“We need to get inside that house.”
Fernice stopped at the unit clerk’s desk on the way back to her office and handed her the timeline.
“Rachel, would you make copies of this for everyone. Put one in Gilbrauson’s basket as well. And I need a copy of the report Detective Hermes did on a visit to a house in the East Village, 168 Franklin Street, on Friday, October 3rd. Rosaline Bolton, Terrace BC made the call that initiated the visit and that would have been about Carey Bolton, her daughter, reported missing in Terrace on September 18th. There’s no file for Carey. Start one and put a copy of Hermes’ visit to Franklin Street in it. I’m requesting the Terrace RCMP case files on Carey. And that the files of Carey Bolton and Morgan O’Meara be linked.”
“Right away Jeri,” said Rachel, keying the information into her computer.
“For Carey’s file, I also need the notes of Corporal Gilbrauson regarding an interview he did on September 29th with Michael Bolton. That interview regards a sighting of Carey Bolton behind the Clarendon. That interview should include the report of Bolton’s initial sighting of his niece behind the club, September 27th.”
She continued to her office. First, she completed the paperwork to have the cases linked and included Sergeant Desocarras in those who were to be notified of the request. She cc’d Corporal James as a courtesy. She reread everything she had: James’s interview with O’Meara; the interviews of Sergeant Desocarras and his wife Gwen on the rescue of O’Meara; and the timeline created by O’Meara and her partner, which spanned the period from September 18th—the date of the abduction of Carey Bolton—to October 9th, the date of O’Meara’s rescue by Desocarras and wife.
Hermes wasn’t in till tomorrow. Gilbrauson was on holiday, so there was just the three of them to work the O’Meara/Bolton case. Fernice scanned a copy of Arenas’ timeline and attached it to a new email to Desocarras. She let him know he’d be copied on everything that came her way and she expected the same.
He called within the hour and they rehashed what they had. She’d flagged the visits the women had made to the Franklin Street house and O’Meara’s visit alone, the next morning, three days before she was abducted. He wanted to know if there were any leads on the reddish-orange car that O’Meara remembered in the parking lot the night of her abduction. She told him she was requesting CCTV footage of the SFU parking garage. One of her officers would review it and if anything showed up, she’d let him know.
Ignace had already emailed her what he had so far on the Franklin Street house. Donald. H. Garry bought it in 1973. Garry died in 2001 leaving it to his daughter. It was still in her possession. She had property in South Vancouver too. The house on Franklin was probably a rental. Ignace was trying to track down the daughter.
Fernice had just gotten off the phone with Desocarras when Ignace called.
“Jeri, I pulled a report you’ll want to have a look at. Back in 1996, two young girls were reported missing from the reserve in North Van. A few days later, an eyewitness account has them getting into a car behind the Clarendon. A copy of a newspaper clipping is attached to that. It doesn’t look like there was any follow up.”
“Who’s on the case file?”
“No case file. Rhodes took the missing person’s report.”
“What tipped you to that?”
“I went looking for it because that sighting is still talked about in my community.”
“Okay. See what he remembers.”
“I’m glad that’s done.”
“How’d it go?” Lucas asked.
“Fernice is requesting that Carey’s file and mine be linked.”
“That’s what we wanted to hear.” He looked grim as he pulled away from the curb and headed into traffic. There were dark circles under his eyes.
“You’re not getting enough sleep,” I said.
“I’m fine. He’d only driven a few blocks east on Hastings when he had to detour to avoid road construction. He took a left, swearing under his breath. I looked at him in surprise. He’d only gone a block towards the inlet, when he swerved right, onto a side street. It’s a light industrial area and there were supply trucks everywhere, loading and unloading. When he finally got a chance, he headed left down an alley and zig-zagged his way down to Powell Street. Once he got onto Powell, it was stop and go traffic all the way home. He had to slow down to a crawl, and he was seething. It was so unlike him.
