Walleye: An Eco Thriller in Temagami

by P W Ross

  “Just carry on.”

  “Well there's not much to say about Wainright. Instantaneous death before he hit the island. Dead man boating. A projectile of unknown make, fired from a high-powered weapon, probably a thirty-something caliber, maybe a 30-08. A mushroom shell, and there were a couple of fragments lodged in the skull but they're not going to tell us much. We've gone over every inch of the boat but the bullet's not there so it's somewhere out in the bush or the lake. Consider it gone. Did you go over to that island? Maybe you can find a casing.”

  “Looks like the shot came from the island and I've got Jill and another officer up there now with a metal detector but I don't hold up a lot of hope. We're sending you down what looks like cigarette paper and some tobacco fibres. Let me know what you make of them. What about the houseboat couple, anything new on them?”

  Listening, Eugene sauntered to the coffee pot, poured a cup and returned to his chair. Out of the bottom drawer appeared a mickey of rye and he dumped in a shot. He tilted the bottle up toward Jack and Rene in an offering, but both held up hands to decline and looked at each other as Eugene deposited the whiskey to its crib.

  “There were prints everywhere on that boat. Six we're running down now, but my guess is that they'll all dead-end and belong to the owners, cleaning staff or previous renters. I don't think our boy went aboard without gloves. Tell you one thing, those two were smoking some pretty premo MJ, so they must have been wasted and were well into the white wine as well. All in all, very vulnerable targets.

  “Conrad, tell me something I don't know. You can be stoned and still put up some kind of a struggle. You telling me they were zombied out?”

  “No, they weren't that far gone. I have an idea that I'm working on and have our people here checking it out.”

  “Spare me the mystery, Conrad. What are you on to?”

  “What do you know about stun guns?”

  Eugene bent forward and squinted at the speaker box. Rene and Jack eyed each other quizzically, as if a light had come on.

  “I've been trained on TASERS. Is that what we're talking about?”

  “Nope, a TASER fires out two darts on wires toward the target. That's not going to work in this case where you've got two victims. I'm talking about a stun gun that applies the electrodes directly to the body.”

  “Ouch!” said Jack. “Right through the clothing?”

  “Yep, like getting hit by a thunderbolt.”

  “They felt like they were hit by a bolt but actually it's the opposite. Lightning has high amperage and it can be lethal. A stun gun delivers high voltage very quickly but with low amps so it's non-lethal. The charge disrupts the normal electrical signals the brain is sending to the body and actually sends out false messages, telling the body to do a great deal of work immediately. But it's disjointed and makes no sense, so the body just twitches and spasms. It depletes the blood sugar and converts it to lactic acid.”

  Eugene said, “Not so technical Conrad, you're not giving a paper at a medical convention. Don't lose us here, just give me the punch line.”

  “Okay, you end up with a victim unable to produce any energy or movement. Temporary vegetable, broccoli brain.”

  “How long?” Rene asked.

  “Depends on the length of the charge, but I'd estimate three to four minutes.”

  “So how do you see it?” Eugene probed.

  “I think our man comes on board, looks in the cabin and they're in bed. There was fresh semen on the sheets and in her. I think they were in the act, preoccupied to say the least. He goes in and zaps the male in the ass. The victim rears up, falls over and he shocks the girl in the abdomen and now they're both out of it and he's got at least three minutes to do what he wants with them.”

  “He doesn't tie them up, so that fucking trap was already aboard,” Rene interjected.

  “He brought it with him?” Jack asked.

  Rene shrugged. “Or, it was already there.”

  They were all on their feet now, pacing, nodding, excited as some of the pieces started to come together.

  “Now you boys are cooking with gas,” Conrad encouraged.

  “He picks up the male and puts him in the cage, then the girl.”

  “And the villain is no featherweight. The male victim came in at one hundred and eighty pounds.”

  “You said the male had two sets of marks,” Eugene said.

  “Right. Let's say he's coming around and looks like he might be in trouble. The killer just pops him again. We're doing some research now to determine which models have the same electrode spread that matches the marks on our stiffs. Jack, you remember the cut rope at the stern?”

  “Yes, I'm starting to see this now.” He looked out the window. “The couple's away fishing. The stalker goes over to the houseboat, cases it and leaves the fish trap submerged at the stern. They come back at dusk and never notice it.”

  “You missed your calling.” Eugene smiled, his head shaking.

  “Shit,” Rene piped up, “that means our guy stalked them for a couple of days to get their routine down pat.”

  Eugene had his elbow on the desk, head in his left hand massaging his forehead. “This is cold, calculated, efficient and well orchestrated. You don't just come up with a stun gun and fish cage over night.”

  “So, how does he get the stun gun?” Jack wondered.

  “Don't be naïve son, you can get anything you want if you ask the right people and pay cash.”

  “Conrad, great piece of work. So, what happened next?”

  “I don't know Eugene. You're the sleuth. You tell me.”

  “Jack?”

  He turned from the window.

  “He paddles to the houseboat. Once they're in the trap he cuts their boats loose, fires up the engine and heads out. Gets to the spot, shuts it down, drifts, dumps them and strokes off.”

