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

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  Chapter 24

  The flurries had fallen steadily during the night, blanketing everything in sight. It was six in the morning, but reflection off the snow provided an artificial brightness. Katherine was sleeping so Gibson slipped out of the house to carry out his mission. He planned to surprise Tim with a wake-up call.

  It was tough going for a bit on the slippery roads. The overnight temperature had dropped below freezing and left large patches of black ice here and there. But he managed to manoeuvre the truck up Verdier Avenue, plowing through the drifts without getting stuck. He turned right on Hagan and crawled slowly down Clarke Road to his destination. Most households had darkened windows as he progressed down the street. People were still burrowed under their eiderdowns—it would take coffee brewing to dig them out.

  This time, as he approached Tim’s home, he saw a glow of light behind the curtains. The white painted dwelling with snow-laden roof had all but faded into the wintery scenery. An illumination in the backyard suggested someone had let the dog out for a pee. Gibson didn’t actually know if Tim had a dog. He pulled into the driveway and headed for the front door. After knocking twice with no answer, he wandered down the side of the house toward the back. The pavement was shoveled but still quite slick like the roads. He heard a buzzing noise coming from the rear, so he kept on going. As Gibson rounded the final corner, Tim twisted toward the trespasser. A flash glinted off the axe dangling by his leg.

  The DI stopped dead in his tracks holding both hands up at shoulder height. A hearty laugh erupted from the bushes to his right. Tim relaxed his stance and chuckled along with the neighbour hidden from his view. He looked over to where the offending guffaw had resounded. In the next yard, he saw a man leaning on the ramshackle fence. The shadow of a lofty evergreen tree cloaked his face. He was dressed in jeans, a lumberjack shirt and goose-filled vest. His hair stuck out from under a toque. The man gave a shortened wave. A large whack sounded to his left. Gibson turned his gaze back to Tim who had struck the axe into a nearby chopping block.

  Tim removed his leather gloves and tossed them aside. He snorted and wiped his nose with the tail of his shirt. Gibson realized the guy had been splitting wood. He took a cursory glance around the lot. There were several rounds of cedar, an assortment of axes and a chainsaw with a UVic label glued on the side. Closer to the house under the eaves was a heap of kindling with a jacket strewn on top.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Tim snarled.

  “Is that yours?” Gibson said, paying no heed to the hostility. He went to the wood pile and picked up the coat. He held it up to the light so he could read the inside collar. It was marked ‘Tim Sanderson’ in block letters.

  Tim glared at him.

  “This must be yours. What about the saw?” He pointed at a brand new saw with its label declaring UVic the owner.

  Tim shoved his hands into his pockets and gave an indifferent shrug.

  “Good idea. Don’t want it stolen.” Gibson pointed at the collar and tossed the jacket back on the woodpile. He thought Tim was such an ass.

  “What do you want?”

  “Do you know anybody with the initials, TRS?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who?”

  “Trent Robert Spencer,” he said. “Robert for Robbie.”

  Gibson was stunned. It was Robbie’s coat covered in blood. That didn’t make any sense.

  “You haven’t explained why you’re here,” Tim said. “Why are you so obsessed with my jacket?”

  “You don’t have an alibi for Monday.” Gibson didn’t owe him any answers.

  “I do.” A wry smirk twisted his mouth.

  “Excuse me.” The neighbour cleared his throat.

  “Do you know something?” Gibson looked over to the man.

  “Are you talking about this past Monday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Tim was just telling me about the murder and that he didn’t have an alibi.” He rubbed his gloved hands together to keep them warm. Gibson braced himself.

  “Funny thing is that on Monday morning I was staring out my window at the side there.” He stopped to point to the window facing Tim’s backyard. “I was waiting for a taxi to take me to the airport. I saw Tim chopping wood.”

  “What time?” Gibson grumbled.

  “The cab was late. So about six thirty. I almost missed my flight.”

  Tim strutted over to the fence, and the men gave a high-five pump. Tim puffed out his chest. Gibson scowled at him.

