by Tim McGregor
“The man’s been dead for almost twenty years.”
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t. Not until five minutes ago when I got a call from a councillor at city hall.”
“City hall?”
“They wanted to know why one of the city’s most respected citizens was being investigated.”
Mockler capped the marker and placed it on the table, stalling for time. Something smelled rotten and he needed to be careful. “How would someone downtown know that I ran a check on him?”
“I don’t know,” Sergeant Gibson said. “But it’s making a stink for somebody. So? Why Napier?”
“Just a lead from an informant. Like every other lead, I’ll follow it along until I can cross it from the list.”
“What informant?”
Here is where it could get slippery, Mockler warned himself. “An outside one. It’s probably just rumour.”
“That’s it? You’re checking Napier because of a rumour?” Gibson scanned the notes on the white-board behind the detective. “The man may be dead but his family still wields a lot of power.”
“I think some of the victims may have gone through a women’s shelter that Napier started.”
“The Magdalene House? Why?”
“Mostly a gut guess right now. But the shelter isn’t too far from the scene.”
“Did you check their records?”
Mockler nodded at the soggy boxes piled on the table. “That’s them. What’s left of it. Most of their records were ruined in a flood.”
“And that’s all you have? Your gut?”
“I kept digging at the property, trying to unearth the deeds and transfers. There are decades missing here too but I tracked it back to a company called Fidelity Holdings. One of Napier’s companies.”
The Sergeant took a step forward, eager to hear something substantial. “When was this?”
“Nineteen seventy-eight.”
Gibson stopped, disappointed. “That’s a stretch, Mockler.”
“Maybe.”
Gibson ran her gaze over the mess of paperwork and boxes on the table. “Wrap that lead up as soon as you can. Then move on.”
The Sergeant turned to go but Mockler spoke up. “Serge, how would someone outside the precinct know who’s being investigated?”
“I wish I knew.” Gibson hesitated, as if there was more to say, but then she pivoted and walked away.
~
“She won’t do it,” Kaitlin said, sliding into the booth.
The two men across the table looked disappointed. “Why not?”
“She just doesn’t want to be part of the team,” Kaitlin replied. “I have to respect that. Sorry, guys.”
The two young men at the table were the founders and core members of Phantom Trackers, a paranormal investigation group run out of their garage. Justin, the lean, wiry one, was lead researcher and central host of their nascent reality show broadcast from their website. The stockier man was Owen, camera operator and tech manager. They had formed the team two years ago out of a lifelong obsession with all things paranormal. After building a website to document paranormal phenomena, they began actively investigating sites in town that were reputed to be haunted. After that came the video-cameras and they began filming their romps through haunted locations and putting their footage up on YouTube.
Web traffic was growing and their nascent reality show was getting a lot of views but Justin wasn’t satisfied. He wanted more reach and a bigger audience but there was one important element missing from the team. A bona fide psychic medium.
That was when they met Kaitlin. She’d been following them online and had attended a party Justin and Owen had thrown to kick off the latest episode of Phantom Trackers. When she heard of their search for a medium she had suggested her friend, Billie Culpepper.
“Has she seen the show?” Justin said between slugs of beer. “Or the site? Maybe she’d change her mind if she saw that we’re serious about this.”
“She doesn’t any want any part of it.” Kaitlin swirled the straw in her drink. “Not just you guys. The whole thing.”
Owen leaned in. “What do you mean?”
“Her abilities. How she can see the dead. She wishes it would just go away.”
“That’s crazy,” Justin sputtered. “Why would you reject a gift like that?”
Kaitlin blurted back, “I know. I’d kill for abilities like that. She’s the real deal too.”
“Fuck her,” Owen griped, waving to the waitress.
“That’s my friend you’re talking about.”
“Sorry.”
Justin broke in. “Forget about Billie. We don’t need her.”
“And do what?” Owen moaned. “Go without a medium?”
“No.” Justin pointed a finger at Kaitlin. “You do it.”
Kaitlin leaned back. “Me? I’m not a medium.”
“But you said you have some ability.”
“Well,” Kaitlin demurred. “I think have some.”
Owen thumped his fist against the table, rattling the glasses. “Problem solved. That’s brilliant.”
“Hang on. I’m not like Billie. How would I do it?”
“You use a spirit board,” Justin said. “Old school.”
“Spirit board?” Kaitlin said. “You mean a Ouija board?”
“Exactly,” Owen replied, grinning. “It would make for great TV.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“We’ll manipulate in post-production,” Justin shrugged. “We can edit it so it looks like something happens.”
Kaitlin sighed and looked out over the bar. “I don’t know, guys.”
“Give it a shot at least. If you’re sensitive at all, you’ll pick up something with the board.”
Justin set his glass down and reached for the pitcher. “What we need is a place that’s really haunted. Somewhere with tons of paranormal activity.”
Owen looked at his friend. “You wanna try the Murder House again?”
