Omand's Creek: A gripping crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense

by Don Macdonald

  He’d considered attending the service and decided to watch from afar. Christa’s funeral was still a raw memory. He had sat numb in the front pew in the little church in Gimli with Kelsey and the rest of the family. The church was packed with most of the Gimli community and friends and family up from Winnipeg. The emotion had been wrung out of Shelter over the previous three months, and with one arm around Kelsey, he listened impassively to Bible readings and Christa’s musical selections, “Amazing Grace” and a cover of “Up Where We Belong.” It had been a eulogy by Christa’s brother that had finally cracked the shell. He talked about Christa’s kindness, her joy, her capacity for love, all she had done in her short life. As he listened, Shelter choked up, and the tears flowed not only for the loss, but also for all he’d left undone in the years they had been together, for all his failings as a husband, a father, a man. He hadn’t loved her hard enough, and now it was too late.

  The sun was high over the friendship centre and beating down on mourners filing into Crystal Rempel’s service. Shelter spotted Nicki across the street, accompanied by Moses Kent. She was wearing an elegant black dress that reached to her knees. Moses, who was in a navy-blue suit and a black tie, touched her arm as they entered the service together.

  A limousine pulled up, and the premier of Manitoba and attorney general got out and nodded to the phalanx of TV cameras on the sidewalk. Only Mayor Sam Klein, who’d never seen a microphone he could resist, stopped to briefly answer reporters’ questions. Shelter’s attention was drawn to the thin, stooped figure of Crystal’s adoptive mother, Violet Rempel. She was dressed all in black, with a large sun hat, and her arm was supported by a younger woman as she climbed the stairs and entered the building. Shelter thought about Crystal’s birth mother, Anne Alexander, who’d committed suicide just before her daughter was killed. Could it have been the suicide that led Crystal to disappear in the days before she was murdered?

  The service had drawn a large crowd, hundreds of people, despite it being a weekday morning. The day before, a smaller private family service had been held in Steinbach. Shelter wasn’t surprised to see the politicians come out for this one. The city was on edge, and the heat wave wasn’t helping, or the shooting of Jason Courchene, who was still in a coma. There was a blackout on details, but the scuttlebutt at the station was that Dustin Crowley, the young constable who had shot Courchene in the back, had straight-up panicked in a struggle. It was a huge embarrassment to Chief Gordy Taylor, the mayor and the whole city. Crowley’s career was toast — that was a given. But worse for Shelter was that the shooting was feeding the media frenzy over the Spence and Rempel killings.

  Shelter thought about Monica Spence’s funeral a few weeks earlier at a church in the West End. He’d watched from across the street as Monica’s mother and a small group of friends and family straggled into the church. The media had been there too, but no dignitaries had turned up on that day. Monica hadn’t been a star in law school or the leader of an Indigenous rights group, like Crystal Rempel. Today, the politicians were putting on a show of concern for the cameras, hoping to keep a lid on the situation in the Indigenous community and limit the political damage in the wider population.

  “Detective.” The gruff voice made Shelter jump.

  He pushed off the car and turned around to find Gordy Taylor on the sidewalk in full uniform. He was accompanied by an elderly man in a black shirt with a clerical collar. The priest had thick, rimless glasses, a sharp nose and a soft, round body that made him look like a tiny owl beside Taylor’s hulking frame.

  “Working hard?” Taylor asked with a smile. Shelter thought the police chief’s hale and hearty tone struck a false note, given the circumstances.

  “Yes, sir,” Shelter said.

  “Michael, come here and meet a friend of mine.”

  Shelter circled the car and shook hands with both men. “Michael Shelter, this is Father Ted Wright. We bumped into one another in the parking lot.”

  The priest’s pale blue eyes studied Shelter’s face. “Are you coming in for the service?”

  Taylor cut in and answered for him. “He has a lot of work to do on the murders of these two Native girls. Detective Shelter is leading the investigations.” Shelter noted the chief referred to the investigation in the plural, as if they weren’t linked.

