There were laws, serious laws with serious consequences, that prevented newspapers from publishing articles based on stolen evidence or illegal sources without a solid basis in truth, or at the very least, truth that could be proven in court. Freedom of the press was an important statute in Canada’s constitution and its Charter of Rights and Freedoms, but that didn’t give us the right to be able to print just anything. The legal system and Canadian society as a whole took a dim view of such antics.
So I could do nothing if I found any evidence, could not write a front-page article on the discovery of Edmonton’s serial killer. Nothing. My only possibility, and it was a slim one at that, was to hand off whatever I found to someone like Detective Whitford and see if the police could do something with it. But even if they couldn’t, at the very least I would know the truth and Whitford would know it, and maybe, just maybe, that little fact would deter the killer from killing anyone else. I could live with that and hoped that Grace would accept that, as well.
The door wasn’t locked and I really shouldn’t have been surprised. It was a relatively respectable neighborhood and there was also a good chance that many people here left their front doors unlocked while they were home. So I opened the door, and after a few seconds of adjusting to the lower light, I saw it standing there in plain sight: a yellow pickup truck.
I actually gasped with shock and took a couple steps back at the sight of the thing. I was not only surprised that it actually existed, I was jolted by the brazenness of this vehicle, the one that had struck fear in the entire community of Edmonton’s street prostitutes, being kept in an unlocked garage. It just showed how unconcerned he was about being caught and how much faith he put in the system to protect him. And he was correct to have that faith because it had protected him for two decades and, in a sense, was still providing that protection.
I walked around the truck, noting any irregular features, spots of rust, type of tires, shape of the cab, debris in the box, anything that I could use to build a solid description to take to Grace’s roommate Jackie and her fellow streetwalkers in order to get enough evidence to maybe start something. I knew that no cop in his right mind would take on the case on his own, but maybe I could scrape together enough evidence to write something that would spark enough public concern to force the EPS to act. The key question was whether the public was concerned enough about dead prostitutes. I hoped so.
One thing I did know was that I would not rest until I could write something, and even then I wouldn’t stop until someone in the justice system, a cop or a prosecutor, decided to do something like investigate and press charges. There was no longer any indecision or concerns at all in my head and heart.
I would pursue this case, make noise about it, until someone listened, or until someone stopped me. I would stay on it, chase it down to the very end, even if people thought I was chasing another ghost and needed to up my medication. Even if it meant the loss of my job and reputation. Those things didn’t matter. I had lost them before so another time would make no difference. Only death would stop me. And I was okay with that.
For the first time in years, I felt comfortable. There was no confusion, no muddled brain questioning every move I made and being watchful of falling into the abyss. It no longer scared me, because even if I did fall into it, I would have Grace pushing me on, nagging at me to pursue her killer to the very end.
The cab of the truck was locked, but for a pickup of this age, it was oddly clean. The dash was clear of dust, the seats were the original vinyl with no rips, tears, or patches of duct tape. There was no debris, no garbage, nothing to show that this truck had been driven in months. Even the windows were spotless, with no cracks, chips, or even fingerprints. The box of the truck was the same, perfectly clean, no dead leaves, no sand, no bits of wood, the paint free of rust spots or chips, nothing to show that this pickup had been used the way the typical Edmontonian uses an old pickup, for moving, hauling, and/or discarding old furniture and garbage.
There were two stacks of sandbags piled on the opposite sides of the box right behind the cab. That was not unusual because they added weight to an empty truck box to help with traction in snow and ice. Every single pickup or rear-wheel-drive vehicle in the city had sandbags either in the trunk or the box.
I stood on my toes and peered through the driver’s side window to see if I could see the odometer. The dim light and the placement of the steering wheel made that difficult so I jumped up, rested my butt on the side of the box to see if looking through the back window offered a better view. It did. The odometer read about 45,000. Based on the age of the truck, that was probably in miles, not kilometers.
Canada had switched from the old-style imperial system to the metric in the later seventies and the early eighties, and it took manufacturers a few years to make the adjustment, so that meant this truck was almost thirty years old. Still, the mileage was nothing for a vehicle of this age, and when you added its almost pristine state to the equation, then it proved that someone used the truck very sparingly, although the sandbags showed that the vehicle was driven from time to time.
I jumped off the truck, looking around the garage for anything that might give me a clue, but it was just a garage with the typical garage things: lawn equipment, tools, and the like. The truck rocked a bit on its shocks as my weight left it and a couple of the sandbags from the driver’s side rolled over. A decaying cardboard box had been underneath the bags and I peeked over to look inside.
At first glance, the contents of the box seemed typical and not unexpected, a set of booster cables twisted and tangled like a psychotic Möbius strip, a bottle of windshield washer fluid with just an inch of blue liquid at the bottom, a set of frayed and worn work gloves, several crumpled rags, bits of string and wire, and tiny bits of debris and metal, things you expect to find in a cardboard box in the back of a prairie pickup. But the rags seemed a little unusual. One of them was pink and the other was purple. So I took off my glove, reached in, pulled one out, and untangled it from its folds.
