Walleye: An Eco Thriller in Temagami

by P W Ross

  Jack rose abruptly. “Pony, let’s go, I’ve seen and heard enough. This thing is going to go in circles. Let’s get back, I need a good night’s sleep. I’ve got a conference call with the board of the Institute tomorrow.”

  “You go Jack. I want to see how this ends. These people are fiercely independent and they want, no, they need, to feel that they’re doing something to help. I’ll be okay walking back with the crowd.”

  “Alright, after my call I’ve a meeting at the station with Eugene and his cast of characters in the afternoon. Maybe we can figure out a way to get some of these people involved, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea, if it backfires Eugene will wear it.”

  Leaving, he spotted Abe and Norval watching intently from the top row of the stands.

  He walked slowly and deliberately through the deserted town and stopped at the Miniwassa to peer through the screen door. Bob’s father was tending bar. The tables were empty and the jukebox silent. He retreated to the porch and stared at the lights of the fire tower. There was a connection in all these events but he just couldn’t see it, even though he felt it was right in front of him.

  Nesting boxes had been placed on the bluffs below the tower and in the twilight, he could make out two peregrine falcons circling on the hunt for one last evening meal. One folded up its wings, appeared to be stationary for an instant and then plummeted toward the earth. The fastest animal alive came up empty and returned to one of the boxes. He watched the remaining bird circle for a few minutes and then started toward the docks.

  Duff was waiting faithfully, if impatiently for him as he swung into the back bay. Feeding the dog, he was overcome by tremendous weariness and he sank fully clothed into the brass bed and into a restless sleep.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Still not refreshed or quite awake after the morning swim, Jack rustled up three eggs, bacon, wolfed them down and went to the boathouse carrying two blue, empty five-gallon water barrels.

  “Come Duff, off to the spring. He could drink the water right out of the lake, but preferred the crystal-clear water of a spring that fed into the lake from a secluded bay one mile south. The source was three hundred and fifty yards from the shore up a steep hill where it bubbled from a granite outcrop. Used to be a hard haul up and back for each container and Jack used to consider it a workout, supporting the full barrels on his shoulders with a tumpline to his forehead.

  Fortunately for him and everyone else who used the spring, some unknown but enterprising individual had run a one and a half inch hose from the source to a shaded glade about fifty yards from shore. The water ran endlessly from the hose propped over an immense fallen pine.

  “Wait here Duff, forgot something.”

  Back up at the cabin Jack pulled a worn leather rifle case from under the bed and pulled out a lever-action Winchester 30:30. He loaded six cartridges, and carefully slipped the rifle back into its case.

  Spring Bay was shallow and they took the cedar strip. The quarter hour trip was uneventful but Jack found himself constantly on guard and edgy. Duff noticed the change and wondered where all the levity had gone. Before getting out of the boat he cranked a round into the chamber, put it on a half-cock safety and entered the glade. The spring was running well and it took only a few minutes to fill the containers. Winchester cradled over one arm and dog at his feet, he squinted around in the mottled light of the small clearing. Now as he stood in the cool, quiet of the grove, rather than enjoy the moment as he had so many times before, his mind could only consider the possibility of the site being a perfect location for an ambush. Walleye was not only a murderer but also a thief, stealing his peace of mind and quiet moments of joy.

  “Shit,” he said in frustration. Propping the rifle against a tree, he cupped his hands at the hose, drank deep and then splashed frigid spring water over his face and through his hair. The crack of a branch on the forest floor caused him to jerk his head up, cock his ear and listen but all was quiet. Could be anything; a moose, a deer, a bear or, a man. It had stopped moving. It was standing still as he was listening, not wanting to give away its position with an errant step.

  “Goddammit Jack, what’s getting into you?” he exclaimed and he carried the containers down to the boat one at a time so as to have the 30:30 at the ready. As he did, Duff stuck his head under the hose and lapped at the spewing water.

  At half eleven he was sitting on the dock reading through a fifty-page report on the Institute’s activities over the past quarter. It was tough sledding and, distracted, he just was not into it. At twelve he dialled into the call that his chairperson, Janice Krueger, had orchestrated. Six additional board members, three men and three women, connected in from various parts of the world. After ten minutes of hellos and personnel reviews, they got to it.

  They had drilled two new wells in an African village on the border of Niger where previously there had been only a wretched trickling stream and another where the women had to travel miles for water that you wouldn’t let your dog drink. The water would be small comfort in a country where half the population was starving from unprecedented famine conditions.

  Another member reported that they had done some effective lobbying of major US and European drug companies for cheap access to generic drugs, primarily aimed at HIV and Malaria. On the darker side, their education programs about the spread of AIDS seemed to be going nowhere. African men working away from their villages, as most did, invariably used sex services without question. Ignorance and subservience put them on the road to a slow death and the production of another generation of orphaned children.

  As if that ongoing travesty wasn’t bad enough, the spread of HIV was further accelerated by a legion of reckless, macho truck drivers who spread the disease wherever they picked up or hauled goods. There was only one mission that was working: water.

  A new initiative of low-cost housing models was bogged down in red tape, apparently seen to be in conflict with another UN sponsored program.