  “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I just found out myself. My neighbour got back from his trip last night.” The smirk stayed.

  Gibson had seldom felt so deflated. He thanked the man, took a hard look at Tim and left. As he stomped out of the yard, puffs of steam blew from his mouth. He jumped into the F150 and fired it up. The clock read six so he headed downtown. The sun had broken free from the horizon and spilled its rays across his vision. He had been so involved in the conversation he hadn’t noticed the sky had brightened to an azure blue, the intense blue of a cloudless fall day. It brought him no comfort. The blue only reflected his mood.

  As he was driving down the freeway, he decided to skip the office and exited from the off-ramp to slip onto McKenzie Street. The route to the university had been cleared by plows, ready for the onslaught of pupils. He dropped into the Cafe Ottiva for a coffee and a cinnamon bun. From there, he pulled alongside the curb at the maintenance shed and remained in his truck drinking his latte and munching on a pastry. He thought about phoning Katherine, then chose not to disturb her. Today was the final exam—crucial but nerve-racking even for a composed individual. How would his wife handle it? He leaned back in his seat and relaxed against the rest. He would need to contact Scottie soon and give her the bad news. Tim was no longer a suspect. His hate crime theory had crashed. The bully was innocent. That was a laugh. He had been convinced the killer was Tim. They would have to start over. He picked up his cell to call Scottie, but it chirped. He glanced at the caller ID and moaned.

  “Gibson.”

  “I haven’t had an update for a while,” the police chief said.

  “We’re working hard. Nothing yet, Chief.” Gibson would have preferred to say they were getting close, but what did they have now? Zilch. So he faked it.

  “I’ve asked Gunner to follow the money,” he said and blew his nose.

  “Don’t turn this into a hate scandal.”

  Gibson remained silent so Rex added, “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” It didn’t matter anymore. A hate crime was off the table even for him.

  The chief hung up.

  Gibson got out of the truck and trudged through the snow to the maintenance building. No one was about. No one was in the garage. He trekked up the steep stairs. The lunchroom was empty. Jason’s door was open, but he wasn’t there. Should he wait or search for him in the shop? He couldn’t remember if there were any trucks in the yard. He was stumbling around in a daze. He rested at the office door, trying to organize his plans. Two chairs were pushed toward the corner where the boots had been. He strode over to the bulletin board and flipped at the sheets pinned to the cork. Nothing much of importance here. There was a notice about dogs running loose, a sign-up sheet for overtime and a volunteer one for the approaching parade. He proceeded along the wall and studied the diplomas framed in black matte. Horticulture and business. Those made him think of Katherine. Gibson took out his cell to call. Still holding onto his phone, he plunged into the same chair he had occupied several days earlier when he had first done the interviews. He hesitated and dialed Scottie’s number instead. It was time to admit his mistake. She answered on the first ring, evidently waiting for some word.

  “Well. What happened this morning? Good or bad?”

  “Bad.” Better get to the point. Gibson filled her in on the details. The jacket, the initials, T R S, Robbie for Robert. Tim had an alibi collaborated by his neighbour. “And Rex called.”
<
br />   “What did he want? What did you tell him?”

  “Not much. He wants the financial angle investigated more thoroughly. Which I presume means Jeff should be looked at more closely,” Gibson said. Rex was right. What motive is there besides money?

  “Revisit the entire crew,” Scottie broke into Gibson’s musings.

  “Yeah. Maybe someone stole out of the meeting. Saw something or…?” Gibson swallowed the thickness in his throat. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m working on the files. I might check out other campsites in the neighbourhood.” She paused and added, “The homeless guy is on the table. Don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. Get the dog walker to look at the maintenance truck, too. Not sure why, but…” Gibson trailed off.

  “Okay. I have the guy’s name here.” Scottie flipped through her notebook. “Liam.”

  She hung up.

  Gibson rose from the chair and pocketed his phone. He would go to the shop. He bent over Jason’s desk to inspect a photograph that he hadn’t noticed before. It was Tammy dressed in a perky outfit on a sailboat. He heard footsteps and voices in the hallway. Jason and Tony strolled into the office. They were startled to see him.