We’re driving through thin fog and the air has a chill that’s hard to dress against. I tightened my scarf, pulled on my gloves, and turned the heat up. We were nearly home when I remembered the rape kit results. I glanced at Lucas. He undressed me and put me to bed my first night home. He must have seen the bruises on my body, my back, on the inside of my thighs. He knows what the bastards did to me. He hasn’t said a word.
CHAPTER 13
After lunch, I redid my makeup. If I looked closely, I could see traces of the bruises. I wouldn’t be giving anyone else the opportunity to do so. The bruises on my neck were an ugly yellowish purple. I hid them under a large, brightly coloured scarf. I re-parted my hair so that a swath fell over the stitches. I looked okay and that would have to do. I wasn’t going to hide at home.
“You only have to get through the afternoon—only a few hours,” I told the bathroom mirror. I would try to do that without tears.
Lucas headed up to Twelfth Avenue to avoid construction and then doubled back down Main Street to East Hastings. At the corner, he headed west. We slowly pass the lineup in front of United We Can—people waiting their turn to cash in bags bulging with empties. Others selling stuff, talking, sleeping. For some, the street is home. Their lives, the triumph of hope over despair. Lots of others, better dressed, are just passing through. A block later we enter another world when Lucas pulled into the underground parking of the Contemporary Arts complex.
He parked and we took the elevator up to the Film Department office on the second floor. I remember the old film department—in the portables at the far edge of the campus up on SFU mountain—in the forest. I loved it there.
Lucas looked around. Lots of people were in the office today. “I’ll be back to escort you to the lab about 10 minutes to 3:00 pm.”
“That should be good.”
“I’m not leaving the complex.”
“I know, and I’m glad.”
“Call me if you need me.”
“I will.” I watched him leave, then headed down the hall to my office cubicle. When I returned from the lake, Lucas and Kate kept the world at bay. I didn’t give any thought to the stir that news of my abduction had caused. Just yesterday, I went online for the first time to find that every shred of public information on my case had been googled, tweeted, and shared by hundreds, maybe thousands—who knew?
I made it to the door of my office when Odessa Tate, office goddess of the Contemporary Arts Department spotted me through floor to ceiling glass and rushed into the hallway to greet me.
“Morgan, we’ve all been so worried. It’s good to have you back, safe and sound.” This was a lot coming from Odessa, who is normally quite reserved. Now she was giving my face an uncomfortably close examination.
“Odessa, I’ll be as good as new in no time.” Impulsively, I gave her a gentle hug. We weren’t close and although the hug was a bit much for this very proper lady, she lived through my hug and even managed to pat me gently on the back a few times.
I’d arranged to meet with Sophia Paridopolis first thing. When she heard my voice, she was out of her office and down the hall in record time. Coming to an abrupt halt beside us, she folded me in a hug. Then she stepped back and looked me over.
“Morgan let’s go to my office,” she said, leading me back down the hall to her sanctum and closing the door after us. She got right to the point.
“Are you sure you’re ready to return? It hasn’t even been a week! Carl is happy to fill in for you, as I’m sure you already know.”
“I do. He
got in touch. Honestly, Sophia, I want to be here.” I could tell she wasn’t buying it. “I have lots of support, and I’m doing fine. Lucas and I are taking every precaution.” At least that part was true. She still looked dubious. I was going to have to work on my delivery.
“It’s up to you of course. Your friend Kate Brennan came to see me and told me that you were going to be okay. I really appreciated that. I was just sick with worry,” She sat quiet, lips pursed. Instinctively, I hiked the scarf up a little higher on my neck.
“I don’t know what I’d have done without her, or Lucas.” Sophia knew Lucas, but only casually—as a fellow professor in another department.
“I don’t want to pry, Morgan. Kate told me about the missing child and the help you’ve given the family. I assure you that information has gone no further. Kate and Lucas are both in the Criminology Department, so they’ll be privy to how investigations such as these are run.”
“That’s true.”