“Not yet,” Justin said. “I want to save that until we got a solid team.”
Kaitlin sat up straight. “You’ve been to the Murder House?”
“Early on,” Justin answered. “But we weren’t prepared. It was a wash-out.”
Kaitlin strained her ears to hear them over the din of the bar. The Murder House was an almost legendary haunted site in Hamilton. Hidden on a lonely road halfway up the mountain and abandoned for decades, the stories about what went on in the Murder House were passed on from one generation to the next since the Second World War. Kaitlin had always wanted to explore the place since she had first heard of it when she was twelve. Where most kids dreamt of visiting Disney World, Kaitlin dreamt of visiting a real haunted house.
“I want to wait until we’re crewed up properly before going back there,” Justin went on. “Let’s start somewhere else first, with you onboard as medium.”
“I know just the place,” Owen said, snapping his fingers. “That abandoned property where the cops found those bodies.”
Justin’s eyes lit up. “That’s perfect.”
“You can’t go there,” Kaitlin objected. “It’s an active police investigation.”
Owen shrugged and said, “It’s been over a week. They’re done with it by now.”
“And what if you get caught? You’ll get charged with something serious.”
“We’ll be careful. No one will know we were there. What do you say?”
Kaitlin pursed her lips. Their plan sounded foolhardy but she couldn’t deny the slight tingle of excitement at its audacity.
“Come on, Kaitlin,” Justin urged. “It would be an amazing way to intro you to the show.”
“I don’t know. It’s too risky.” Kaitlin propped her hand under her chin. “You know Billie’s helping the police with that investigation.”
Startled, Owen spilt his beer. “She is?”
“Yeah. She’s friends with one of the detectives. He asked her to take a walk through t
he place.”
Justin all but leaped out of his chair. “What did she find out? How many bodies did they find?”
“I don’t know,” Kaitlin said. “She wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Bummer.”
Owen frowned. “So she won’t talk to us but she’s assisting the police in an active crime scene? What the hell?”
“It’s not official or anything. She just did it as a favour to her friend.”
Justin looked into his empty glass. “Who’s the detective?”
“Mock-something?” Kaitlin said. “Mick? I forget. Why?”
“Just curious. Do you think Billie will tell you any details about it?”
“Maybe,” Kaitlin said. “Why do you want to know?”
“Everyone wants to know what happened there. The police have said fuck-all about it.”
“I don’t think they have much to go on,” she said. “At least that’s the impression I got from Billie.”
“All the more reason to go and investigate,” Justin said with a wink in Kaitlin’s direction. “Will you think about it?”
Before she could answer, the waitress appeared at the table and collected their empty glasses.
“Finally!” Justin beamed a big smile to the waitress. “Another round, please. We need to charm this lovely lady into a job.”
21
AGREEING TO HELP the detective had been a mistake, that was clear enough. After spending the last two months forgetting about him, Billie now couldn’t stop thinking about him. For the fifth time that day she had lingered over his name on her phone, thinking of a reason to call. Some tiny detail from the tour through the abandoned warehouse, something he might think important. Each time she slid the phone back into her pocket, scolding herself to think of something, anything, else. When she arrived at work, she was grateful to be too busy to dwell on anything at all.
There was, however, one small article of fallout from the trip to the crime scene but she wasn’t sure if Mockler would want to know about it. Not that there was anything to be done about it anyway.
One of the murdered women had followed her home.
The dead soul named Charlene had drifted in and out of Billie’s peripheral vision for the last two days. The woman never spoke nor did she come close, preferring to linger at a distance. Her eyes were big, like that of a child, and those eyes followed Billie at every turn. Timid or wary, she seemed like an outcast kid in a crowded schoolyard, alone and adrift on the outer rim of the vicious social strata of the playground.
Billie had tried to bring the dead woman forward, cooing to her the way one tries to draw in a skittish pony. The dead woman vanished instantly only to return later, appearing in soft focus in the corner of Billie’s sight-line. Tonight, the lost soul named Charlene had followed Billie to work at the Gunner’s Daughter. She stood outside, looking in through the front window watching Billie work.
Setting another order of drinks on the bar, Billie thought of a different tactic to get the woman to come close. A patron sitting at the end of the bar settled his bill and left, leaving the barstool vacant. Billie took a scrap of paper, folded it in half and scribbled two words on it with a thick black marker. She then stood the paper on the bar over the empty barstool and motioned to the dead woman in the window to come sit. The scribbled words on the folded paper read simply; Reserved - Charlene.
The dead woman chewed her lip for a moment, as if debating whether the woman behind the bar was to be trusted. She stayed where she was, refusing to take the bait.
Billie went back to work, her thoughts drifting back to the detective. Would Mockler want to know that the murdered woman was here or was she just looking for an excuse to ring him.
She wasn’t surprised when her phone went off in that exact moment. Neither was she surprised to see his name pop up in the caller display.