  “Ah. Important work,” the little priest said. He pulled a pressed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “Most important work. To bring some relief to the families and this city.”

  “Ted, would you excuse us?” Taylor said. “I want to have a word with Detective Shelter. I’ll see you inside.”

  Wright raised a hand in acknowledgment and hobbled across the street.

  “Got a bad leg there,” Taylor said. “I met him many, many years ago when I was a young Mountie working on the reserves. A great man, but he seems to be getting a bit foggy.”

  The police chief turned to Shelter. “Are we making any headway on tracking down this Sinclair guy?”

  “Not yet. But we’re hoping to get him soon. He can’t hide forever.”

  Taylor took a step toward Shelter and put a hand on his shoulder. “This case is going to make or break your career,” he said in a quiet, encouraging voice. The tone was familiar to Shelter from other mentoring sessions with Taylor over the years. “You’ve got a real chance here, Mike.”

  The bill on Taylor’s cap was just a few inches from Shelter’s forehead.

  “We’ll get him, sooner or later.”

  “Make it sooner.”

  Taylor crossed the street to join Wright, and they entered the friendship centre together.

  Shelter returned to lean against the car, going over the exchange in his mind. He’d sensed again how anxious Taylor was about the case. The clock was ticking to his retirement.

  An hour later, Shelter sat at his table in the Peking Garden and shovelled Singapore noodles into his mouth. He had a napkin tucked into his collar and his iPhone in his left hand. From an ancient set of speakers up in the corners of the dining room, Dionne Warwick was softly crooning “Walk on By” on an oldies radio station.

  Shelter ate lunch alone if he could. He liked getting away from the office to this table in this dark, cool room. A place to read or just stare into space for forty-five minutes. It had also been a place for quiet, sad conversations when Christa was sick, and afterward, to make arrangements.

  The image from the hotel room had been scanned and now glowed on the phone’s screen. For what seemed like the thousandth time, Shelter examined every detail, bringing the phone close to his eyes. What had brought the men together in that room? What were they celebrating? Who were Bill and the other man — the one who had left the party early?

  The sudden vibration of the phone in his hand made Shelter jump — a call from an unknown number. He punched the screen and put the phone to his ear. “Michael Shelter.”

  “It’s Rory Sinclair. I hear you’re looking for me.”

  The voice was breathy, choked, nervous.

  It took a moment for Shelter to overcome his surprise. “You’ve got to come in, Rory.”

  There was silence on the other end. Arthur Yee approached the table with a pot of tea but retreated when Shelter waved him away.

  “I didn’t kill no fucking girls, okay?” Rory said, his voice rising.

  “Okay. But you’ve got to come in. There’s no other way.”

  Shelter could hear him breathing on the other end of the line.

  “Nicki says you’re okay. I’ll come in with you. No one else.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m not telling you that until you guarantee my safety.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m being set up, man.”

  “I’ll meet you outside the Double Deuce at three.”

  “No. Not there.”

  “Okay. Where?”

  The line went silent while Sinclair considered a meeting place. “The square at King and Bannaty
ne at five. Come alone. No other cops.”

  He meant the Old Market Square. Shelter saw it in his mind, a slice of green space carved out by intersecting streets in the city’s Exchange District. It was surrounded by heritage buildings, tall brick warehouses dating from the turn of the last century, when Winnipeg was a boom town, the Chicago of the north. The square was popular with strollers in the summer, and there’d probably be a busker or two and maybe even a singer on the little stage. It would have to do.

  “You come alone too,” Shelter said. “I don’t want to see that goon of yours.”

  Rory grunted.

  “And, Rory, come unarmed.”

  FIFTEEN

  Shelter spent much of the afternoon with Neil MacIsaac and the head of the tactical unit, George Schur, discussing the operation. MacIsaac and Schur favoured staking out Market Square and taking Rory Sinclair as soon as he showed up for the meeting.