  “What are you doing? What do you want?” Tony demanded. His tone had a gruff edge to it. He pulled up a chair and plopped himself down.

  Jason edged his way around the room and twisted into his chair. He pushed his hand over his chin.

  “Why did you leave your former job, Tony?” Gibson asked. He stared at his bald spot and pudgy body. He was in rotten humour, he had to take it out on someone. The supervisor was the ideal guy.

  “Better opportunity here. What’s it to you?” he scoffed. His lips curled into a half smile; a half sneer.

  “You were fired,” Gibson said, meanness creeping into his speech. He didn’t like either of these guys, and he was drained from their stonewalling him. “For sexual indiscretion,” he underscored, narrowing his steely greys into a hard stare.

  Tony slunk into his seat. The redness crept up his neck to his ears, eyes cast to the floor. He remained silent.

  “The bloody jacket was found in your department. Anything to say for yourself?” Gibson was annoyed and wasn’t holding back anymore.

  Tony wiped his clammy palms on his sweatpants.

  Gibson’s phone rang, fortuitously interrupting him before he blew a gasket. It was Scottie.

  “The girl at Best Of Coffee just called me.”

  He waited, holding his breath—it was becoming a habit.

  “One of the employees saw Jason on Monday. He grabbed a coffee and quickly disappeared. Usually he sat by the window and drank his coffee.”

  Gibson forced the air out through his lips, making a rude sound.

  “Okay. What time was that?”

  “Somewhere around a quarter after six.”

  He studied Jason, with his grey hair and lifeless grey eyes, thanked Scottie and disconnected.

  “A staff member at Best Of Coffee saw you on Monday,” Gibson said. “You picked up a coffee and left.”

  Jason waved his hand in dismissal of the suggestion.

  “I can’t remember one day to the next if I stayed or not. How can a silly waitress be so certain?” he said. Disdain dripped through his remark.

  Before Gibson could oppose that rationalization, his phone sounded again. As he listened, his face paled. He charged out the door.

  Chapter 25

  Katherine’s panic attack had sent Gibson’s optimism plummeting. After her frantic call, he dashed down the steps and out of the building. The sound of the slammed door reverberated in the stairwell. He galloped across the boulevard, ignoring the blare of a horn as he skipped on top of the snow bank onto the curb. Gibson sprinted through the rutted grass, spraying water as he jumped over large icy puddles. He yanked at the door and ran for the elevators. Ding. They were all in use. He whipped about and headed for the stairs. It was just one flight up, but he was drained by the time he entered the corridor. It was empty except for his wife.

  Katherine was collapsed on the stone floor. Her legs pulled into her body, and arms wrapped securely around her shins, reminded Gibson of a pill bug curled into a ball. The flushed skin was clammy. Small drips of moisture under her nose glistened in the fluorescent light. Her breathing was stilted. Her wild eyes were riveted on the handbag and books strewn at her feet. She twitched at the approach of footsteps. Her lips, faded red, made a small heart when she opened her mouth.

  “Oh, honey,” she whimpered.

  The overwrought intonation banged against his heart. Gibson slid down the wall onto the ground next to Katherine and leaned into his wife’s aura. He stretched out a hand to stroke the ruddy cheek. It was burning hot. She drew her trembling limbs tighter into her body, making her sink deeper into the floor. He placed his arm around her shoulders and cradled her shivering body. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. She scrunched her face, repressing tears that threatened to release down her cheeks, bringing black mascara with them. The vacant expression lightened as she firmed her jaw. He freed his hold when she tried to stand up.

  “Not sure I can do this.”

  Katherine faltered at the door, gripping the jamb with slender fingers. Her slight frame looked taut from tension. A pause brought a slow trickle of sweat to her forehead. She mustered all her courage and stepped through the doorway. She glanced back, bounced on the balls of her feet and held her hands in prayer. The door was shut behind her.

