by Garry Ryan
“You know about the problems with gangs?” Norm tipped his hat back.
“Yes.” Harper thought, I wonder where this is going?
“Lotta people around here worried about gangs. The city just keeps pushing closer.” Norm looked at the fire and frowned.
“You worried?” Harper watched the way Norm’s forehead furrowed when he was thinking.
Norm nodded. “Them biker gangs. Saw them on the news. They buy a place out in the country, then trouble starts. Ain’t right.” Norm pointed with his index finger. “Around here we keep an eye out for trouble. Gotta keep an eye out for guys like that.”
“Any bikers out here?”
Norm shook his head as he considered the question. “Not yet. There’s just a group of young fellas.” Norm pointed in the general direction of the mountains. “Caused some trouble a while back.”
Harper waited for Norm to continue. When he didn’t, Harper asked, “Who?”
“Not sayin’. Time to get the meat started. Wanna help?”
“What kind of policeman are you?” Eva sat with a plate of barbecued buffalo ribs, pasta salad, and home-baked bread on her lap. Her black, braided hair hung off either shoulder, framing her round face.
Lane had just taken a sip of water, intent on replacing the moisture he’d sweated out. He choked. Harper patted his back.
Lane looked around the circle of people in lawn chairs. No one laughed or smiled at his predicament. They were, he could tell, waiting for an answer.
“You okay?” Harper asked.
Lane nodded. His senses were filled with what had happened inside the sweat lodge. There are no words to explain what happened in there, he thought.
People ate quietly, expectantly.
Harper looked at the buffalo ribs on his paper plate, then at the plastic fork and knife in his hands. He put the utensils down and picked up the meat with his fingers.
“I look for missing people,” Lane said.
“So you’re lookin’ for those missing cow …” Eva hesitated intentionally, “… boys.”
“That’s right.” Without thinking, he asked, “How come you’re talking to me and wouldn’t talk with the other officers?”
“They only talked at me. You started by listening to me and respecting the sweat lodge. This is Alex’s sweat. It’s the anniversary of his funeral.” Eva sat without touching her food. “You knew it was his sweat?”
“No.” Lane shook his head.
“After we eat, there is something for you to see,” Eva said.
Lane watched the conversation turn to other matters. There was more and more laughter as Alex was remembered through the stories people told. While Norm sat next to Eva as if guarding her, others went to the tailgates of the pickups where the food was.
After she finished eating and was able to extricate herself from the various eddies of conversation in that river of talk, Eva stood and walked over to Lane. He was wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. “Come on,” she said to Lane and Harper.
They followed her to the house. She had a rolling, brisk way of walking. The detectives had to hurry to catch up.
The back door opened into a kitchen with a maple table and eight oak chairs from different families and eras. Along one wall there were pictures of a dancer and others of frozen hummingbirds with their beaks into the white and red of honeysuckle. “Aidan took those pictures.”
In the corner, a computer sat on a desk near the window. Eva sat down in front of it and tapped the mouse with her index finger. “Alex got this for me for Christmas a few years back. Wanted me to keep up on the powwows, news, and land claims. He was teaching me how to use it before he died.” The screen resolved itself into the image of a dancer frozen in a swirl of reds, greens, and white. She pointed at the dancer. “Alex.”
Lane and Harper stood on either side of Eva, looking over her shoulders. The room filled with the scent of smoke, sage, sweat, and tobacco. It’s not unpleasant, Lane thought.
Eva used two fingers to type in her password. “Been getting one of these every couple of days.” Eva clicked on an email message. In a couple of seconds it resolved itself into an image:
Hockey Star Disappears
Rodeo Rider Disappears
We know you’re responsible and we’re coming for you!
Harper pulled out his electronic agenda and began to enter information.
“When did you receive this email?” Lane asked.
“Couple days ago.” Eva turned on the printer. “I’ll make you a copy.”
“Haven’t seen that in a while.” Harper drove with the window down.