It turned out to be a baby doll T-shirt, something worn by small kids or teenaged girls trying to look sexy. The shirt intrigued me, so I dug deeper, pulling out the bits and pieces that weren’t obviously related to vehicle maintenance. A long bit of broken plastic could have been the length of a stiletto heel. Another rag could have been a piece of torn scarf or a section from a pair of panties. A tiny piece of metal that could be a piece of a paper clip or the end of an earring.
I grabbed these pieces and shoved them into my jacket pockets. They could be nothing, or they could mean everything. What was the owner of a truck like this doing with a broken stiletto heel or a piece of silk unless all these pieces had belonged to his wife, were meant to be thrown away, but had been casually tossed into the box instead and forgotten.
But there was something else in the box, and that couldn’t be included in a list of harmlessly discarded female clothing. It was a cell phone, spattered with mud and dirt. The size and brand showed that it was a recent model. I pulled it out and flipped the handset open. I pushed the red button and it beeped, showing a bar and a half of battery power. I thought about making a call on it, to see if it worked, but I stopped. I pulled out my notebook, found the page with the number Grace’s roommate had given me, and punched the series on my own cell. An eternity passed, so long that I breathed a sigh of relief that I had dialed the wrong number.
But the phone began to vibrate, buzzing like a disturbed fly, and then gave a tiny ring, barely audible. In the shock of the moment I dropped both phones and my notebook into the back of the truck. A female voice, impossibly young but incredibly mature, came through my earpiece, the sound of the phone at the bottom of the truck box producing a tiny echo.
“Hi. You’ve reached Grace and I don’t really have time for this kind of shit. I’m a busy, busy working girl and if you need any important services, wink, wink, leave me a name and number that you can be reached at, and if you’re worthy, I’ll call y
ou back. Till then, fuck off.”
My head spun, my heart stopped, and I was no longer breathing. I froze, even though I knew that I had to leave this place this instant and spread the word.
But I was still so shocked by the realization of my discovery that I felt like someone who has gone to church all his life, someone who has faith and says he believes what he is supposed to believe, even if there are nagging doubts that he can’t explain away and really can’t tell anyone because that would brand him as an unbeliever. But then, out of nowhere, out of the fabric of the strange universe, this person finds actual proof, tangible evidence that he can hold in his hands and possibly show to others, of the existence of God. Or in this case, the Devil.
However, the only problem is that he knows he cannot tell anyone, because in fact, no one will believe him. Everyone, even those in his own church, his family and his friends, will regard him as some sort of crackpot if he dares to bring this evidence to light. And even if he does so, or at least threaten to, there will be those who will try to convince him not to do it. “For the sake of the public good, you cannot reveal this evidence,” they will argue. “If you do you will erode the public’s faith. And then where will the people turn?”
And they would be right. For the past number of years, Edmontonians’ faith in their police had suffered much. And while people still called the police when they were in need of protection, they were no longer surprised or shocked when a local police officer was involved in something not entirely criminal but not entirely ethical. They were disappointed but no longer surprised.
But if news of this evidence and the truth behind the death of these women came to light, the public’s faith in the local police would be completely eroded. Especially since the police had done nothing for years, had no ongoing investigation even though there was evidence that at the very least, women—mostly native women—were being killed. Trust was implicit in law enforcement; the public must trust their police to do the right thing, especially in a social democratic society like Canada.
But faith built on lies, faith built on murder and death, isn’t true faith and is destined to fail. Whether it happened now or later, it was not a question of if it might happen but when. And despite the pain and anger and sickness, it was always better to deal with a cancerous tumor as early as possible. The treatment would be painful, perhaps fatal, but the body always had a better chance of coming through in the end, alive and kicking, if you took care of the disease as soon as you found it.
I was jerked out of these thoughts when a man-shaped shadow stepped into the doorway. “Couldn’t let it rest, could you?” a voice asked, curious but flat. No fear, no threats, just speculation. I jumped and Grace’s voice on her cell seemed like the loudest thing in the world. After a quick catch of my breath, I reached into the truck, grabbed the phones, and shoved them into my jacket pocket.
41
Even though my heart was pounding, I calmly walked around the truck to the front, tucking the notebook into my front pocket, slipping on my gloves, making the gestures bigger than necessary so he could clearly see me.
“No. I couldn’t,” I responded in a similar tone, but adding a bit more weight in my voice. “But I like your truck. It’s old as heck but it’s in incredible shape. It’s a shame you don’t take it out much.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Do what, Detective Gardiner?” I asked as calmly and with as much good humor as I could manage. Inside I was seething, angry that this fuck had fooled me with his helpful attitude. “I’m just interested in your truck. I’ve heard a lot about it, didn’t think it was yours, but there you go, sometimes you get disappointed. And I’ll admit that it’s a big understatement when I say I’m disappointed to find this particular vehicle in your garage.”
“Disappointed,” he said with a laugh. “I find you in my garage without permission, looking over my pickup, illegally going through my possessions, and you say you’re disappointed. You’re lucky I don’t call the police.”