  Krueger was, however, going to be given the opportunity to address a UN committee next month on that very issue and on a proposal for a new initiative to foster the development of micro businesses in rural areas at the village level to hedge against ever precarious subsistence agricultural levels. This was a major turning point in the development of the Institute’s profile and credibility, and Jack was quietly thrilled by what his team had accomplished in a short period of time.

  “Janice, tell us what’s happening with debt relief and foreign economic aid policy.” He listened patiently for a full ten minutes, sometimes asking questions or interjecting and often encouraging.

  “Yes.”

  “No, no way.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Who cares what they think, it’s not their money.”

  “Might as well forget it, not going to happen.”

  “Okay, here’s what I think you might want to consider,” Jack stated tactfully.

  “Back off the debt relief issue, a large part of that is going to disappear regardless of what we do. There are lots of other groups working that file and we ought to let them have it. It's really more a question of embarrassing and shaming the key lenders into forgiveness. Hell, they know they’re not going to ever be repaid, they just want to have the hammer over those countries in case something valuable pops up, diamonds, oil, or gold.

  “You might want to spend your time on food distribution. In most cases the donor countries have Ts and Cs that are incredibly onerous and tied to their own producers supplying the actual produce. Grain, rice, whatever. In some cases, they’re pissing away up to forty percent of the commitment on transportation. Like most of what's going on over there, it just doesn’t make any sense. Why don’t you get some smart folks on that file and let me know what you can come up with?”

  “Okay, that’s it for me. You can carry on if you have more ground to cover but believe it or not, I’ve got another meeting and have to sign off. We’ll set up another call in a couple of week
s. Take care everybody.”

  These calls frustrated Jack. Things were never moving fast enough but it was reassuring for him to know this group of institute leaders were constantly plugging away. He wondered what if would take to create a breakthrough and develop the genuine will in developed countries to help these impoverished nations without a commercial or political end game in play.

  He donned a pair of sandals, walking shorts, a faded Madras shirt hanging out and looked for a hat. His eyes landed on a deep green golf hat from Shadow River, a private golf course built by one of Las Vegas’ wealthiest casino entrepreneurs, Robert Title. It was an oasis a few minutes outside of the city limits. He put on the hat and remembered the outing vividly.

  The parking lot was small. There were in fact no members, just lockers for entertainment super stars, high rollers (the highest) and of course, close friends and business associates. Most of the high rollers had lines of credit larger that the GNP of a quarter of the world’s countries. He had been invited to play by an old college friend, a financial wizard who had become the right hand of Robert Title.

  Going through the gate was like entering a different part of the country. Not fifteen minutes from the strip, in the driest of deserts, was an artificially created landscape (like all of Vegas), which you would have sworn was part of the Carolinas. It was lush, green, water and waterfowl (clipped), everywhere. At the practice tee the buckets were full of top-quality balls and all were new, never yet hit. At the time he had considered it a privilege to play a course that few would ever see, let alone walk and, perhaps it was.

  Now he wasn’t so sure. The most startling fact he could remember about the day was that the water bill for the course was close to one million dollars annually. Think about it.

  He removed the hat, replaced it with one labeled North Bay Feed Company and went to town.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  None of the offices could accommodate the group so they sat around haphazardly in the common area of the station drinking coffee. The odd one smoked. Eugene stood with Braxton at the door of his office in quiet conversation, while Will slouched in an old battered wingback, leg over one arm. Jill and Rene perched on a desk, heads close, whispering, feet swinging, becoming an item for sure. Brautigan wore a loud Hawaiian shirt, cargo pants and deck shoes. He was laughing with Bob Goodenough about something or other and feigned mock guilt as Jack walked in. Bob appeared more tired than ever. The bar must have filled last night and remained so long after the town meeting. With the wake for Henry at seven, tonight would make two in a row.

  Printing on a flipchart with a black felt-tipped marker was the only person Jack didn’t recognise and he assumed him to be the profiler. Maybe five-foot-ten, stocky build and comfortably dressed wearing a green fatigue jacket over a black tee, faded jeans and sandals. Thick black hair curled onto his shoulders and his face was largely obscured by a full black beard and moustache. Penetrating black eyes below robust eyebrows centred a nose that had been broken more than once. The look was accentuated by a gold earring in the left lobe. Cop but cool, the Serpico look. He busied himself completing a numbered list. Adjacent to it was a lake map secured to the wall with masking tape. Closer scrutiny revealed three red Xs indicating the murder sites.

  Rocking nervously in a swivel char, Virgil Rowan bore the unmistakable demeanour of a man resigned to being there but itching for the exit. Jack nodded toward Eugene’s bleary eyes and introduced himself to Braxton before hoisting himself onto a battered desk opposite the flipchart. The only cops missing were new recruits out on patrol. The profiler finished dotting his last i and nodded crisply to Eugene.

  “This here’s Joseph Friscolanti of the RCMP. Joe’s a twenty-year man and a psychologist by trade. He’s worked the countryside, city streets, national security, narcotics, homicide and for the past five years has specialised in multiple and serial killings. He’s in from Montreal and is gonna hang in with us until this thing is resolved, so listen up.”

