The Weight of Blood

by D. B. Carew

  Copyright © D.B. Carew 2020

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication—reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system—without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: The weight of blood / D.B. Carew.

  Names: Carew, D. B., 1969- author.

  Description: Series statement: A Chris Ryder thriller

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200159836 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200159917 |

  ISBN 9781988732923 (softcover) | ISBN 9781988732930 (EPUB)

  | ISBN 9781988732947 (Kindle)

  Classification: LCC PS8605.A737 W45 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  NeWest Press wishes to acknowledge that the land on which we operate is Treaty 6 territory and a traditional meeting ground and home for many Indigenous Peoples, including Cree, Saulteaux, Niitsitapi (Blackfoot), Métis, and Nakota Sioux.

  Board Editor: Leslie Vermeer

  Cover design & typesetting: Kate Hargreaves

  Cover photograph by Erol Ahmed via Unsplash

  Author photograph: Matthew Carew

  All Rights Reserved

  NeWest Press acknowledges the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for support of our publishing program. This project is funded in part by the Government of Canada.

  201, 8540 – 109 Street

  Edmonton, AB T6G 1E6

  780.432.9427

  www.newestpress.com

  No bison were harmed in the making of this book.

  PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA

  1 2 3 4 5 22 21 20

  Dedicated to the memory of Leanne Wilson and Roger Sasaki

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ONE

  He crept along the dark path and came to a small clearing. In the dim light, he saw what looked like blood splattered over the ground. His chest tightened. Farther ahead, he could just make out a figure lying still, face down. He approached the body cautiously, a feeling of dread intensifying with every step. He knew he should run, but instead he inched toward the body sprawled before him.

  Who was it? He couldn’t tell in this light, but a voice screeching inside his head told him it was someone he knew, someone he loved. He prayed that it wasn’t Ann Marie. Or Stephanie. Chris slowly reached down to turn the body over. “No!”

  “She’s gone.” Ray Owens stepped into view. He raised his Remington M24 and pointed it at Chris. “And you’re next.”

  “No!”

  “No!” Chris jolted up in bed and scrambled for the night lamp.

  Beside him in bed, his girlfriend rubbed her eyes and looked at him with concern. “What’s wrong, Chris?”

  He didn’t answer. It took him a moment to get his bearings: he was in Stephanie’s Vancouver condo. His breathing was laboured, and he felt sweat trickling down his naked chest. He looked at the clock: two fifty-three in the morning. He lay back down, despairing over the fact that it was now Monday, the workday only hours away.

  “It’s okay. It was just a dream.” Stephanie wrapped her arms around him and huddled closer. “Was it the same one?”

  “Yeah,” Chris whispered, upset with himself. Shivers radiated from his still-trembling body. He exhaled deeply, relieved that the danger wasn’t real.

  “You screamed. Want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t want to worry you with my problems. Sorry I woke you.”

  “That’s all right.” She touched his shoulder. “Ray can’t hurt you anymore.”

  Chris flinched as a painful memory suddenly surfaced. He turned his head away to catch his breath.

  “Another flashback?”

  “Yeah,” he said, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal.

  “The worst is behind you now. But if you won’t talk to me, promise you’ll talk to Nathaniel.”

  “I will,” he said through a heavy sigh.

  “Ray tried to kill you. Nobody gets over that kind of trauma overnight.”

  “But that was three months ago. I’m getting tired of reliving that night. Every. Bloody. Night. And I’m tired of the nightmares. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, expecting to see Ray coming to finish me off.”

  “Ray is in jail now. He can’t hurt you where he is. And remember, the memories and nightmares are expected as part of your recovery. But it takes time, and it means talking these things through on a regular basis, until they’re gone.”

  “I know. You’re right. I’m seeing Nathaniel today. Hopefully it’ll help.”

  “It will help, Chris. You’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this ... together.”

  He thought back to three months earlier when Stephanie worked as a psychologist and he as a social worker at the Institute of Forensic Psychiatry. After his attack by Ray Owens, Stephanie had performed critical incident debriefing with Chris as he prepared for his return to work. She took herself off his case because of her feelings for him and insisted he see a counsellor. Eventually they started dating. Although they’d known each other for ten years, it was Chris’ ordeal with Ray that brought them back into each other’s lives.

  “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time,” he finally said, and kissed Stephanie.

  “And I’m not going to let you forget it,” she said with a smile.

  “I’m serious.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “When Deanna asked for a separation, all I could think about was how I’d failed as a husband, and as a father for Ann Marie. I didn’t think my life could get any worse. Then Ray came along and proved me wrong. Never in a million years would I have dreamt that we’d be lying here together.”

  “All it took was ten years, your failed marriage, my broken engagement, and your almost getting killed.”

