by Dave Butler
“No. I … heard a noise behind me, then something or someone hit me. And then I saw you.”
“Did you talk to Clark at all?”
Willson searched her scrambled brain for the answer. It was like trying to find a single piece of paper after a stack of file folders had been tossed in the air, their contents floating to the floor in a random jumble. “No … no. There was no answer when I knocked on the door. But the door was open. So I came in and found him on the floor. Dead. I saw no one else. And then nothing. And now you’re here.”
“Well, the RCMP member I spoke to on the phone told me they’ve had nine homicides in the past two days. This is the tenth. They think the nine are all drug-related, but who knows about this one? I’m sure the Serious Crimes guys are going to want to talk to you. They’ll be here any second. You’re damn lucky you weren’t the eleventh body.” His hand was still on her shoulder, comforting.
“Was … was there anybody here when you got here?”
“No. You were alone. Just you and Charlie, I mean.”
Even through the haze and the pain, Willson could tell that something was not right. “What, Brad? What’s wrong?”
“Uh … you had a pipe wrench in your hand when I found you. It dropped to the floor when I pulled you off his body. You and Charlie didn’t have a fight, did you?”
“Jesus, Brad. I came here to talk to the guy … and I found him dead.”
“It’s okay, Jenny,” Jenkins said, his hand still on her shoulder. “I had to ask. The Mounties are going to have many questions for you because your fingerprints are going to be on that wrench. I’m guessing it’s the murder weapon.”
Another wave of pain washed through Willson’s head, this time supplemented by shock. She vomited again. Through tear-filled eyes, she looked up at Jenkins, slowly, comprehension infusing her still-hazy consciousness. “Shit, Brad, I didn’t get to ask Clark who the American hunter is. I was so close. And now the one guy who might’ve told me is dead. And someone tried to make it look like I killed him. What a friggin’ mess.”
Chapter 26
September 2
The old office chair creaked as Willson seated herself at the head of a boardroom table in the B.C. Environment office in Cranbrook, five weeks to the day since she’d been assaulted in Clark’s trailer. Her recovery had been slow, and she’d gone batshit crazy with resting and sleeping, avoiding strenuous exercise, and being chauffeured by others. And the hours of interrogation by RCMP investigators hadn’t helped her headaches. But with the blessing of her doctor and a confirmation that she wasn’t a suspect in Clark’s death, she was ready to go. In the not-too-distant back of her mind, Willson wondered whether she’d simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time, or if the attack on her had been just as personal as, but much less fatal than the murder of Clark. At this point, there was no answer.
To Willson’s left was Kootenay Warden Peter MacDonald. Brad Jenkins smiled at her from his position at the table to her left, adding a thumbs-up. She smiled back, grateful he was here, grateful he’d been at her side, with regular visits from Kim Davidson, until she was released from the hospital in Cranbrook.
The conservation officers surrounding them stopped talking when their inspector walked in, taking his place at the opposite end of the table to Willson. Despite his youth, the officers clearly respected Tom Doyle for his common sense and his willingness to listen to men with more years of field experience than he had. “Let’s get started,” he said. “Lead away, Jenny. This is your show.”
Willson had met with Doyle the day before to discuss the investigation. She’d laid out what she knew about the alleged plan for Eastman’s American client to come north for another hunt. She knew that the chances of catching the American in the act were slim at best, particularly because they still didn’t know who he was. And she couldn’t shake the feeling they were being set up. But she’d chosen to play poker with the devil. The cards had been dealt and this was her last hand.
She’d anticipated that her request for a full-blown stakeout in such an uncertain situation — a plan that included local conservation officers and their Special Investigations Unit — would raise not only Doyle’s blood pressure, but that of folks on the food chain above him. The B.C. government had invested an impressive amount of time and money in the investigation, and now she was asking for more. And at her urging, they’d held off their own charges against Eastman, charges that would likely see the man fined, jailed, and never allowed to hunt in B.C. again. But after three hours of describing her evidence on the poached elk, sheep, and goat, talking about legal implications and opportunities in both Canada and the U.S., and answering probing and thoughtful questions from Doyle, Willson saw the inspector agree by nodding once.
