Blue Star

by Valerie Van Clieaf

  The first time I used the washroom this morning I was very groggy. I was standing at the sink washing my hands and I raised my head to look in the mirror. I’ve never suffered physical abuse of any kind and it was a shock to see my bruised and battered face. I held on to the sink and watched the tears well up and trickle down the cheeks of this woman who was me, but not me. My right eye was black and blue and partly swollen shut. Another large, purple bruise took up most of my right cheek. I leaned forward, felt the lump on my forehead beneath the stitches, followed the line of stitches from my eyebrow to my hairline. My lips were dry and cracked open in spots and my bottom lip was swollen and hung down on one side. My neck had some ugly bruises too. I looked grotesque, not quite human. Even so, I couldn’t look away, tried to memorize this face—make it real. If I had a camera, I would take pictures. No. I didn’t want to take pictures. Maybe they took pictures. They could give me copies. I need pictures ... Maybe not ... Maybe I don’t need pictures. It was a few minutes before I got my tears under control and limped back to my cubicle. What I really wanted was to be at home, in bed, away from prying eyes. But this wasn’t over yet. There was still the interview. Then wait for Lucas to get here and take me home.

  I was surprised by the size of the RCMP detachment. I’d noticed a population sign indicating this was a small town of 2,000 people, so I expected a police station of two or three rooms with a jail in the back. But it was a modern, spacious structure and no jail cells in sight. Alex led the way to his office in a wing to the left of the main entrance.

  We gathered around his desk and they dug into containers of bacon, eggs, hash browns and buttered toast and washed it down with coffee. The coffee was easy to get down and I did manage a little poached egg although it took a lot of willpower to keep it down. Another sip of coffee; try not to vomit.

  “You guys are great,” I whispered. I could tell they had no idea what I’d just said, so I just put my hand over my heart and gave them a lopsided smile. There was so much more I wanted to say, but settled on, “thanks.” They got that. Gwen and Alex had an easy grace about them, and despite my unease about my appearance, I felt okay with them.

  “Well, Morgan, it isn’t often one gets a chance to be a hero,” Gwen said, with feeling. “As for him,” she chuckled, pointing at her husband. “He gets to do that all the time.”

  That got a grin from Alex. “Not as often as I’d like.”

  “How are you feeling, Morgan?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” I whispered. I was sore all over, and my head felt like it belonged to someone else, but the pain meds were working and took the edge off.

  “When we’re done here, you’ll be giving a statement to Corporal James. He’s an investigator out of Williams Lake. I gave mine this morning and filed a report, while you were at the hospital and so did Gwen. It’s important that we not discuss what happened this morning with you beforehand. It’s standard procedure. Anything you can remember may help us catch who did this to you.”

  I nodded.

  “You may find talking about it what happened difficult. Just take your time—all the time you need. And if you’re not able to finish here, don’t worry about that. We can always arrange for you to give your statement in Vancouver.”

  Moments later, an officer appeared at the door, carrying a notebook and a sheaf of papers. He nodded hi to Alex.

  “You must be Morgan O’Meara,” he said. “I’m Corporal James. I’ve been assigned to interview you regarding your rescue at Gustafsen Lake. I’ve been in touch with Detective Sergeant Fernice of the VPD. She’s leading the investigation into your abduction in Vancouver and she’ll want to interview you when you get back. I won’t be working your case though. Sergeants Desocarras and Fernice will be working your case jointly.”

  I looked at Alex. He nodded. Alex was on my case. That was good news.

  “I’d like to get a statement from you now, if you’re up to it.”

  I nodded and rising, slowly followed James out the door to an interview room further down the hall. Once inside, he closed the door and gestured to a table and several chairs in the room.

  “Can I get you some water?” he asked.

  I nodded yes and sat down at the table.

  Lifting the wall phone handset, James asked someone at the other end to bring us water. Then he switched on a recorder, stated the time and day, Thursday, October 9, 2015, and our names.

  “Ms. O’Meara, I’m going to keep this interview short. We can stop at any time if this becomes too difficult for you.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Your full name is Morgan Ailis O’Meara.” When I nodded yes, James asked me to speak my answers, so that the recorder could capture them.

  “Yes and no answers are fine.”

  “Yes.” My voice was a soft whisper, so he adjusted the recorder levels.

  “Should be okay now. It’s a sensitive mic.” He consulted his notes. “You live in Vancouver, with Lucas Arenas.”

  “Yes.”

  He watched the input level as I spoke. “Good. We’re capturing your voice now. Mr. Arenas is your husband?”

  I shook my head no. “Partner.”

  “And are you employed in Vancouver?”

  “Yes, filmmaker. Also, TA, SFU, film; part-time.”

  “Teaching Assistant in the Film Department at SFU?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is the film department located?”