Lane left his window up. He thought, The smell of sage mixed with tobacco isn’t bad, even when it’s in the pores.
“I said …” Harper looked across at Lane.
“What do you mean?” Lane looked ahead.
“You’re smiling, even though you’re a little malodorous.”
Lane’s grin grew wider. “Where did ‘malodorous’ come from?”
“Glenn. Used it to describe Jessica after an especially nasty diaper. But then, at your house, kids usually arrive on the doorstep fully grown with garbage bags full of clothes. That’s some system you’ve got!”
Lane shook his head. The thought of Jessica’s diaper made him decide it was time to open his window. The wind felt fresh on his face. “Yes. What is that all about, anyway? How come the kids always arrive with garbage bags?”
“I’m surprised you missed that one. Glenn explained it to me. They’re throwaway kids. For some reason, one or both of their parents have tossed them out like the trash. That’s the way Glenn arrived at our house. Just him and the clothes on his back.”
Lane thought for a moment. “It makes me wonder what happened to Alex’s parents that he ended up living with his grandmother.”
“Want me to check it out?” Harper asked.
“That and where the email came from. While you’re doing that, I’ll be checking up on our friend Blake. I’ll call Lisa to find out what she knows.”
“And, since we’re on the topic, how about checkin’ in at work? I can’t cover for you forever. The new staff sergeant is starting to ask questions and I’m running out of excuses.”
chapter 3
“I don’t know what to do with these two.” Arthur went to hug Lane, then backed away when he caught a whiff. “What have you been up to?”
“Maybe we’d better talk outside.” Lane took his wine glass, went out the back door onto the deck. He sat down across from Arthur. The sun was low in the sky. The heat of the day was a lazy cat in their backyard.
“You smell like smoke.” Arthur crossed his legs.
“Where are they?” Lane asked.
“At the corner store getting a cold drink. I suggested it after Christine had a meltdown.”
Lane leaned forward, waiting for Arthur to continue.
“It started this morning, after Matt got up. He had no idea that Christine was here.” Arthur put his wine down so he could tell more of the story with his hands. “He opened the bathroom door. Christine was sitting on the toilet. She screamed. Matt was embarrassed. He tried to apologize. It only made things worse.”
“And?” Lane gulped his wine. I can’t believe it, I’m still thirsty after the sweat lodge, he thought.
“Well, we got that settled. Then it was one thing after another until Christine started crying. One box of tissues later …” Arthur plucked an imaginary tissue and pretended to dab his eyes “… we got that sorted out.”
“What was there to sort out?”
“She’s always lived around women. Apparently, the males in Paradise didn’t want to have much to do with Christine. She kept saying that all of the pretty girls were blonde and …” Arthur cupped his hands in front of his chest, moved them up, then held them there.
“I don’t …” Lane began.
Arthur shook his head with exasperation, “In case you hadn’t noticed, Christine has a darker complexion and flatter ches
t than most.” Arthur pointed a finger at his chest. “And I know what it’s like growing up in small-town, lily-white Alberta with a better tan than anyone else around.”
“You mean?” Lane held his left hand open.
“She was the only person with a tan in Paradise and an outsider because of it.” Arthur reached for his wine and took a sip.
“I can’t believe my sister would put up with that,” Lane said.
“Neither could Christine. She thinks the colour of her skin had something to do with why Whitemore was going to excommunicate her.” Arthur took a sip of wine. “And that’s not all.”
“There’s more?” Lane rubbed his forehead with his forefinger and thumb.
“How come she asks permission to do everything including going to the bathroom?”
“What?”
Arthur used his left hand for emphasis. “It’s not natural the way she wants to clean the house, do the dishes, and vacuum. It’s too weird. When she’s not crying, she’s cleaning house.”
Erinn held a sleeping Jessica in her arms. “There’s something wrong with Glenn.”