  “All I know is you’re here now. I love you, and I’m not letting anything tear us apart.”

  TWO

  Chris hadn’t stepped two feet outside Stephanie’s condo later that morning when the headline Ice Cream Vendor Beaten to Death caught his attention. He picked up the paper and skimmed the article by Vancouver Tribune crime reporter Lucy Chen.

  The body of a 69-year-old man was discovered Saturday by a driver on Highway 7 in Hope. The victim has been identified as Alberto Bianchi. A suspect has been taken into cust
ody.

  Bianchi, an ice cream vendor, was a popular figure for generations of Hope residents, and his death has shocked his family and the local community.

  Bianchi’s daughter, Maria Gilbert, says her father was three months away from closing down his mobile ice cream business, one he’d operated on the same route for more than 30 years.

  “My father loved putting smiles on people’s faces. He never hurt anyone his whole life. I just don’t understand why someone would do something like this.”

  It’s believed Bianchi was taking a back road to his home when his ice cream truck broke down. Police are asking anyone who may have noticed Bianchi or his truck to come forward.

  The suspect, Marvin Aaron Goodwin, 20, was arrested at the scene. Goodwin is expected to make an appearance at the Hope courthouse today to face one count of murder.

  Chris viewed an attached photo of a beaming Bianchi posing beside his ice cream truck in 1993. He sympathized with the man’s family who must be struggling to come to terms with his murder.

  Chris tried to kick-start his brain into work mode as he drove into the parking lot at nine in the morning. Located in Coquitlam, British Columbia, about thirty kilometres outside Vancouver, the Institute of Forensic Psychiatry provided court-ordered psychiatric assessments and treatment for people with mental health challenges who’d come into conflict with the law. Chris worked on Alpha Unit, the maximum-security remand unit. On the radio, the Boomtown Rats were singing “I Don’t Like Mondays.”

  Chris checked in at the hospital’s reception desk, manned by Horace Greening, a security officer. “Hey, Chris, I scored a ticket for the Canucks game!” the brawny man boasted.

  “Hopefully, you won’t be the only one scoring. They couldn’t buy a goal on Saturday.” Chris couldn’t resist giving the gears to Horace, a rabid fan of the Vancouver hockey team. This year, Horace wasn’t alone on the bandwagon, as the Canucks had found a way to advance to the Western Conference final in the Stanley Cup playoffs. This was the first May in a number of years that players were perfecting their slapshots rather than their golf swings. “Pressure’s on now. They’re down two games.”

  “They’ve still got a chance,” Horace said defiantly.

  “A couple more games like Saturday’s and they won’t.”

  “Go, Canucks, go!” was Horace’s only response.

  Once in his office, Chris set down his weathered messenger bag and turned on the computer to review his email. While it warmed up, he noticed his sole remaining plant on the windowsill was in desperate need of water, with brown leaves littering the ledge. He was about to water it when a tap at his door distracted him. It was psychiatrist Marilyn Stevenson, a copy of the Tribune in hand. “How was your weekend?”

  “Good. Yours?” Chris had been a social worker at IFP for ten years, and for most of that time, he’d worked with Marilyn, one reason he still enjoyed working there.

  “A little reading and some gardening. Nice and quiet, unlike today.” She handed the newspaper to Chris so he could see the headline. “Meet our new admission.”

  “Yeah, I read the story,” he said glumly. “He’s coming here today?”

  “That’s what Admitting tells me.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  Dr. Stevenson shrugged. “Not a whole lot. He was found at the scene covered in ice cream and blood. So we know he likes his frozen treats,” she added with a grin. Chris groaned, knowing that dark humour was a necessary coping mechanism in their line of work. “All he had on him was an expired BC medical card. Police got nowhere with him, and the staff at the pre-trial centre couldn’t get anything out of him.”

  “He’s not cooperating?”

  “He doesn’t appear to be deliberately withholding information. It’s more a question of his mental capacity to cooperate, which is why he’s been ordered here for a fitness assessment. He was triaged as a priority admission.”

  “How come?”

  “According to the notes from pre-trial, his ability to communicate verbally is limited. It looks as if he’s got severe cognitive deficits. Admitting says he’s scheduled to arrive between two-thirty and three this afternoon. I plan on seeing him at three-thirty. It would be great if you could join me.”

  “I’ll be there. I’ll do a little digging before then to find out what I can about him. There’s got to be family or someone who knows him.”

  “Keep in mind, Chris, that you’re not the only one digging for information. I already had a call this morning from Lucy Chen, wanting to ask me questions about the case. I alerted Florence, who ordered me to direct all media inquiries to the communications department.”

  Hearing Florence’s name put the usual knot in Chris’ stomach. Florence Threader was the hospital’s director of patient care. He knew his director was looking out for the best interests of the hospital, but his last confrontation with her had almost cost him his job. Having the Goodwin case on Florence’s radar would make Chris’ life more difficult than it already was.