  * * *

  It was done. Katherine had completed the exam and truly felt good about it. Now Gibson was free to enjoy his weekend, leaving Scottie in charge. Southwest winds had driven the clouds away and brought a balmy warmth. Snow from the early storm was melting fast—global warming. The shift in weather energized him. Equilibrium was restored. He skipped out the front door to the café with a weightlessness in his limbs. His buddy sat at the regular table by the window gazing over the light-dappled water. Waves gently striking the shore washed the rocks. Jesse didn’t notice him until he plopped himself in the chair and snorted a throaty laugh.

  “Hey. How’s it going?” Jesse held up his hand to get Gibson a coffee, but the waitress was on it.

  “Good.”

  Both remained taciturn, looking over the bay. Gibson knew he wouldn’t be urged to talk about the current case. It was up to him to start any discussion.

  “Doesn’t look like a hate crime,” Gibson said. He needed to shake off this setback. “My prime suspect got cleared yesterday.”

  He looked at Jesse. His smile was relaxed, but his eyes twinkled merrily. He grabbed this friendship. Recharged, fearless. “I was sure, but I was mistaken.”

  “No matter,” was all Jesse countered. “Want someone to kayak with today?”

  “Yeah, that would be great.”

  He could count on his buddy to cut to the chase. Let it go. The men finished their coffee and preceded down the ramp. They gathered their gear and slipped their boats into the ocean, setting off to the south arm of the inlet. Although the sun was pleasant on their faces, the breeze on the water kept them from feeling the heat. They would use the wind to their advantage and steal a little push down the waterway. As they swung out into Finlayson Arm waterway, Gibson looked up to the cell tower that marked the crest of the Malahat—a thousand feet above sea level—and the loftiest point of the highway leading through the hills to North Vancouver Island. As his gaze shifted to the east over the forested shoreline, the sunlight reflected off windows on the waterfront across the inlet.

  Soon they were paddling smoothly in rhythm, side by side, listening to the chants of the wild. A gaggle of geese flew overhead, honking as they made their way to California. Jesse glanced over to Gibson and nodded his approval. For several hours they travelled along the shoreline undaunted by their screaming muscles. They halted for a snack near the famous Butchart Gardens. The friends devoured several power bars and guzzled water all the while tuning in to the drone that surrounded them. Jesse si
gnalled to go back. Off they went. The wind pushed at them so they had to paddle with more resolution. By the time the landing at Brentwood Bay was in sight, they were exhausted. It was a superb day undisturbed by the cell phone Gibson had deliberately left behind on the dresser. The grin on his face as he dragged his kayak onto the wharf was proof of his ‘Don’t Care’ attitude. He was overwhelmed with the week’s events. Something about being outside vaporized the disquiet. They walked up the incline together, promising another day of kayaking tomorrow.

  Katherine’s SUV wasn’t in the driveway, so the doubt that had sprung up was spurious. When his wife returned home, he took the phone off the hook and shut down his cell. It was a rebellious move that he seldom did, but he needed an entire carefree night with his wife.

  * * *

  Sunday was an echo of Saturday. Gibson met Jesse at the café. After a shot of caffeine, they strolled lazily to their boats confident of the day. They headed north this time, zigzagging in and out of the coastline. Both men were chattier today, babbling about new gear and equipment. Gibson let the last of his apprehension melt away as the hours passed by, pleasantly paddling his trusted kayak. The sun was intense in the sky and beating down on them as they veered toward home at the halfway mark. Jesse picked up the pace, propelling himself to the limit. Gibson followed. His muscles weakened and his lungs burned. All he wanted to do was stop and catch his breath. Gibson hit the dreaded wall and pressed on, letting the throbbing wash over him. They lay on the dock, tension from their exertion melting into the hard surface—slow, smooth breathing restored. They bumped fists.

  Gibson headed home. His mouth watered the moment he swung open the door. The rich aroma of roast beef wafted down the hallway and beckoned him to the kitchen. The music was low. Katherine sat at the table, tapping a foot to the easy beat. A random birdsong floated through the crack of the open window.