  “SFU, Woodward’s campus.” The long answer is I’m a teaching assistant to Sophia Paridopolis, an associate prof of Film at SFU. Sophia lectures for FPA 130, an intro to film studies. I worked for her, the same course, as an MA student a few years back, so when one of the TAs fell ill the first week of classes, she asked me to fill in. I said yes because I need the money. I’m an independent filmmaker and my personal joke is that at any given time, I’m in need of hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars.

  After glancing briefly at a report in his hand, he continued, “Are you a runner?”

  “Yes.” I took another sip of water. This was going to be harder than I thought. My throat feels like sandpaper.

  “I know Detective Fernice will cover this as well, but before we get to the events at the lake, I want you to think back to what happened to you in Vancouver. You live on Trinity Street. That’s in the East Village, near the Burrard Inlet, near the Ironworkers Bridge, right?”

  “Yes.” I paused for more water.

  “I know Vancouver pretty well. I was stationed there for a few years. New Brighton Park is close to where you live.”

  “Yes.” The last part of my sentence was lost in a surprise fit of coughing, which I had trouble getting under control.

  James paused here and looked at me, his concern obvious. “If this is too hard, we can stop.”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Okay. If you’re sure.” He looked doubtful, but I waved for him to continue. “It is helpful for us to get the details from you while they’re still fresh in your mind. According to your partner’s statement, you drove to New Brighton Park for a run. That would be the early evening of Tuesday, October 7th?”

  “Yes.” I’d driven to New Brighton Park, after the film lab ended. It was the last thing I clearly remember before coming to, on the shore of Gustafsen Lake.

  “So, after the film lab, you changed into your running clothes and then drove to New Brighton Park.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t change into running gear at the park itself?”

  “No.”

  “What time did you arrive at the park?”

  “6:30 pm.” I paused for another sip of water.

  “Where did you park?”

  “Pedestrian entrance.” A flash of disconnected images and voices swirled in my head, but when I tried to pin them down and make sense of them, they slipped away.

  James noticed. “Is there something you’re rem
embering?”

  “No,” and I made a circular motion with one hand. I said no more as I couldn’t remember anything that happened after I left the car.

  “Okay. You locked your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “How close were you to the pedestrian entrance?”

  “10 metres.” I held up ten fingers as well.

  “Was there anyone else in the car park area?”

  “Couple,” and I mimicked two people walking in front of me.

  “Okay, couple walking. Anyone else?”

  “Yes. Man, bent over trunk, my left.” More gestures.

  “Do you remember actually going for a run?”

  “No.”

  James made a note. “Did you recognize the man leaning into the trunk of his car?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice what was he wearing?”

  I thought for a moment. “Jeans, shirt, boots; freckles.” I touched my arm. “Long hair; brown.”

  “And did you see his face?”

  “No.”

  “Were you really close when you walked past him?”

  “Yes.” I remember the guy clearly; I could have reached out and touched him.”

  “What colour was his car?”

  “Red-orange.”

  “Did you see the license plate?”

  “No.”

  “Anything distinguishing about the car itself?” I thought about that a bit.

  “Dull paint.” I paused again, but this time, didn’t resume talking as I couldn’t remember anything else.

  “Okay” he said, more scribbling in his notebook. “You have a good memory.”

  I nodded. I’m a filmmaker and physical details are important. I appraised Corporal James now—the small scar on his chin, brown hair, clean shaven, light blue eyes.

  “Do you remember anything about your abduction?”

  “No.”

  “Okay Morgan. Let’s move to Gustafsen Lake and the events there. What’s the first thing you remember?”

  “Lying in water. Night. Hands taped.” I moved to mimic my hands behind my back. Just saying the words, ‘hands taped’, and I was back at the lake. Frightened. I’m frightened here, now, I thought, but didn’t tell him that. I was glad that talking was so hard.

  “Are you okay?”

  He did notice. “Yes ... Got up. To woods. Hid.”

  “Your hands were taped behind you and you got up and”

  “climbed bank”

  “and hid in the woods?

  “Yes.” I reached for my water glass, but it was empty.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee, or tea?”

  I nodded yes. “Coffee. Water.”

  “Sugar, cream?”

  I nodded yes, and James made a phone call requesting both.

  “Okay Morgan. What else do you remember?”

  “Morning ... to lake. Boat.”

  “You hid all night?” said James, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “No sign of your abductor at this point?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Did you see his face, the man at the lake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know him, or have you ever seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “You’re quite sure you don’t know him?”

  “Yes.”

  James continued to look at me after I had finished speaking, holding my gaze. There was a knock at the door and my coffee and water were delivered. I immediately took a sip of both.

  “What physical characteristics can you remember about your assailant?”

  I thought about this, visualizing the man as he made a grab for me in the water.

  “Big. 6’ 3, 4. White. Cap. Clothes, green.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Red face.” I remembered how he slipped and fell in the water. “Big hands. Crooked finger.” I indicated the middle finger of my left hand.”

  “Middle finger of his left hand is crooked?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re doing great, Ms. O’Meara. We’re almost done. I have just a few more questions that I have to ask, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer. Is there anyone known to you that would want to harm you, in any way, perhaps an ex-boyfriend or lover?”