Harper hung his sports coat on the back of a kitchen chair. He rubbed his hand over the top of Jessica’s head. Her hair tickled his palm. He leaned over, kissed Erinn and then Jessica. The baby sucked on an imagined breast.
“I’ll go downstairs and see how Glenn is doing,” he whispered.
The fifth stair creaked as he made his way downstairs. Glenn’s door was closed.
Harper knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again. “Glenn?”
“I just want to be left alone. Please, leave me alone.” Glenn’s voice was just loud enough for Harper to hear.
“When can we talk?” Harper asked.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“There’s more,” Arthur said.
“More?”
“Matt wants to get a dog.” Arthur hurried on. “I know how you feel, but it’s time.”
“No way. No dog,” Lane said.
“You’re outvoted on this one.”
City Youth Struck by Freight Train
A seventeen-year-old male has been hit by a freight train. The train was westbound and approaching Edworthy Park when the young man was struck. He was killed instantly.
Traffic along the line was disrupted while police and railway officials investigated. The name of the victim will be released when next of kin have been notified.
chapter 4
TUESDAY, JULY 2
Lane picked up the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello.”
“We’ve got a body,” Harper said. “How soon can I pick you up?”
“Thirty minutes.” Lane looked at a frowning Arthur.
“Okay.” Harper hung up.
“It’s supposed to be your day off,” Arthur said.
Lane rinsed his coffee cup and put it in the dishwasher. “I know, but I have to go.”
“I need help with these kids.” Arthur sat hunched over his coffee at the kitchen table.
Lane looked at Arthur. Having one teen around was taxing. Two were rapidly becoming overwhelming. He thought about the last ten months and what they’d lived through. Just when he was sure things were getting better, something else happened.
“I’ll handle them, somehow.” Arthur lifted his head and looked at Lane. “You’d better get ready.”
“Where’s the body?” Lane got in the Chev.
Harper handed him a cup of coffee. “Mochachino.”
Lane took a sip and closed his eyes. “This is good.” He reached for his seat belt.
“It’s at the south end of the reservoir; Weaselhead. We’re going to have to hike down. A jogger spotted it this morning at sunrise. The forensics team is already there.” Harper pulled away from the curb and headed south.
“Have they identified the body?”
“Not yet. Rough night?” Harper sipped thoughtfully at his coffee.
“Two kids.” Lane looked out the window.
“Lots of drama?”
“How did you know?” Lane looked left.
Harper pointed his cup at his chest. “Two kids.”
Twenty minutes later, they threw their cups in the green bear-proof garbage containers at Weaselhead Park and drove past an open gate along a gravel road, then onto a paved bike trail. Harper parked alongside the police cruiser angled across the intersection of three pathways. A male officer manned the roadblock. He frowned.
Two joggers, one male and one female, dressed in matching red skintight shorts and tops, walked away from the barricade with their hands on their hips. “Man, this is gonna mess up my training schedule. Those hills are great for the calves,” the man said.
The woman swigged from a water bottle, then replaced it in the loop nestled between the cheeks of her backside. “This’ll screw my whole day up.” She pulled out a cellphone and dialled.
Lane looked at Harper.
Harper shrugged, shook his head, and said, “Joggers,” as if one word summed it up.
“Hope those two never have kids.” The male officer nodded in the direction of the runners.
At the mention of kids, Lane thought about his home and wondered what it would look like when he got back.
“It ain’t pretty down there,” the officer said. “The forensic unit is already on the scene. Want me to drive you down?”
“We’ll walk,” Lane said. “Only takes about five minutes to walk anyway,” the officer said.
“Thanks.” Harper buttoned up his jacket.
They walked down the paved path as it dropped to the flats on the west end of Glenmore Reservoir. From the top of the path, they could see the river snaking through the mud flats before joining the deeper waters of the reservoir. To the south, about a kilometre away, the trail rose out of the valley and into a residential district.