“Knock yourself out, Detective Gardiner,” I said, leaning against the truck as nonchalantly as I could. “I’ll wait right here for the police to come. I’m sure they’d be really interested in your truck. I’m guessing it belonged to your son, although I’ll admit it’s in damn good shape considering the accident. Or did I say that already?”
I was pushing him, pushing hard, but this bastard had to be pushed hard enough so that he would fall to the ground, and then I could kick him around the yard and step on him and smear him across the grass like the piece of shit he was.
His eyes narrowed and he made a tight fist. “You have no idea what the fuck you are talking about.” His voice had lost all of its calm. It was now full of menace.
But that’s exactly what I wanted; I wanted him to break, confess, threaten me, attack me, I didn’t care, I just kept pushing, hoping to break him.
“Yeah, I’m sorry he died, really I am. I have a son of my own and I have no idea what would happen if he died. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’m a mess now as it is, but if something happened to my boy, God knows what I’d turn into. Is that what happened to you, after losing your son?”
“Keep talking like that and the shitstorm that I will bring on you will break you in fucking half, you worthless piece of shit. I may be a retired cop but I still have plenty of friends on the force that can fuck you deep and hard up the ass.”
“Yeah, I think I met some of those guys already. But go ahead, call them up again, ’cause you know one thing, Gardiner, I don’t really care what kind of shitstorm you can bring, because the one I’ve got for you is ten times worse,” I said, taking a step forward.
“You don’t have shit and you know it.”
“I have plenty of shit and it all comes down to your son. The son that apparently died in a single MVA. And you know what, I assumed that since it was a single MVA, he was the only one in the fucking truck. But you know what? He wasn’t. There was someone in the car with him, wasn’t there. A woman by the name of Lydia Alexandra.”
Either the name of the girl surprised him or it was the fact that I knew the name of the girl, because the anger in his face dropped for a second and he looked like he was going to stumble. He stuck out a hand and grabbed the bench against the back wall to steady himself.
“Piece of shit, piece of shit,” he muttered several times, and I had no idea whether he was talking about me, his son, or Lydia.
But considering what happened to the girl, I assumed he was mostly talking about her. It was typical of this type always to blame some woman for the problems of his son and of the world, when all Lydia did was get into the wrong truck on the night that Jason Gardiner was driving so drunk he didn’t notice the telephone pole until he wrapped his truck around it. And since Jason’s father’s shame was so deep, he couldn’t accept the fact that his boy had fucked up, so he had to find blame somewhere else: Lydia.
“And you know what’s really a coincidence? Not long after Lydia was discharged from the hospital because of the injuries your son caused, she was found dead in a farmer’s field not far from Leduc. And fortunately for you, the case was handled by the Leduc detachment, so nobody made the connection between that dead girl and your son. And as the years went on, because it took a while for the various types of law enforcement in the area to communicate with each other, nobody made a connection between all the other girls that were killed in the same way.
“Even now they still haven’t, and that’s why Robert Picton and other shits like you got away with their crap for so long, because the various police types decided not to talk to each other. And of course since so many of the victims, like Lydia, Grace, and the others, just happened to be native women, nobody really gave a shit. I mean, who gives a shit about another dead Indian, happens all the time, so for upstanding citizens it’s nothing to worry about.”
He laughed, turning the whole thing into a joke. “You’re crazy, you know that. Completely crazy.”
I nodded. “A lot of people have told me that and I’m even on medication because of it. And there are plenty of times when I have no idea what I’m doing, when I tell myself that the whole world is all fucked up and there is nothing to do but to let it all go. But unlike you, I keep trying; even when I hit rock bottom, I see hope somewhere and keep at it, no matter how hard it is.
“Still, there is one thing that I know for sure: You killed those girls and if there is any decency left in you, if there is a remnant left of good cop that you used to be, you would turn yourself in.”
He laughed again, waving an arm in dismissal. “Nobody’s going to believe you. All the evidence you have is shit.”
“Well, the thing about shit is that it smells, and if you throw enough around, it eventually sticks,” I said. “I think I have enough to throw around to get people annoyed and talking. Especially that bit about your son and what turned out to be the first victim in a series of other victims.”
“Not this shit. It hasn’t stuck for years and not even you can make it stick. You can try writing about it in your fucking paper but no one will believe you. I’m a decorated police officer, not some jerkwad loser like yourself. And soon you’ll be out on the streets like one of those disgusting hookers. A big fat loser who deserves to die, and that’s exactly what they got. All of them. Death.”
I took several quick steps forward, went right up to him, not afraid of him because even though he was a killer, he only killed those he believed were weaker than he was. And since he thought that his words had sunk in, and I was trying to escape, he stood up straight to block the door.
“You sure the hell aren’t going anywhere, you piece of shit. You’re staying here while I call some old friends, and we’ll take care of you the way we used to. I know your type and your type won’t be able to handle even something as simple as the remand center. You’re in deep shit now.”
Fall from Grace Page 26