“We have no choice,” he’d said without hesitation. “Let’s do it. I’ll ensure we have what we need to make this happen.”
At that moment, Willson’s assessment of the young inspector had risen. The fact that he wanted to be part of the surveillance not only meant that he believed in what Willson was doing, but also that he was willing to take responsibility for whatever happened.
“Okay, gentlemen,” said Willson now, her gaze circling the table, “you know why we’re here. I want us to design this surveillance until we’ve crossed every t and dotted every i. Based on statements made by Clark in what appears to be one of his last phone calls before his murder, we believe that, within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, an unnamed American hunter will come north to join Bernie Eastman in his territory in pursuit of a trophy grizzly. I’m sure all of you know Eastman.”
Conservation officers in the room nodded their heads. Some rolled their eyes.
“Normally,” said Willson, “we would send out a BOLF — that’s ‘Be On Lookout For’ — on the American and his known vehicles to all Canadian enforcement agencies in the Kootenays, including the RCMP and Canada Border Services. But because we don’t know who the guy is, that won’t work. Instead, we’ll key in on Eastman. By now, you’ve heard that we had hoped to have his assistant guide, Charlie Clark, as an inside informant. But his murder closed that door on us.”
Over the next three hours, the group developed plans for placing surveillance teams at key locations on the way to and near Eastman’s camp in Buhl Creek. Their sole focus was to observe the American shooting an animal out of season and then to follow him to the point where he crossed the border into the United States.
Willson divided the group into seven two-person surveillance teams and assigned key locations to each. Using maps and Google Earth images, she brainstormed a wide range of possible scenarios with the officers. They talked about what could go wrong and what they’d do as a result. They assumed that Eastman knew he was under suspicion, so they expected him to make it difficult for them. Key locations were given code names, with Eastman’s camp designated as “Location Alpha.” Even though they were using a scrambled tactical radio channel and cellphones, they chose not to take chances by sharing too much information over the air. Eastman was given the code name “Big Bear,” while the client was designated as “Eagle.” Then all the teams shared photographs of Eastman, along with several of Eastman’s known employees and associates. Clark was no longer on that list.
“Brad,” said Willson, “I want you to stake out Eastman’s house — at a distance — because you were in on the original search. We can’t afford to have him recognize you.”
Willson pointed at the warden from Kootenay. “Peter and I are going to pose as ATVers, setting up our camp a few kilometres downstream from Eastman’s camp. Here” — she pointed to a spot on a large Google Earth image on the wall — “we’ll watch for and record any vehicles that move up or down the Buhl Creek road near the camp.” She grinned. “And I want to get a close look at this guy as he goes by. He doesn’t know me yet … but he soon will.” The men in the room all laughed.
Willson ope
ned her hand toward Tom Doyle. “Thanks to you, we have two teams from your Special Investigations Unit covertly watching the camp. Once Eastman and the client arrive, th teams willl follow them, wherever they’re hunting,” she said. “And the final teams, you guys —” she pointed at four COs to her right “— will sit in unmarked vehicles near the junction of Highways 95 and 95A, near Wasa. You’ll confirm movement of the hunters heading north, but your main role will be to follow the client after the hunt, as he moves south toward the border, with you guys hopscotching down the highway to avoid being detected. I’ll keep our U.S. colleagues in the loop as you get close to the border. All teams will be in radio or cellphone contact with each other, and Tom has agreed to coordinate from a location near the junction of Buhl and Skookumchuk Creek Roads. Any questions?”
Seeing none, Willson began to wrap up the meeting. “If we’re able to get the client trying to cross the border with an animal,” she said, “the plan is to arrest him at the U.S. border crossing. We’ll then lay charges under our provincial and federal statutes, while our U.S. counterparts will initiate proceedings under the Lacey Act. I don’t have to tell you that if we make this happen, it’s going to be a very big deal — for all of us.”