She tried not to smile too hard when she brought the phone to her ear. “Hello detective.”
“Hi Billie,” Mockler said on the other end. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something. Are you busy?”
Billie glanced at the window but the dead woman was gone. “I’m at work.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll let you go if you’re busy.”
“I can talk. It’s kinda slow tonight.”
“Do you have time tomorrow? Maybe for coffee somewhere?”
“Sure.” A silly thought rippled through her head and tripped off her tongue before she could stop it. “Are you busy now? Why don’t you stop by the bar?”
“The bar?” His voice sounded doubtful.
Did she really just say that? Stupid, stupid, stupid…
“That grimy place on Sherman, right?” he said. “The Farmer’s Daughter or something?”
“The Gunner’s Daughter,” she corrected him.
His tone perked up. “I’ll be there in ten.”
~
Panic set in once she got off the phone and realized what she had done. Was she out of her mind? Had she even brushed her hair before leaving for work tonight? She ran to the bathroom at the back. A low groan leaked out of her at the sight of her reflection in the cracked mirror. She looked ghastly and pale and tired. Not unlike, she noted with no small twinge of irony, the dead woman staring in at her from the window. She did what she could, rubbing her eyes back to life without smudging the black liner she’d applied earlier. It didn’t make any difference and she could hear someone at the bar hollering for another drink.
Detective Mockler stood just inside the door when she returned. She waved him over to the bar.
He looked the place over. “I’ve never been in here before.”
“Decor isn’t really our strong suit.”
He nodded at the bar. “You all alone back there?”
“Yup, just me.” She watched him give the place another quick scan. “Not exactly a posh place, I know. You hate it, don’t you?”
“No. Just the opposite. It has a real charm to it.”
The only available barstool was the one she had claimed earlier with the little reservation card. He picked up the folded paper. “Is Charlene coming?”
“Doesn’t look like it.” She took the paper from him, balled it up and pitched it into the trash. “Sit down.”
“I thought I had been in every bar in town,” he said, taking the stool. “I guess I was wrong.”
“Do you want a drink or are you on duty?”
“I’m off the clock,” he said. “And I could murder a pint right now.”
Billie poured and set the glass before him. It seemed strange with Mockler sitting in her bar. She felt exposed and self-conscious for reasons she couldn’t quite understand. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“I’m surprised you wanted to meet here,” he said between sips of beer.
“Why is that?” The exposed feeling tugged harder, like a guitar string wound too tight.
Mockler shrugged. “Public place, lots of people. Not like before. I thought you were embarrassed to be seen in public with me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Dunno. Just a thought.” Propping an elbow on the bar, he leaned in and stared at her for a moment. “You seen a doctor yet?”
Now she was thoroughly confused. “Why would I see a doctor?”
“You got really sick the other night. You said it happens a lot when you encounter the—” he glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening. “You know, the dead people.”
“Oh that.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “It was nothing.”
“It didn’t seem like nothing to me. Are you taking care of yourself?”
“Sure.” Her reply was automatic. It was also a lie.
His left eyebrow arched, like he was sniffing out an untruth. “You look thinner. Paler too.”
Billie folded her arms, feeling not so much exposed as downright naked. Her defensiveness was instinctual. �
��What do you care?”
“I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” he said. “That’s all.”
“Oh.”
“Especially if you’re getting sick from all the you-know-whats.” Mockler sipped his beer. “I almost killed you once, remember? That makes your wellbeing my responsibility.”
The noise inside the bar dimmed to an ambient hum as Billie took in what was being said but it felt a little jumbled, as if he was speaking a different language. Her legs seemed to understand it though, seeing as her knees went a tad wobbly. She opened her mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say.
Another patron leaned over the bar and ordered a round. It broke the spell and Billie went back to work, allowing enough time to reassemble the scattered fragments of her mind. Returning to Mockler she was still hard pressed for something to say. She defaulted to small talk.
“How’s work? Any progress with your case?”
“Nope. It’s like being stuck in mud.”
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I guess I wasn’t much help after all, huh?”
“No, you were brilliant. I just can’t connect anything right now. The perp in this case buried his tracks well.”
“Perp?”
“Perpetrator,” Mockler said. “The bad guy, so to speak.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“I think so. Thanks to you. But that’s the frustrating part. I can’t use anything you told me unless I find some other probable evidence to lead me there.”
Billie wiped the bar down, turning the idea over. “There must be something.”
“There is. It’s just going to take some digging.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “There is something that might help. Confirmation really.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“The man you saw. The perp? Do you think you could pick him out of line-up?”
“You mean a police line-up?” Billie shook her head. “Is that a good idea?”
“I don’t mean down at the station. A photo line-up. Here.” Mockler reached into a pocket and produced a batch of photographs. Seven in all, which he laid out across the bar. “Do any of these people resemble the man you saw?”
Billie scanned the photographs and, without hesitation, pointed out the second from last. “That’s him.”