Birdsong filtered through the trees. Leaves swayed in the gathering west wind that carried the scent of something unpleasant.
Harper looked at Lane as if to say, “Remember what we saw the last time we did this?”
They spotted the members of the Forensic Crime Scenes Unit at the far side of the pedestrian bridge. The body was under a yellow tarp a few metres from a power pole on the south bank of the river. A dark-haired woman wearing a ponytail, sweatpants, and tank top waited nearby with her black and tan dog. It sat with its head hung low.
“Dr. Fibre is waiting for us.” Harper pointed at the doctor who stood in his white crime-scene bunny suit and rubber boots. “He doesn’t look happy.”
They walked along the bridge. The wind sang a haunting chorus as it sifted through the metal bars of the bridge railing.
Lane was watching the woman and her dog. She bent at the waist. The dog lifted its head. It licked her face. The woman stood up straight, then yelled something unintelligible at the dog. The woman leaned forward and threw up. The dog cowered and dragged itself as far from the woman as the leash would allow.
Harper and Lane crossed the walking bridge and moved east along the Elbow River bank before reaching the scene.
“Colin Weaver.” The doctor looked like an iconoclastic movie star, the kind whose face would be found on a poster portraying the actor as rebel. Dr. Weaver, or Dr. Fibre as everyone called him when he wasn’t within shouting distance, had a conservative nature and the personality of a carpet. “This.” Weaver was momentarily at a loss for words. “This is the person who discovered the body.” Dr. Fibre pointed at the woman who was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I’ll talk with her.” Harper walked over to the woman.
Lane glanced at the dog. It looked at him with pitiful brown eyes. Lane studied the breed. Looks like a cross between an Australian cattle dog and a German shepherd, he thought.
“She’s upset because she thinks her dog was eating the body. The evidence, however, suggests otherwise. It appears the dog was trying to drag the victim to safety. There are some marks on the wrist of the victim. But no puncture wound
s or evidence of chewing. The dog was simply being a good Samaritan.” Dr. Fibre walked over to the body.
Lane followed.
They both heard a helicopter approaching and looked up. It flew low over the water and hovered nearby. Lane waved it away. The yellow tarp was lifted by the helicopter’s downdraft. The tarp flew off, was caught by the force of the west wind, and carried out into the mud flats. The naked body lay face down. Lane could see that the man had red hair.
Lane flipped open his phone and speed dialled. “We’ve got the traffic helicopter disturbing a crime scene. Get it out of here!”
Lane looked up at the pilot and waited. It took about thirty seconds before the pilot began to talk into his headset. The pilot looked at Lane, flipped him a middle finger, and flew away.
“That was unpleasant.” Dr. Fibre watched the helicopter leave.
“We won’t have much time, now.” Lane moved next to Fibre and looked at the body. The skin was discoloured next to the spine, at an angle between the shoulder blades. There were early signs of decomposition and the corpse didn’t match the missing person’s description.
“I noticed that as well,” Fibre said as if reading Lane’s mind. “The hair colour does not match the missing man’s. Nor does the height and weight estimate. No one mentioned a tattoo on Mr. Dudley. As you can see, the deceased has a tattoo circling his right bicep. The cause of death appears, initially at least, to be blunt trauma to the parietal bone.”
Lane looked at the way the skull was concave at the back on one side. “All it tells us is that the assailant was probably right-handed.”
“It’s too early for me to tell if the death will be classified as murder. It is definitely suspicious, however,” Fibre said.
“There was no clothing found nearby?” Lane looked along the river’s edge. The lack of clothing and the blunt trauma to the back of the head mean this was almost certainly murder, Lane thought. A blow like that would make the victim incapable of undressing himself.
“None.” Dr. Fibre waved at the two men combing the edge of the river. “I suspect the body was very recently immersed. The lack of advanced decomposition and the fact that scavengers have not begun to feed on the remains would tend to suggest that. It’s time to move the body and complete an autopsy.”