Willson looked at each individual in the room, one by one. “Before we adjourn, have we forgotten anything?”
“Yeah,” said Jenkins. “What if your concern is correct that we’re being played here? That our knowing the date of the guy’s arrival in Canada seems too easy?”
“Thanks, Brad. Because I’ve raised it with some of you, I should get it out in the open. While we’ll be lucky as hell if we catch the client crossing the border with the bear,” she said, “this does seem too easy to me. Too straightforward. We’ve been told, over and over again, that this is a smart guy who thinks we’re all idiots. So why would he broadcast what he’s doing, using a loser like Clark, and then allow us to catch him in the act? I want to believe it … but it makes no sense. I don’t trust anything we’ve been told. But this is our only hand left to play if we want to catch Eastman’s client.”
“What are you most worried about?” Inspector Doyle asked.
“Well,” she replied, “every hunt the American has done with Eastman, at least the ones we know about, was in a national park. I know he might end up hunting in the Purcell Wilderness Conservancy this time, but why would he suddenly change his pattern? My bullshit detector is tingling here.” Willson looked around the table for signs of support. “We could end up waiting for them to show up at the camp with our asses in the wind, while they go somewhere else, making us look like the bozos the American client apparently thinks we are.”
“You have park wardens on alert in all the mountain parks, don’t you, including Banff, Jasper, Kootenay, Yoho, and even Waterton?” asked one of the officers.
“I do,” said Willson, “but those are huge parks and if we are being played, then Eastman and his client could be in and out of one of those places before we even know they’re there. And from those parks, there are about six different border crossings the American could use going south.”
“I hear your concerns, Jenny,” said Doyle, jamming his fingers through his hair, “but I thought we sorted this out yesterday. We don’t have unlimited resources. What do you suggest we do, beyond what we’re already doing?”
Willson knew she had to be careful not to piss off the young inspector. He was already out on a limb on this. And she had to ensure that everyone in the room was confident about what they were doing, most of all herself.
“Look, the plan is the right one for what we know,” she said. “I’m confident that the group around this table can pull it off. I’m proud to be working with each and every one of you. And I thank you for doing this.”
The first hint of dawn silhouetted the peaks and ridges of the Rocky Mountains to the east as Brad Jenkins sat in an unmarked truck, watching Eastman’s property through night-vision binoculars. Since 2:00 a.m., he’d been parked in a copse of ponderosa pines a kilometre away from the house. Just after he’d arrived, he’d slipped into the yard to place a GPS transmitter inside the bumper of Eastman’s blue Dodge truck so they could follow it at a distance.
“Watcher One, this is Watcher Two,” Jenkins said, after keying the microphone on his radio. “I’ve got two guys outside the house. They’ve loaded horses into the trailer and are now getting into the truck. One of them may be Big Bear, but I can’t tell at this distance.” He had no way of knowing if the second man was Eagle, the American hunter.
Jenkins heard the inspector’s voice in reply. “Roger that, Watcher Two. All units, this is Watcher One. We may have Big Bear on the move. Watcher Three, advise if and when they pass your location. If you can get a visual on who’s in the truck, let me know.”
“Roger that,” answered one of the teams sitting at the highway junction just to the north.
Jenkins watched Eastman’s truck and trailer move slowly up the driveway and then turn right, heading north on Highway 95A.
“Watcher Three, this is Watcher Two. Vehicle is northbound toward your location. The GPS signal is strong and I’ll continue to monitor.” Jenkins smiled, knowing the two schmucks had no idea that Big Brother was watching their every move.
An hour later, the blue truck turned left at the junction of the Buhl and Skookumchuk roads. Inspector Doyle and a sergeant, watching the truck through binoculars from their position under a massive spruce tree, were the first to confirm that neither of the occupants was Eastman. Doyle immediately reported this to the other teams.