  “He’s a suspect in two murders. Let’s do this right. Clear the square and grab him,” said Schur, a veteran of fifteen years on the force. He was of Ukrainian descent, with close-cropped silver hair and a build chiselled from granite. He wanted discreet but full coverage of the square by the tactical unit, including snipers on rooftops.

  “That’s not necessary,” Shelter said. “He’s scared and wants to come in. Besides, I gave him my word that it would be just me.”

  In the end, it was a moot argument. MacIsaac got a call from upstairs — there was no budget to deploy the tactical team.

  The decision angered Schur. “Who made the call? The chief?” he demanded.

  MacIsaac shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. It came down from on high.”

  Traverse and Jennifer Kane plus four uniformed cops would keep an eye on the meeting from discreet locations. Schur would coordinate the coverage.

  “And you need to wear a vest,” Schur told Shelter.

  Time dragged after the preparations had been made. No matter how many arrests he made or how routine the job appeared, Shelter was always keyed up. He knew the nerves were normal, like an actor getting ready to go on stage or a soldier before a battle, but it had become worse since he’d been shot when he was still in a uniform. That incident had marked him in ways that went much deeper than the angry red scar on his shoulder. He was more cautious on the job and slept less soundly.

  “God, would you sit down?” Traverse called from his desk.

  The comment snapped Shelter out of his thoughts. He looked over at his partner and gave him a grim smile and a shrug, as if to say it’s bigger than me. At four forty-five, he told MacIsaac and Schur he was heading out. He felt the eyes on him as he made the short walk from the PSB to the Old Market Square. The officers monitoring the arrest were in place.

  He was relieved to find fewer people in the square than he’d expected. A couple walking a baby in a stroller, a few winos, and a group of wannabe hippies. They were spread out, either using the benches ringing the square or lounging on the patch of grass at its centre.

  Shelter chose a spot a few metres in from the sidewalk, where he had a good line of sight down both Market and King Streets to the south and the entire square when he turned north. He listened in his earpiece to occasional radio chatter between the cops watching the meet and fingered the microphone that ran down his sleeve and into his hand. He was sweating under a Kevlar vest and sports jacket. He’d been in the square less than five minutes when one of the uniforms reported, “Subject approaching on King Street. Accompanied by a female.”

  Shelter turned in the direction of King and caught sight of them right away. Sinclair standing close to Nicki, waiting to cross at the light. What was Nicki doing here?

  He waited for them with his arms crossed and a frown on his face. As they approached, he examined Rory’s low-slung jeans and black T-shirt — if he was carrying a weapon, it was well concealed. Even before they reached him, he jerked his head at Nicki and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  “Brought a friend — another set of eyes,” Sinclair replied for her. He was distracted, his eyes darting around the square.

  “I’m not your friend, asshole,” Nicki said. She turned to Shelter. “He wouldn’t come without me.”

  “You should have called me.”

  “It’s my sister. I’ve got every right to be here.”

  Shelter turned to Rory. “Let’s get you off the street. You’re under arrest for living off the avails of prostitution. Do you understand?”

  Sinclair was sweating, fidgety, unfocused.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. We will provide you with the number of a lawyer referral service if you don’t have your own lawyer. Anything you say can be given in court as evidence. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Hold it. What’s going to happen to me in there?” Sinclair asked.

  “What do you mean?” Shelter said, his brow wrinkling in irritation.

  “You’ll protect me, right?”

  “Rory, you’re under arrest.”

  “I’m being set up.”

  “Who’s setting you up?

  Before he could answer, Rory spun around. The sound of a rifle shot came a fraction of a second later. Blood sprayed Shelter’s face, blinding and choking him. At first he thought he’d been shot. But as Sinclair fell, Shelter saw a piece of his skull had been blown away. The sound of the rifle blast reverberated off the buildings. Shelter stared at the body, and another shot slammed into Sinclair’s chest.

  A third round hit the pavement just to the left of Nicki. The shooter was targeting her now. Shelter pulled her to the ground as another bullet sent cement chips flying beside his ear.