  Rene nodded. “Could have happened that way.”

  “I'd say that scenario is pretty goddam close,” agreed Eugene.

  They heard the distinct pop of a can through the speaker and all grinned.

  “Conrad, where are you, in a bar?”

  “I wish. Matter of fact I'm in the morgue having a beer. Wainright's laid out right in front but needless to say he won't be joining me.”

  Eyes rolled.

  “Anybody got anything else?” Eugene looked around.

  “Nope? Okay Conrad, we're done for now. Talk later.”

  Rene turned to his computer and Eugene to Jack.

  “That Brautigan is worth the price of admission. I would have never cottoned on to a stun gun. But if that's what was used we'll never find it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too incriminating ... it'll be at the bottom of the lake.”

  Rene retrieved a print out, brought it in and passed it to the Inspector. “Have a look at this.”

  There must have been ten sheets. Rummell took one look and tossed then on the desk.

  “Give me the short hand version.”

  Jack picked up the report and scanned it. It was from the web site of a US magazine titled 'Fort Liberty'.

  “Building home made silencers?” Jack read aloud and looked to Rene for more.

  “Correct. Nobody reported hearing a shot fired when Wainright was hit. Damn near impossible... unless”, he pointed to the print out, “voila. Noise suppressors, as they like to call them. No gun is truly silent.”

  “Hard to make?”

  “Think of a balloon. Blow it up, pop it with a pin and you have a bang. Untie the end, let the air out slowly and you hear almost nothing. It’s the same principal. Most of the rifle ‘crack’ comes from high pressured hot gas forcing the projectile out, like uncorking a bottle of champagne except at thousands of feet per second. Put a silencer on the end of a rifle and you add twenty or thirty times the volume for the gas to expand into from the barrel. The pressure falls right off and you don't have a bang but a ‘poof’. We could get on down to the hardware store right now, pick up what we nee
d and in any half decent workshop, we could have one built by this time tomorrow.”

  “Gene, you're on it. This guy's not a killer he's an assassin. But why these victims? What's the motive?”

  “That's the million-dollar question Jack, and right now I haven't got a clue.” Eugene was cranky. “Rene, where the hell's Jill?”

  “Took two of the new guys from Timiskaming up the lake on patrol. They took the metal detector, remember? The other two are up in the Cessna.”

  Jack took Eugene aside. “Make sure you keep Will in the loop. He was ticked off that you didn't ask him to check out Widows’ Island. It would’ve made more sense.”

  “If Will MacKenzie is pissed off at me, he can take a ticket and stand in fucking line,” Eugene replied vehemently.

  Jack stared at him for a moment, then turned to walk out.

  “Jack, sorry. You're right, I should’ve had Will in on that. I'm not used to having a native police force on the lake.”

  “Eugene, I'm out of here. You should get some rest and lay off the booze. Call you if I think of anything, but as I keep telling you I'm at the end of the road with this.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “How so?”

  “Trust me, this is a long way from over.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was five thirty and the Miniwassa was already half full when Jack arrived. Bob's father was behind the bar.

  “Hey Fred, how'd you get stuck holding the fort?”

  “Bob's in the air. Took a couple of those new cops on patrol. he'll be in later. We got two more news teams in town today.”

  “Where?”

  “Across the street.”

  Before Jack had a chance to sip his beer, Nancy Parker pulled up a stool beside him and asked for the same. After his meeting with the Inspector, this he didn't need. He wanted only to relax. Silent, he swivelled to absent-mindedly take in the room. Townies were coming in to get the latest gossip. Marianne Faithful was on the box rasping out ‘Broken English’.

  “Mr. Alexander, I was hoping to get an interview with you.” Very proper.

  Here it comes, he thought, turning back to her eager gaze. She had dressed down into slacks, loafers, a sweater and was expectantly, if naively (perhaps posing?) with a notepad and pen. He knew to play this carefully.

  “Parker, I don't know what to make of you.”

  “I'm a big girl, just say what you think.”

  “Well, let's start with everything I say right now is off the record, and that everything I say to you in the future is also off the record, until I say different.”

  “That doesn't leave me a lot of room now, does it Alexander?”

  “Still want to talk?”

  “Sure.”

  “How important do you think ecotourism is to this town?”

  “Pretty important I guess.”

  “Not ‘pretty important’, Parker, but everything. Not just essential but crucial.”

  He spoke slowly and softly so the words would sink in.

  “Without it, the town doesn't survive. The mines are closed along with the lumber mill. How many people do you think want to come here to fish or hunt, camp or paddle if a killer’s on the loose? How ‘bout you? Want me to drop you off up the lake for a week or so? How many nature lovers and tree huggers do you think are going to be alone in the White Bear Forest or out on an Eco-trek? How many cottagers are going to stay on the lake waiting for it to be over? How many cabins do you think the lodge owners will fill?”

  “It is what it is, Alexander. You've got three bodies. Nothing’s going to change that. It's not going away. Not my fault. My job is to report the facts. You think it would be better if these people had been killed in North Bay? You think there's some way to mitigate this?”