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  THREE

  After reviewing his email, Chris walked the short distance to the Admitting office, where he found Jody sitting behind her desk. She was organizing paperwork into a large purple binder, which would become a new patient’s chart.

  “I hope you’re having a marvellous Monday,” he said with a smile. “I’m looking for the chart for Marvin Goodwin.”

  “Enjoy,” she said, handing a file to Chris. “I’m still waiting for more information from the Crown. I’ll let you know when it arrives.”

  “Thanks, Jody.” He returned to his office and skimmed through the file, which included the assessment order from the Hope Provincial Court for a fitness assessment, the police report narrative, and the health snapshot from Surrey Pre-trial Centre. The assessment order listed a defence lawyer assigned to Marvin’s case, which saved Chris from having to contact the Legal Services Society to confirm whether Marvin had a lawyer and completing a Legal Aid application if he didn’t.

  Next, Chris did an internet search on the Goodwin surname but couldn’t find anything else on Marvin or locate any relatives. He also struck out with the ministries of Social Development and Health, as both agencies cited client privacy and demanded signed consent from Marvin before releasing anything. “Sorry I can’t help you. I’m just doing my job.”

  “Does someone have to die before information gets shared?” Chris immediately regretted taking his frustration out on the Ministry staffer. “Hey, I apologize. I totally get the need to protect personal information. It’s just that I’ve seen too many situations where withholding information has worked against the very client it was designed to protect.” He had also fielded far too many calls from distraught family members left with unanswered questions as to why the information they needed was unavailable.

  “Apology accepted. I get a lot of complaints about our privacy procedures.”

  He decided to focus his energy on finding creative ways to obtain the information he was looking for.

  He called a probation officer he knew at Adult Community Corrections. After a few rings, Mason Jean picked up, and the two men engaged in idle chitchat before Chris got down to business. “I’m trying to see if one of my patients has a file with you guys.”

  He was met with silence, then, “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Ray Owens, would it?”

  Hearing Ray’s name was like a kick to the stomach. It took Chris a moment to recover. “No, it’s not about him. It’s a guy named Marvin Goodwin. You probably heard the story on the news, the so-called Ice Cream Killer?”

  “Yeah, I know the one. Gimme a second, I’ll see what I’ve got.” Chris heard the sound of fingers hitting a keyboard. “Nope, he’s clean. At least, he was up until now.”

  “Thanks. That helps.”

  “No problem. When are you gonna buy me that beer you owe me?”

  “Name the time and place, and I’ll be there. Cheers.”

  Chris�
�� next call was to Sergeant Brandon Ryan, a member of the Major Crimes Unit of the RCMP. They’d met three months earlier when Chris had been shot and had since become friends. He explained why he was calling and asked for information about Marvin Goodwin.

  Brandon put Chris on hold while he did a background search on the accused. “Nope, no other files on record.”

  “It was worth a try. Thanks.”

  “Any time. From what I’ve heard, that case is freaking bizarre. It’s no wonder he’s at your place.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “For starters, the kid was discovered at the scene covered in blood, but no one knows how he got himself out into the middle of nowhere. It’s a long walk from the nearest residential area, and he doesn’t look like the walking kind.”

  “I read the police report. Mr. Bianchi was attacked with a tire iron?”

  “Yeah, looks like his truck broke down and he was fixing a flat tire. Blood everywhere. The kid wouldn’t say a word to the arresting officers other than ‘home.’ Good luck is all I can say.”

  “It’s looking like we’ll need it.”

  “Oh, and while I’ve got you on the line, I received an invitation from Elizabeth. She’s holding a ceremony at Woodland Park to dedicate a bench to her father. You get one?”

  Chris’ head started to throb. It was Chris who had discovered John Carrier’s body in Woodland Park, and it was Chris who had rescued Elizabeth Carrier from her abductors in that same park. Woodland Park was also where Ray Owens had shot him. “Yeah, I got one.”

  “I thought maybe we could go together and —”

  “Uh ... I don’t know. I haven’t decided whether I’m going.”

  “Oh, okay. You have other plans?”

  “It’s not that.” Chris took a deep breath. “That park brings up a whole load of stuff for me, you know. I’m not sure I’m ready to go back yet. As much as I’d like to be there for Elizabeth ... I just don’t know.”

  “Hey, no worries. If you show, great. Otherwise, I’ll pass on your regards, okay?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, Brandon.”

  Chris hung up, then lowered his head and massaged his aching temples. He suddenly felt a lot older than his thirty-eight-year-old athletic build would suggest. Will I ever be able to think about Woodland Park without the urge to puke? Or keep Ray out of my head without the urge to strangle him?