  “No.”

  “Are you getting on well with your partner?” James asked, looking at his notes.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever cheated on Mr. Arenas?”

  I looked at. him, trying to make sense of where he was coming from. I guess he had to ask.

  “No. Love him,” I finally whispered.

  “Well, you can be in love and still not mind getting a little extra on the side?”

  I remained silent and stared at him.

  “Unfortunately, Ms. O’Meara, I have to ask these questions. In most assault cases, the victim knows her assailant. I need to know if you gave your partner any reason to be jealous, to want to do you harm.”

  “No.”

  James tried another tactic. “Try to understand my position. We get a lot of native girls in here. Now, don’t get me wrong. You seem to have really made something of yourself, beat the odds, if you know what I mean.” I was instantly enraged.

  “You’re saying I might be getting a little on the side because I’m a native girl and that’s what we do! And this might upset my boyfriend, who might hire a hit man to kill me.” Everything I said came out as hoarse whispers and it was obvious James hadn’t understood a single word. I was racked by another violent fit of coughing and grabbed the water glass and drank some.

  Fucking stupid bastard. I’d come so close to joining hundreds of my sisters—the ones that don’t end up sitting across the table from guys like Corporal James or anyone else. Found dead or gone, vanished, never to be seen again. Thinking that, I was suddenly frightened—felt a chill race up my spine. I shuddered and the fear must have showed on my face.

  “Ms. O’Meara, I’m not trying to upset you. Like I said, I have to ask these questions. Unfortunately, most of the time, we have to look first at the husband, or boyfriend, because they are most often responsible.”

  Asshole. He didn’t even have the stats right. I quickly went from being frightened to angry again and I glared at him.

  James didn’t miss the glare and maybe thinking I’d had enough he chose that moment to end the interview.

  “If you’re up to it, I’d like you to look at some mug shots of criminals with a history of this kind of assault.”

  Despite how tired I was, I nodded agreement—happy to get James out of the room. It was something to do while I waited for Lucas.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” he asked, before fetching the binders.

  I shook my head and sat back with a sigh of relief and closed my eyes, happy to be finally silent.

  A short while later, James returned with the binders and quickly left the room. I began to look through them. It wasn’t easy. There was something about the eyes of a lot of the men staring up at me. Page after page of men with vacant eyes, watchful eyes, mean, piercing eyes. Some eyes were kind, even reproachful. Often though, these eyes stared the camera down. I flashed on the desperation and anger in the eyes of my attacker as he reached for me. His mouth set, hard and grim when he realized I was slipping through his fingers. I would never forget his face and I didn’t find his picture in any of these binders. When I was through, I put my head down on the table and fell asleep.

  “Where is Morgan? Where is she?” Lucas was here! His voice so loud it woke me up. I struggled to my feet. As he burst into the room, I leaned on the table for support, then sank back into my chair.

  “Morgan! What happened to you? I’ve been so worried! Who did this to you?” he cried out in anguish as he rushed to my side, tears brimming.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Honey, I can’t hear you. What’s wrong wi
th your voice?”

  “I’m fine,” I said again, right in his ear.

  “No, you’re not fine! Look at you! Sweetheart, what happened to your face? Your voice? You can’t speak! Don’t try to talk.” He sat down beside me, completely oblivious to James who’d followed him into the room and was standing behind him.

  I was facing James. It was childish, but I really enjoyed ignoring him, but he was having none of that.

  “Mr. Arenas, I have a few questions for you. If I could speak with you alone.”

  Lucas turned to look at him. “Yes. Of course, officer.”

  “Ms. O’Meara, you can wait for him down the hall, in Sergeant Desocarras’ office, where you were before,” and he pointed in that direction.

  “I’ll take her there,” said Lucas. We left the room and he walked me slowly back to Alex’s office, me leaning on his arm. I wasn’t in any pain, thanks to the meds, but I could only manage a slow shuffle. Once I was seated, I indicated to him to lean over and when he did, I whispered in his ear.

  “Watch him. He’s a racist jerk,” but Lucas didn’t understand a word I was saying as my voice had all but disappeared.

  “Don’t try to talk now sweetheart,” he said, patting my arm. “We’ll talk later.”

  Lucas returned to the interview room. James shut the door after him, turned on the recorder and gave the date and time for the benefit of the transcriber.

  “What is your full name?”

  “Lucas Stefan Arenas.”

  “And what is your relationship to Ms. O’Meara?”

  “I’m her partner.”

  “And where do you work sir?”

  “I’m a criminologist. I work as a researcher and writer and lecturer in the Criminology Department at SFU.”

  James didn’t hide his surprise. “You teach. At SFU?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that where you and Ms. O’Meara met?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And how long ago was that?”

  “We met in 2006, in the fall. So, seven years ago. I met her through a mutual friend, Kate Brennan, whom I’ve known a few years longer. Kate’s in my department. She started a few years after me.”