  The voice was a rich, deep base with a hint of Quebecois.

  “Guy I know named Pat Green wrote a book a while back titled, ‘Sport Killing’; kind of a pop/cop psychoanalysis kind of thing that touts a list of ten myths about serial killers. Actually, I think most of his theories are bullshit but I like the list, mostly ‘cause it’s a good way to start these session, ’specially with sceptics and folks that usually don’t want to admit that what’s happening around them is real.”

  “Not sure we fall into that category Joe.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that Eugene?”

  Startled, Virgil interrupted immediately. “You mean to tell me you’ve been here ten minutes and you’ve already concluded we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

  Friscolanti sighed audibly, turned to Eugene with a silent ‘I told you so,’ then drilled directly into Virgil’s eyes.

  “Rowan, is it?”

  “Yes, Mayor Rowan.”

  “Well Mayor, in very short order, here, in the middle of goddamn nowhere, you’ve had three incidents that in eight days have resulted in four bodies. One ... two ... three ... four. Well, let me think now ... let’s see ... I’d guess you’re probably running neck and neck with New York City. What would you suggest we call it?”

  Rowan’s bluster faded.

  “Here are some myths about serial killers. There’s supposed to be ten but I could only remember nine. You’ll get the gist. One. Unless you hear about one at large in your neighbourhood, you can assume none are in your community.”

  “Hear no evil, see no evil,” Bob whispered.

  Friscolanti smiled wanly. “That’s the way it is everywhere until it happens. Everyone is living in Pleasantville. Two. Serial killers are strangers that leap out at you in the night.”

  “The Boogeyman,” chirped Rene.

  “Three, the killer always leaves or takes away evidence at the scene.”

  “Sometimes,” offered Brautigan.”

  “Four. Serial killers are super clever.”

  Sometimes is the operative word here.”

  “Often there’s innate intelligence but other times these guys are about as smart as a bag of hammers. We’ve caught perps that were butt-assed stupid and got away with things for a long time out of police ineptitude or just sheer luck. Most often it’s a combination of the two exacerbated by lack of police cooperation across jurisdictional lines.”

  “Exacerbated?”

  “Made worse Eugene,” he said, glancing at Braxton and Rummell. “That’s not gonna happen in this case.

  “Five. Serial killers are caught through DNA banks, profiles and brilliant police work.”

  “I wish.” Eugene smiled grimly.

  “Six, the victims all look alike.”

  “How ‘bout your four, any distinct similarities?”

  “Yeah, they’re all very dead,” Will said.

  “Seven. Signature is the mark of the serial killer.”

  “For sure, they always leave a signed note.” Jill rolled her eyes. “These murders couldn’t be any different.”

  “Maybe the difference is the signature?” Jack proffered.

  Friscolanti looked up sharply. “That’s a thought worth holding on to.”

  “Eight. You can link a serial killer to his crimes by his M O, modus operandi.”

  “And nine. Our present methods catch them. Well ... sort of, and sometimes. Currently, most experts agree there are between two and three thousand serial killers loose in North America.”

  The room gasped in unison and quiet expletives filled the air.

  Right now we’ve got at least three cases of ten, twenty-three and one of forty related murders in which we haven’t got a fucking clue.”

  “Jesus fucking wept,” Bob muttered.

  “Does the public know what’s going on?” Jack asked.

  “Did you? Depends, Sometimes yes, most times no. The public is mostly insensitive if they consider the victims undesirables; prostitutes, drug addicts, street p
eople.”

  “Okay, any observations, questions?”

  Jack was increasingly frustrated. “Yes... no... maybe... sometimes... myths... inconsistent truths... how the hell do you come up with a profile when you’re chasing a ghost?”

  “Businessman, Alexander?” Friscolanti wanted to know.

  “Was.”

  “Well, this ain’t no boardroom where you sit around, make a decision and it all just happens. There are general patterns and profiles that seem to hold water and help shape thoughts on potential suspects but nothing’s cast in stone. All of these cases are unique and it’s not science. A large part of it is still intuitive and subjective. There’s no magic formula. We’ll do all the hard-slogging old fashioned police work but it will be a break, a mistake or a light going off in someone’s head that will take us to this guy.”

  “What are we going to call him?”

  “Walleye,” Bob said with a sigh, remembering the couple’s eyes. “We’ll call him Walleye.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Walleye?” queried Friscolanti.

  “Tell you later.”

  “Right then, Walleye it is.”

  “The public assumes that those who kill others repeatedly for no apparent reason suffer some mental illness. Maybe, Maybe not. Perhaps they’re more cruel than crazy. Perhaps they know exactly what they are doing. Conceivably, they understand right from wrong but just don’t give a shit.”

  “Seventy percent of convicted criminals suffer from APD, Antisocial Personality Disorder, and it goes together with criminal behaviour hand in glove. These folks are not insane. They know exactly what they are doing. They don’t recognise the rights of others, the rules of society. They don’t get anxious and they don’t feel guilt. Experts feel there is no real treatment for these types and the best thing we can do is keep them locked up. This disorder affects probably four percent of the population so you can stop staying up at night wondering why the jails are full.”