“All units, this is Watcher One. The suspect truck just passed our location heading toward Location Alpha and we have enough light to see. I can confirm that Big Bear is not in the vehicle,” he said. “I repeat, Big Bear is not in the vehicle.”
The officers listening to the radio transmission, most of all Jenny Willson, sensed the inspector’s unease. While this was one of the scenarios they had discussed at their briefing, it was the possibility of greatest concern. They had assumed that Eastman would pick up the client, perhaps somewhere around Cranbrook, before driving him to his hunting camp. But the fact that someone else was driving Eastman’s truck was a surprise. It meant they had no idea where the guide was. And no guide meant no client.
Eastman’s hunting camp sat at the edge of a large meadow in the uppermost reaches of Buhl Creek, twenty kilometres upstream from Skookumchuk Creek. First built in the 1920s, it consisted of a main log cabin, three smaller sleeping cabins, an outhouse, and a corral. In the heart of the Purcell Mountains, the camp was located at 1,700 metres elevation and looked out at 2,500-metre-high peaks in all directions. Across the valley, light-green avalanche slopes sliced the dark of the Engelmann spruce and subalpine fir forests top to bottom, as if cut by a surgeon’s scalpel. Immediately to the north, the boundary of the Purcell Wilderness Conservancy, a wilderness area of more than 200,000 hectares, beckoned to hikers and skiers. And it beckoned to hunters, as well, because it was one protected area in B.C. where hunting was allowed.
Willson and MacDonald, dressed in camouflage fleece, watched the blue truck pass the campsite they’d set up in an abandoned logging landing beside the road. They waved at the men in a friendly way, like most did in that part of the country. The two men in the truck returned the wave, tooting their horn in greeting. When the truck rounded a corner beyond their campsite, Willson immediately keyed the radio to report that the truck would soon be at Eastman’s camp.
By 2:00 p.m., the surveillance teams surrounding the camp reported in on what appeared to be a typical camp scene, quiet and well-organized. They confirmed that neither of the two men was Eastman, although, as they didn’t work in the Kootenays, they couldn’t say who they were. They watched and reported that the two men unloaded horses into the corral, then watered and fed them. A fire was burning in the cabin, white smoke drifting upward from the tall chimney built of river rocks and cement. Suppl
ies — food, beer, and wine — had been unloaded from the truck, along with three rifles in leather scabbards. One man was splitting firewood, the other working on saddles. The man working with the axe was big, like Eastman. But he was not Eastman. Every one of the watchers, Willson most of all, wondered where their quarry was.
Moments after 3:00 p.m., the radios of the surveillance teams came to life with a call from Tom Doyle. “Watcher teams, this is Watcher One. Still no sign of Big Bear. Get comfortable — we might have a long wait.”
Chapter 27
September 3
Bernie Eastman watched Luis Castillo turn into the deserted parking lot of the Columbia Brewery in Creston, B.C. The windows of the black Lexus glinted in the late-afternoon sun when Castillo parked beside the bronze statue of the famed Sasquatch, mascot of Kokanee beer.
“How did things go at the border?” asked Eastman as he shook Castillo’s hand.
“I expected more of a problem,” said Castillo. “When the female agent scanned my passport, I thought I saw her raise her eyebrows. But then she asked me a couple of standard questions before letting me go. I guess no one up here knows my name yet.”
“I sure as hell haven’t told them, and I don’t think Charlie did, either. What did the agent ask you?”
“The usual,” said Castillo. “Where I was heading, did I have anything to declare, that kind of thing.” He gave Eastman a tight smile. “I assume you did a good job with Clark and they’re now watching your camp?”
“Yeah, Charlie seemed pretty interested in your next hunt,” said Eastman, “and I bet he told the COs what I told him. But now he’s out of the picture. I don’t know if they’re watching or not, but I gotta think they are. I’ve got some of my guys up there getting the camp ready as though you’re on your way.”
“Excellent,” said Castillo. “Whether he knew it or not, your Mr. Clark aided a worthy cause. Let’s get on with it.”