  “Those people didn't deserve to die anywhere. I'm only telling you that the town will have trouble surviving this. Maybe you can show a little empathy along with the facts.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “What possible interest can I be to you or your readers? What's your angle?”

  “Local perspective and background. More of what you were just talking about. And, about your involvement.”

  “I'm not involved,” he said sharply.

  “Cut the bullshit, Alexander. You found two of the bodies. You just spent two hours with the chief and a meeting was held at your place last night. You live here half the year and you're the wealthy founder of the Renaissance Institute. Who wouldn't be interested?”

  At the mention of the Institute his head jerked up as she hit one of his sweet spots. Had she noticed? She was persistent and had done her homework, he had to give her that.

  “Parker, you're starting to crowd me. I don't begrudge you being here and trying to do your job, but I've told everyone who cares to listen that I don't want to be involved with this and I certainly don't want my name splashed around the papers. Yes, I did find the bodies and that's where I want it to end. Tell you what, why don't we come to some sort of agreement?”

  “Like what?”

  “You just keep me out of this right now and if I stumble on to anything else that's earth shattering, you'll be the first and only one to know.”

  Parker studied him acutely. Did he really believe he could stay out of this? She knew better.

  “You don't think this guy’s done yet, do you?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  He slipped off the stool and made for the door.

  “Alexander!” she called out.

  He turned.

  “It's a deal... at least for now.”

  Jack nodded and headed off.

  Chapter Thirty

  He nodded and headed off. In the train station parking lot across the road were three television vans, one from the Bay and two from Toronto. A young, earnest-looking reporter faced his cameraman and was filing his spot for the ten o’clock news.

  “... And that's the way it is in this entire district today. In a town where folks don't lock their doors, they're hunkering down, loading rifles, and spending little time outdoors, regretful for what's happened and fearful of what might happen next. Word is there may be a town meeting tomorrow night and we'll keep you posted. Until then, this is Jason Stewart of CKVR Toronto, reporting to you live from the northern Ontario lake town of Temagami.”

  Approaching, Jack smiled at Annas’ casual but confident stride.

  “You look worn out Jack.”

  “Just the light. Hungry?”

  “So, so.”

  “Terry's Cantonese or European?””

  European meant The Gast Haus, hosted by an elderly, eccentric, German ex-pat. The daily special was perpetually schnitzel.

  “Let's take a walk and eat later.”

  “Sure.”

  “The tower?”

  “Yes.”

  At the main trail into The White Bear Forest they watched the beaver in a large pond that had been damned up so tourists could get a close-up look almost right from the roadside. A couple of local woodsmen had built a replica trappers’ cabin and bridge with a walkway that penetrated some hundred yards into the beaver's domain. This season the single lodge housed two adults and two kits.

  “I've been thinking about trying my hand at building a cabin like that at my place. Looks good down there doesn't it?”

  “So the local teenagers say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where've you been, Jack? They call it the beaver shack. It's where they go to make out. Mosquitoes be damned.”

  Jack was gazing into the bush. Zoned out.

  “When's the last time you were in The White Bear?”

  “Not since I was a kid. Used to come here playing cowboys and Indians. Difference from the city was that some of the kids really were Indians. We just called it The Old Forest. We knew it was a magical place.”

  “Giants used to roam this land, planted those trees and carved out the lake. My people, the Temagamis, are descendants of those giants
and we were given the responsibility to be custodians of the land. Some of the trees are nearly four hundred years old, some of the biggest anywhere this side of the Mississippi. Not all white pine, there are some reds. Reds are a little smaller, the needle bunches and sweeps of the branches are coarser, the bark slightly reddish. Four thousand acres in there and the portages are three thousand years old.”

  “You think it makes sense to leave those trees just to grow old, rot and die without taking some of them out for lumber?”

  “Yes.”

  “That your definitive answer?”

  “Not that simple, Jack. Resource decisions here are life and death. For the tree-huggers down south it's an academic exercise and cocktail party conversation. Where is it written that we have the right to cut down every tree in the bush, simply because it's getting old? There should be places on this earth where we simply leave everything alone. Where we are allowed in for a look once in a while as the transitory guests that we are.”

  “Sustainable development?”

  “Get serious. This area was once designated a model for sustainable pine growth and harvesting, biggest in the world. Never worked, can't be managed and now there's not a mill for a hundred miles in any direction. The words conservation and development can't live in the same sentenced regardless of what adjective you place in front of them. Logging is a firecracker issue here. Be careful what you say and who you say it to. The land claim is not resolved. There’s too much timber, minerals and money involved. Okay, off the soap box, the tower awaits.”

  “Sure you don’t want a dalliance in the Beaver Shack?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe later sport, I forgot my mosquito repellent.”

  Arms locked, they sauntered up the gravel road toward the tower.

  “Give me more on Parker.”

  “She wants an interview. Been asking around about me. Thinks I can provide some local colour. She really wants an exclusive on how Bob and I found the bodies. Someone's filling her in. She knew about the meeting at my place. I pushed her off with a vague promise I'd get back to her.”

  “What happened at the meeting?”