MURDER ON VANCOUVER ISLAND: Hatred, prejudice, or a heinous crime without motive?

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  Gibson turned in a half circle and squinted in the sunshine as he inspected the scene, his glance roving over the crew. The men stood stationary with lips parted and breathing almost nonexistent. All curiosity had shifted to him. Men of all sizes and shapes clustered near the crime scene, dressed in coveralls, dirty jeans and heavy tops. Most had expressions of disbelief creasing their faces. Some had looks of infinite indifference. He knew the maintenance crew were waiting nervously for the next thing to happen. Was one of these men the murderer? Was it the loner remaining just feet from the circle—a part of the group, yet not? Did he distance himself from the others because of shyness, dislike or something more sinister? Did the two fellows standing close have a pact? Were they best of allies? Or partners in crime? A heavy-set man with a protruding paunch was smoking a cigarette. He stared at the ground. Was he peering into the past? Or the future? They followed Gibson with their eyes as he advanced across the courtyard. Even the ones with downcast eyes observed him, surely sensing he was the real director of this play.

  Walking was made difficult by the loose aggregation of water-worn gravel and the array of vans, cruisers and trucks that jammed the yard. Gibson zigzagged his way over to the second in command, DS Ann Scott Cruickshank. She stood close to the crime scene, her hand brushing the bright yellow tape. The black suit and business-like white blouse instilled a sense of sternness while an occasional Cheshire grin flashed and showed her compassion. Often chestnut curls would border her face and soften her toughness, but today she wore her hair in a tight bun. She towered over most men, making her a formidable and significant presence at every investigation. He knew that she would have finished the initial walk-through and secured the location so evidence didn’t get destroyed or moved. There were lights set on large stands tucked against the wall, ready to use if the day turned to night. Even though it was early, today and the next few weeks could be long days for all the people involved. He noticed that several police officers were wandering through the parking lot with heads bent. Good. The search for clues had already begun. The DS looked up as Gibson walked toward her.

  “Hi, Billy,” she addressed her boss, giving him a fleeting flash of her grin. Thank goodness none of the other officers dared to use her pet name for him. Not to his face anyway.

  “Hi, Scottie,” he shot back. It was a nickname she had been given early in her career, and it had stuck.

  The two detectives stood opposite and spoke softly while they waited for the medical examiner. Scottie gave him a brief account of everything she knew so far—nothing really. As they discussed their strategy, the crime unit team carried on with their tasks. Flashes of light from a camera inside the canopy competed with lights still blinking from police vehicles. The photographer was taking pictures of the body and the blood spatter from every angle. At one point, Gibson saw him swivel and snap off a roll of the maintenance crew hanging out by the garage doors. The photographer deposited his camera into a bag and hauled out a video cam. Positioned in front of Robbie, he spun around once again but this time capturing the point of view of the victim.

  The medical examiner arrived with a screeching halt on the loose gravel, his standard grand entrance. The door slammed shut, and Dr. Rod McNeill stood indifferently, anchoring a hand on his hip. His shaggy, dark hair with flecks of white at the temple bestowed a distinguished English gentleman’s appearance. Although Rod was a short man, his well-fitted suit transformed his brawny build into a flattering natural V shape. Nodding in their direction, he strolled over to them, a dark leather briefcase tucked to his side. He swept up the tape with a hand sporting neatly trimmed nails and a French polish, and scooted under. The detectives followed.

  Gibson looked at blood spatter on the wall and the metallic silver powder dusted all around. Straight ahead was a flight of narrow stairs and to the left a door that lead to the garage. The landing was too small for three people and a body, so they stood close together, elbows rubbing. A sickly-sweet smell assaulted their nostrils. Scottie bristled slightly at the stench and swatted at the flies that tried to alight on her face. Nothing bothered Rod so he got down to business at once. He placed his case on the floor, took out several pairs of latex gloves and handed a pair to both detectives to ensure no cross-contamination.

  Nobody spoke while Rod readied himself. He tugged on his trousers and knelt down on his right knee. Then he laid two gloved fingers on the victim’s neck looking for a pulse. He had told Gibson a long time ago that this was a well-advised routine as he had been surprised before—never good. He looked at his watch, declared Robbie dead and marked the time in his book, pressing his lips together—neither smiling nor frowning. Some men had inched closer to the yellow tape, curious to view the proceedings. They pushed hard against the line that protected the crime scene. Others had shrunk away from the grisly sight.

  “Could you help me with this?” Rod asked, turning to the DI. “Face him up.”

  “Oh, sure.” Gibson’s knee cracked as he lowered himself next to the body. But got no comeback, no chuckles or banter. Not here, not now.

