and feeling foolish about raising her discomfort. “No issue at all. I guess I wanted to congratulate you. She seems to have turned out nice.”
“She wasn’t nice when you knew her?” asked Fortier.
“Shut up and drive, Ben.”
Once they were on the move again, Fortier began looking at rural addresses on passing mailboxes. “What’s your friend Mike doing today while you’re out with me?” he asked.
“I don’t have Wi-Fi at my house, so he’s going to the library to start writing the article we talked about. He seemed keen to put pen to paper … or fingers to keyboard. I understand he’s already contacted some media outlets about running it.”
“And you still trust him?”
“So far, so good. He said he won’t do anything until I tell him to pull the trigger.”
“I’m interested to see how he pulls it off so he doesn’t get himself in hot water.”
“Me, too. Did you talk to commercial crime about making a covert connection with Austin?”
“I briefed an inspector in the section last night. All I can say at this point is that something might happen. I don’t know if or what or when. Those guys are busy, and I may need to bring them more evidence to get them excited. Oh, the joys of a small rural detachment …” He pointed at the last house on the left-hand side of the road, tucked up against a steep hillside. “There,” he said, “that’s the address we have for Springer.”
The SUV bounced down the gravel driveway — its surface was littered with potholes and tree roots. In the main yard, a weathered single-wide mobile home sat in a clearing, surrounded by equally weathered and seemingly unmaintained outbuildings. A wooden garage open on three sides was full of firewood cut and stacked in rows. Across from it sat two aluminum sheds and a large timber-frame building, its double doors open. A very large bull mastiff was chained to a doghouse nearby. As they got out of the truck, the dog stood, growling at them and straining at the limit of its chain. For a moment, Willson wondered if it would drag its house toward them. But the chain held tight. For the moment.
Willson and Fortier heard the sound of a saw whining, so they headed toward the timber-frame building, Willson taking an extra wide route to avoid the radius of the chained dog, with her hand resting on her gun, just in case.
Inside what they now saw was a workshop, a man with his back to them was pushing a large board through a shrieking planer. He wore tattered denim overalls over a flannel shirt and was covered from head to toe in sawdust. Because he was at least a foot taller than their description of the suspect, Willson knew this was not Springer. She waited until the board was through the machine, then moved to where the man could see her. Clearly startled, he dropped the board with a bang.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. He shut down the machine and pulled orange hearing protectors from his ears. His eyes were wide behind bulbous safety goggles. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“My apologies,” said Willson. “I’m National Park Warden Jenny Willson, and this is Corporal Ben Fortier. We’re looking for Leo Springer. Is he here?”
“Nope,” said the man, wiping his hands on his pants. “You just missed him.”
“And who are you?” asked Willson.
“Ben Jones. I own this place. Leo rents a room from me.”
“What do you mean we just missed him?” Fortier asked, looking back up the driveway.
“He must have been expecting you. He drove in here in a hurry, grabbed some things, and then left.”
“What direction did he come from when he came in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shit,” said Willson. “He must have seen us or passed us when we were parked out on the road.”
“Did you see what he took with him?” Fortier asked, looking concerned.
“He had his rifle case and a canvas duffle bag.”
“Was there a rifle in the case?”
“No idea. But he left in a hell of a rush.”
“Which way did he go?”
“He turned left onto McBeath. If he saw you guys parked out toward the highway like you said, then he probably headed in the other direction, up the back road toward Cedar Lake and the ski hill. What’s he done?”
“We just need to ask him some questions,” said Fortier as he strode back toward the SUV. Partway across the yard, he paused and turned back to Jones. “What kind of truck is he driving?”
“An old Toyota Tacoma. It’s got so many miles on it now it’s more rust than metal. Used to be dark blue.”
“Thanks,” yelled Fortier. Willson was right behind him.
“He’s probably only a minute or two ahead of us,” said Fortier, “so let’s see if we can catch him.” He grabbed the radio microphone from the dash while he steered them out of the yard with one hand. “Echo Two-Four, this is Echo Five-Two. Are you around?”
The response came crisp and strong. “Go ahead Five-Two.”
“What’s your ten-twenty?”
“I’m pulling out of the office, heading downtown.”
“I’m in Nicholson. Can you go up the ski hill road as quick as you can, lights and no siren, and keep your eye out for a dark-blue Toyota Tacoma, lots of rust? I need to talk to the occupant, a single male. I’m coming that way on the back road via Cedar Lake.”
“Ten-four. On my way.”
“If you don’t see him when you get to the Dogtooth Forest Road turnoff, set up there. If you see him, stop him.”
“Roger that.”
“Thanks. The occupant may have a firearm, so consider it a high-risk stop. Understand?”
“Ten-four.”
“Mr. Springer doesn’t seem keen on talking to us,” said Fortier. He dropped the microphone in his lap and put both hands on the wheel as he navigated the muddy, rutted hairpin turns of McBeath Road as it climbed the steep hill and became Canyon Creek Forest Service Road. “I wonder why.”
Willson had her left hand on the dash while the right gripped the handle above the passenger door. “We’ll have to ask him. The fact that he may have grabbed a rifle is disturbing, though.”
“You got that right.”
Fortier slowed as they reached the intersection of Canyon Creek and Dogtooth. From the fresh tire tracks in the mud, they could see that the vehicle they were chasing had skidded across the road to the right, almost hitting the ditch on the far side, before continuing north on Dogtooth. Fortier punched the gas pedal to follow and grabbed the microphone again.
“Echo Two-Four, this is Five-Two. He should be coming your way.”
“Roger that,” said the other officer. “I’m at the corner and can see a vehicle coming now.”
After only a few seconds, the radio crackled again. “Five-Two, he saw me. He pulled a U-turn and is heading back in your direction. I’m behind him with lights on.”
“Ten-four,” said Fortier calmly. “We should see him any second.” And he was right. The Toyota truck suddenly came up over a rise ahead of them, its tires off the ground. The pursuing RCMP cruiser was immediately behind. At the last possible moment, Fortier slammed the brakes and spun the steering wheel
to the right, making the SUV slew across the road, blocking most of the two gravel lanes, with the front driver’s corner facing the oncoming truck.
The old Toyota skidded for a second as its driver applied the brakes. But then it lurched and picked up speed.
“He’s going to try to get by on my side!” yelled Willson. For a moment, she thought about opening her door, but quickly realized she’d be safer inside the vehicle.
Springer would have made it past them, but his back tire dropped into the ditch on the lower side of the road as he passed. The truck lurched again. This time, Springer apparently lost control, and the truck careened off into the trees behind and below them. Willson and Fortier jumped out of the vehicle and ran to the top of the steep bank in time to hear a loud bang. At the same time, a massive spruce tree shook violently, the leader at the top whipping back and forth. The truck’s horn began blaring as though punctuating the end of a sentence.
Willson reached the truck first after punching downhill through patches of snow. She saw that Springer had been launched through the truck’s front windshield and now lay still on the crumpled hood, spruce cones and broken branches still raining down on him. Moving to the downhill side of the vehicle, she raised the fingers of her right hand to the man’s bloodied neck and held them there for a few seconds, gentle, practised, feeling for any throbs of blood still moving through his carotid artery.
“He’s got a pulse! It’s faint but it’s there. Call an ambulance.”
Fortier was already speaking into his shoulder microphone by the time he reached Willson and the truck, his police colleague on his heels. “Control, Echo Five-Two, we need an ambulance near the two-kilometre marker on the Dogtooth Forest Service Road, west of Golden. One male patient with serious injuries.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Willson, shaking her head. “I guess it’ll be a while before Springer can answer any questions — if he even makes it.”