  He held her tight and rolled twice until they were under a bench. “I’ve got you.”

  People were screaming and running from the park. Shelter heard Schur’s authoritative voice over the radio. “Shots fired. Who’s firing?” Then, “One man down. Everyone hold your positions. Where’s the shooter?”

  Shelter was still holding Nicki in a bear hug. He saw officers taking cover against the surrounding buildings, their weapons raised, heads swivelling, searching the surrounding buildings.

  Shelter loosened his grip on Nicki. Looking down, he saw the fronts of their shirts were covered in blood, and a piece of human tissue was stuck to his sleeve. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Nicki was sobbing and shaking violently. She turned her head, and Shelter saw blood flowing from a deep gash in her cheek — something had cut her badly.

  Schur called each of the officers over the radio. No one had sighted the shooter. He gave the order to advance and secure the square.

  Traverse and Kane were the first to reach Shelter and Nicki. “Let’s get you out of here,” Traverse said, helping them up and hustling them down a side street amid the blare of approaching sirens.

  At the hospital, Shelter had insisted on being in the examining room, watching Nicki’s reactions closely as an ER doctor worked on her. She was glassy-eyed and uncommunicative as the doctor examined her, testing her reflexes and taking her pulse and blood pressure. He had closed the wound on her cheek and bandaged it, and she was taken to a ward to recover.

  Shelter found the doctor at the nurses’ station and asked about her condition. He said he thought she’d been cut by a shard of flying cement, and she was suffering from shock, not a concussion. All she needed was some rest.

  After examining Shelter for injuries, the doctor had ruled him unharmed and free to go after waiting an hour under observation. By the time he was done, Shelter was sore from hitting the ground and bleary-eyed with exhaustion. He slipped off the green hospital smock and threw on a T-shirt, jeans and a pair of running shoes Traverse had collected at his house when the madness died down. Shelter stretched and massaged his left shoulder and arm. He threw back the curtain enclosing the examining room and went looking for MacIsaac and Traverse.

  A nurse di
rected him to a tiny meeting room off the main ER, where the officers were seated at an oval table.

  MacIsaac brought Shelter up to speed on the shooting. “The Ident team worked out a preliminary trajectory from Rory’s wounds, and they’re thinking the shooter was on the roof of the parking garage diagonal to the square. No shell casings, and we’ve got nothing so far on video or from a canvass of businesses and passersby.” He studied Shelter’s face. “What happened out there? What did Rory say to you?”

  Shelter gathered his thoughts. “He was terrified.”

  “How so?” MacIsaac asked.

  “On edge. Jumpy. After I gave him his rights, he wanted me to promise to protect him. And he repeated he was being set up.”

  “Who was setting him up?”

  Shelter shrugged. “He didn’t get a chance to say.” He looked from Traverse to MacIsaac, brow wrinkled with concern. “The shooter was trying to take out Nicki too.”

  MacIsaac shook his head. “She’s making someone nervous. We don’t need another victim. Tell her to back off and leave it to us.”

  The corners of Shelter’s mouth tightened into a rueful frown. “I’ve already done that. Let’s just say she doesn’t respond well to authority.”

  “She’s going to have to learn, or she’s going to end up dead.”

  After a moment, Traverse asked, “You need a ride home?”

  “Nah, I’m going to look in on her. See she’s settled in.”

  Traverse raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “Yeah. Just want to make sure.”

  Traverse accompanied Shelter a short way down the hall to Nicki’s room, where they found her asleep. Shelter watched her for a second before looking over to Traverse, who was studying him.

  “You sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “I’m going to stay a little while.”

  “Okay. Your call. I’ll see you at the office.”

  Later, Shelter observed Nicki from a high-backed padded chair in a corner of her hospital room. Her hair contrasted with the white hospital sheets. She’d been asleep for almost two hours after being given a sedative. A uniformed cop was stationed outside the room.