  They unbuckled the straps of the backpack hanging from Robbie’s arms and put the bag aside. Rod grabbed the shirt at the shoulder while Gibson seized the shorts. Because of the space limitations, they had to rotate the corpse away from them. On the count of three, they heaved, grunted and tugged the man onto his back. Scottie knelt down on the other side, ready to stop the body from getting away from them. A loud thump sounded on the cement as Robbie’s head hit the floor. His hazel eyes were wide open and held a desolate sadness, staring past the dingy ceiling to infinity. Dirt and bits of gravel stuck into the skin of his palms and knees. Blood had gushed from the wound and pasted wispy locks of fine hair to his cheeks. Gibson reached out to shut the unseeing eyes but halted with his hand hovering over the face. A silent okay from the ME and he brushed his palm gently over the eyelids. Rod rummaged through his bag and yanked out a pencil. Without disturbing the area exposed by moving the body, he stretched over and prodded at an object tucked in an armpit.

  “Well, well, look at this,” Rod mumbled as he dragged the wrapped condom from its hiding spot.

  A sharp intake of breath broke the silence. Gibson turned quickly to see a man with a hand clasped over his mouth. His eyes were popped open, and his eyebrows raised in a look of fright. Scottie shook her head in dismay and mouthed, “Oh, shit. Complications.”

  “I’ll get my report to you after the autopsy,” Rod said as Gibson returned his attention to the ME.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked and then added. “Can you give me a time of death?”

  “Yes. As I was saying, tomorrow.” Rod tilted his head to the ceiling. “To the question of time of death, I can give you an estimate now.” He tugged at his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Let’s say between five and seven this morning. But don’t hold me to that until after the autopsy.”

  “Okay. Could you give it top priority?” Gibson asked, figuring this new evidence would put a wrench in their investigation.

  “I could do that.” Rod plucked off his gloves and threw them in the open bag. He snapped it shut, grabbed the handles and pushed himself to his feet. With a final check around the landing and over to the body, he left the confined space. He departed with a scattering of gravel and a squeal of tires on the asphalt as he hit the boulevard.

  Gibson rifled through the backpack before calling over a CSI technician. Both the pack and the condom were placed in evidence bags and tagged. As the technician finished up, the photographer who was hovering nearby, returned to take more pictures without being asked. There was only one thing left to do here. Gibson glanced toward a rumpled looking attendant leaning on a windowless truck, a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. A second man leaned against the hood next to him, sucking on a candy. As he walked over, the man pinched the lit end to extinguish it and inserted it in his pocket.

  “We’re ready for you.”

  “You bet.”

  The technicians di
dn’t waste any time. They had been standing by idly for hours and were happy to get moving. From the back of their truck, they grabbed some equipment and headed over to the landing. They wrapped the body in a white cotton cloth, placed him in a vinyl bag and loaded all onto a stretcher. With their cargo tucked in the back, the technicians jumped into their wagon and spun out of the yard. It was the last time Robbie would leave his workplace.

  Chapter 4

  An air of melancholy surrounded Gibson as he watched Robbie make his last journey. A hundred orange and yellow lanterns swayed on makeshift wires, and ghostly sheets in the branches fluttered as the wind blew between the buildings. Faint hints of smoke and scorched pumpkins intermingled with the sea mist hanging close to the ground. His breath stuttered from short, shallow bursts to deeper puffs in the chilly air. He glanced at the many technicians dressed in white coveralls darting here and there, busy with their work. To his left, a single storey building sheathed in steel panels made a twanging noise when the wind picked up speed. From the open door, he could see an enormous workshop and tons of tools. The garage door of the two-storey building on his right where the murder had taken place was partially open, pumping out heat into the cold. The sun had fled behind low clouds, casting long shadows on the graveled yard. He remained rooted to the spot as he considered the implications of the condom. It was going to make things difficult that was for sure, but that wouldn’t stop him. He would take all the pieces and shuffle them until the puzzle made a clear picture and the murderer was caught.

  “What’s our next move?” Scottie asked as she sidled up next to him.

  His reflections were cut short like a boat broken loose and drifting to shore. With the whiff of sea air still in his nostrils, he shook himself back to reality.

  “We need someone to canvas the neighbourhood.”

  “How about Na and Gunner,” Scottie suggested. “I have them with the uniforms in the parking lot.”

  “Tell them to check every house around here. Anybody who saw a strange vehicle. Somebody walking around early this morning. The usual.” He turned away for a moment. “Is there another entrance to the building? At the back?”

  “I’ll find out.” Scottie scribbled the request on her to-do list and headed to the rear of the building. A two-metre conifer hedge marked the boundary of the yard. Its prickly needles trimmed tight left no room to squeeze through to the other side. Definitely not an escape route. One of the DCs shuffled along the front of it with his head down, searching for any minute trace of evidence. It was a thankless job with a low percentage of results, but had to be done nevertheless. One never knew what would turn up—a footprint, a tossed cigarette or a carelessly dropped ID card. It happened.

  “Na. Where’s Gunner?” Scottie shouted, waving a hand to catch his attention.

  “He’s back there somewhere.” Na pointed to the corner of the yard as the misplaced DC materialized from behind the hedge.

  “Hey, Scottie. What’s up?” Gunner asked. His unruly mess of chocolate hair was covered in dirt and pieces of broken twigs. He brushed his palms across his forehead and flipped the long bangs away from his face.

  “Did either of you find anything?”

  “Not me,” Na replied.

  “Nothing at the back,” Gunner said, his lopsided grin revealing straight white teeth.