“Morgan, I’m here any time you need to talk. I’m so glad to have you back safe. I’m just so glad!” She was thoughtful a moment. “I assume there’s no news about the missing child?”
“Not recent news. We think she may have been brought to Vancouver, or has been here, quite recently.” I stopped there. The less said the better.
Sophia nodded her head, started to speak, and then stopped abruptly and fell silent. Odd for her; she was usually so direct.
“Is something the matter?”
“Yes Morgan, there is.” Sophia took a deep breath. “These past few days, nasty gossip has been circulating on campus about you and your partner, Lucas. It seemed to come out of nowhere. Odessa brought it to my attention yesterday.”
“Gossip? What kind of gossip?”
“None of it’s true. Anyone who knows you knows that! Odessa is absolutely furious about it and so am I.”
What now? “What’s being said, Sophia?” It was obvious she was mortified to be in this position.
“You’re a woman of easy virtue who used to work the streets. You still sleep around. Your partner is very jealous. He has shown his displeasure towards you in the past and on more than one occasion, has put you in the hospital.”
“No!” Fucking hell.
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but I thought you should know before meeting with the students.”
No one showed up during office hours. Should I read something into that? Doesn’t matter. Gives me time to think. Whoever grabbed me, they’re trying to discredit us. They’re afraid of us. Franklin Street ... We got too close ... I got too close. Those bastards. They’re not going to win. We can’t let them win.
I found out early that the world isn’t a safe place for me. When things happened that hurt me or scared me, I had mom, who’d already walked that road, who cried with me and shared her hard-won strength and wisdom until I had some of my own. For the first time in my life, I had doubts that it would be enough.
Dad handled things differently. ‘Your dad doesn’t see colour’, mom would say. He’d wring his hands instead, mystified that the world didn’t cherish mom and me the way he did. Then one of the students at my school went missing. She was from a reserve further north, boarding with a family so she could attend high school. It was almost a week before her body was found, face down in the reeds beside the McIntyre river. Not the first child—seven now—my community heartbroken. Frightened. Still demanding an inquiry.
It was dad’s idea that we learn to defend ourselves. Mom, every inch the scholar and bookworm, refused to even discuss it. ‘I’m too old to learn. Put Morgan in the class.’ I went to those classes for years. Fear pushed me and I worked hard. I learned my lessons well; afraid I’d end up like that poor girl. And the others. But you know what, dad. It wasn’t enough to protect me. Arming yourself against the hate of others doesn’t make you invincible and it doesn’t stop the hate.
Lucas interrupted my thoughts. He was here to walk me to the lab. I decided to wait till after to tell him about the rumours. We walked up to the fourth floor and arrived just before 3:00 pm. Most of the students were already here. Lucas checked the area carefully before leaving.
I’d met with the students five times already, including the afternoon of the day of my abduction. They’re a good group: diverse, frank, and opinionated. I looked around now at their faces, wondering who had heard the ugly rumours and I noticed that some avoided my gaze except for a guy named Nick. He was at the back of room and was staring at me. An insolent smile played on his lips. Here was one who believed the rumours. I stared right back until others turned to see what had my interest. The centre of attention now, he quickly dropped his gaze.
Conversation buzzed. I expected questions about my abduction and decided the best way to handle them was to insist that there was nothing I could comment on.
There were indignant outbursts about racist and misogynist news bias and sensationalism. Some students had pulled up examples on their tablets and phones, which they were showing each other and me. Others had gone to the trouble to print some of the articles and bring them here. These were waved around indignantly.
Native Cop Rescues Near-Dead Native Girl
That was an older headline, from the day after I was rescued. I’d seen it yesterday.
“Morgan, look at this?”
Here was another from today’s Province, which I hadn’t seen. I read now, from the copy a student handed me:
Morgan O’Meara, an Aboriginal woman with dreams of being an independent filmmaker, who until only recently lived on and worked the streets of Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, came close to having her life snuffed out by an unnamed attacker.