  “Okay. Let the uniforms finish up here. I have a better job for both of you.”

  “Whatever you want,” Na said.

  “The neighbourhood needs to be canvassed. You know the drill. I can count on you. Right?”

  “You bet,” Gunner replied, happy to be bumped up to a less tedious task. Everybody knew knocking on doors was better than scouring for clues in the dirt. He flipped his hair once again, letting loose a cloud of debris.

  “Check houses and apartments in a three-block radius. And the park,” Scottie said, giving a sly smile. Undoubtedly, the unspoken word really meant: rouse the homeless camp while you’re at it. The guys knew. She didn’t have to spell it out. The police ignored the men languishing there as long as there was no trouble. “Oh yeah. The victim didn’t have cash or a pocketbook. Maybe it was stolen. Check for that too.”

  The air had cooled down substantially as clouds had floated in all morning, threatening showers. The workers had drifted to the garage to warm up and gossip. A drone of voices rose and fell with the wind. Gibson followed the buzz. Someone had pushed the steel doors a metre off the ground, making a narrow opening for entry. He stooped over at the waist and slipped inside, giving a suitable grunt as a twinge rapped on his spine. The tables were still set up from the evening before, leaving scant space for the crew. They had squeezed together into groups. Only one guy stood alone, leaning against an old Zamboni which took up most of the floor space. Assorted tools vital for maintaining the university’s rink located across the boulevard hung on hooks in the wall or were placed haphazardly on shelves. Gibson heard some snickering and joking interweave through the low hum—a characteristic behaviour he had noticed before, even with his staff. Of course, they were muttering about Robbie and, unfortunately, about the condom found at the crime scene. The whole city would know before long.

  “Are there any more workers around?” Gibson asked.

  “I’ll get them,” AJ Stone responded. Although he was tall and solidly built, his face was fleshy. Gibson could see the beginnings of a beer belly. Youthfulness had been lost ages ago as the long dark hair woven with grey receded halfway across his skull. His fingertips discoloured by cigarettes were a ghastly yellow-brown.

  “What’s your name?”

  “AJ. I’m the welder.”

  “Okay, go.”

  AJ ducked under the garage door and strolled over to the adjacent building.

  “Which one of you discovered the body?” A hush fell over the men. They gawked at the guy by the Zamboni. Someone pointed an accusatory finger in his direction.

  “Me,” David whispered.

  Gibson raised his eyebrows in question.

  “David Hunter.”

  “You knew who the victim was right away.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you know it was Robbie?”

  “His biking shorts,” David answered. “His ride is out there.”

  Gibson pulled up on the garage door, but it wouldn’t budge. He gave it a little more effort. The door broke free. David leaped away as it slammed against the frame with a crash. The DI rubbed a spot near his belt at the back, thinking that was a stupid move. He stepped outside into the pale sunlight and headed toward the end of the building, David following reluctantly behind him. There were several bikes in a stand bolted to the wall.

  “Which bike is his?”

  “The Kona. The black and silver one.”

  “Thanks.”

  David scurried back to the safety of the garage. Gibson looked around the yard for his fingerprint technician. He spotted him just a spit away hunched over an open tailgate, busy organizing a case filled with brushes, powders, tape, lift cards and a magnifying glass—everything needed to catch a print. The other bag beside him would contain all the physical evidence already collected. He walked up to the technician and clapped him on the upper arm.

  “Have you got time? Could you fingerprint Robbie’s bike?”

  “No problem.” Snatching his tools, the technician walked over to the bike rack. He pulled out a can of black velvet powder and brushed the silver surface in a circular motion until impressions became visible. Then, he took a photo of the prints before lifting them with tape. He stuck each piece of tape onto a print card. On the black surfaces, he used the metallic silver powder. After finishing, the technician faced Gibson, “Anything else?”

  “That’s great. Thanks.”

  “I’ll get the results asap. I’ll call you.” The technician wandered back to his truck and finished packing his equipment into the trunk, all in their appointed cubbyholes.

  Some time had passed so Gibson beelined his way back to the garage.
The crunching of gravel under his boots would alert the men to someone’s arrival. When he appeared in the doorway, their voices swelled from a murmur to a light chatter. More faces had appeared in the crowd. He figured these were the men from the other building.

  Scottie was leaning against the wall, scribbling in her notebook. She motioned him with her chin and pointed to an exit at the rear. “Take a gander,” she said, and tucked her book into a jacket pocket.

  The detectives let the door slip behind them, closing off the gawps and gossip. Scottie indicated some steps leading to the second floor. The wooden stairs were attached to the wall of the steel-clad building but nonetheless looked rickety. Some of the bolts looked loose. Without hesitation, Gibson climbed to the top landing, the stairs swaying with his weight. He pressed down on the long metal handle, and the door lurched open with a thud against the cladding. The spring mechanism that should have stopped the door from hitting the building dangled from a broken bracket. He stepped into a dimly lit hallway. A single bulb hung from its wire, barely giving any light to the narrow space. He walked to the end of the corridor and peered down the stairs to the crime scene. Then he swung around and headed back the way he had come.