O’Meara, who escaped a difficult life on the Greenwood Lake Reserve in Ontario, was found bound and gagged on the shore of Gustafsen Lake near One Hundred Mile House.
The smear campaign was having the desired effect, and, it would appear, opened my story up to embellishment. If they knew about the reserve, they’d know I wasn’t raised there. And gagged, I wasn’t gagged.
I told them that I welcomed any information they thought might be helpful, thanked them for their concern, then I shut the discussion down. They weren’t happy and there was grumbling.
“Let me at least give this to you, Morgan. I think it’s important.” Shelby was at my side and handed me an article that had appeared in the 100 Mile House Free Press, Saturday, October 11th. She’d also printed out a tweet that mentioned the same article. I quickly scanned the article while she filled me in.
“Stacie Smith, she’s an MA candidate in the English Department and she knows you’re one of the TAs for the first years’ film lab. She brought the tweet to my attention in case you missed it.”
Someone had tweeted about the article in the 100 Mile House newspaper.
KaleATalk@banishedboy @SFU_W 100 Mile Free Press article on blue truck will be of inturest to Omeera
The tweeter wasn’t a great speller, but I was sure it was meant for me. There was absolutely nothing in the article itself linking the truck to my abduction, which meant that the tweeter knew that the truck was connected to it and knew this was helpful for me to know. Even here, in the safety of the lab, fear crawled up my back.
The pickup had been partially torched and abandoned about 2 km from Canim Lake Reserve. Later, I’d check a map to see how far that was from Gustafsen Lake. The fire attracted the attention of some of the folks at Canim Lake. No body was found in the truck or nearby and there was no license plate. For sure Alex must know about this. Shelby agreed to stay behind after the lab. I’d talk to her then.
While he waited for Morgan, Lucas sat on a bench at the main entrance to the Contemporary Arts building. When he’d tried to talk with people earlier, they seemed uncomfortable. Some avoided him altogether. Steve Winn walked by; someone he knew well enough to be direct with him. Lucas called him over.
“Steve, what’s going on? People don’t want to talk to me. It feels
like they’re avoiding me. I don’t get it.”
“Let’s get a coffee, Luke.” They got coffees from the kiosk at the building entrance and returned to the bench.
Steve got right to the point. “Look buddy, there’s some nasty rumours circulating. I know they’re not true. But I think you should know what’s being said about you both—some of it’s really ugly stuff.” Steve looked grim.
“Go ahead.”
“Okay. You’re a hot-headed Latin with a quick temper and handy with your fists. Morgan has a colourful past that includes time spent as a prostitute on the streets of Vancouver. You got jealous of some guy Morgan was flirting with and you beat her up.”
Lucas was completely blindsided.
“Anyone who knows the two of you doesn’t believe any of it. The gossip is pure bullshit and we’re saying so!”
“Do you have any idea where this is coming from?”
“No idea. What happened to Morgan—that was scary. It must have been horrible for you, Lucas. Her missing, not knowing where she was.”
Lucas nodded, not trusting himself to talk about that. Instead, he said: “Steve, can you pinpoint when the rumours started?”
“Personally, I first heard the stories yesterday, so Monday. But they could have started circulating on the weekend and I wouldn’t have known. I was skiing in Whistler.”
They talked a while longer, then Steve left. Morgan wouldn’t be finished for at least an hour. Lucas continued to sip his coffee, watched people come and go. He wondered if Morgan had heard about the rumours.
Lucas was waiting at the door when the film lab finished. Shelby joined us as we made our way to my office. I pulled out the newspaper clipping about the truck and handed it to Lucas.
“Check this out.” He started to read it—stopped—looked at me, then Shelby.
“Stacie Smith texted me about the tweet and the article,” she said. She pulled out her phone, accessed her twitter account and pulled up the original tweet. Lucas and I read it over her shoulder.
Blue Star Page 10
