“Of course,” said Sally. “Everyone will have an equal opportunity.”
“Well then, I’ll speak with Officer Woodhouse and ask him if he wishes to withdraw this complaint.”
“Good. Any questions or concerns, Sergeant?” asked Sally.
“No.”
“Well then, I think we’ve come to a good resolution.”
Rouleau tracked down Gundersund in his old office as soon as he left the meeting.
“You look down and out,” said Gundersund. “Take a load off and tell me your troubles.”
“It’s been a long day already.” Rouleau stretched out in the visitor chair across the desk from Gundersund.
“Feels like you should be on this side of the desk.” Gundersund eyed him with concern. “So, what’s going on?”
“Heath is taking a year away. I’ve been asked to apply for his position for the duration.”
Gundersund’s face relaxed. “Is that all? Seems to me you’re doing a great job. You were born to lead.”
“I’m not convinced I want the burden for a year, even acting.”
“I’d be glad to have you back here. Paperwork is not my thing. However, this could be a golden opportunity for you to make an impact on the force. We’d be lucky to have you at the top.”
“There’ll be a competition and, if I get it, a competition for my substantive job.”
Gunderson shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge.”
“I could see Heath never coming back and being stuck with his job. Not sure that would suit me. My father’s going to need more of my time as his health fails, not less.”
“You can reassess and turn it down if he decides not to come back after a year. Your career is heading into the final stretch. I suppose you have to decide where and how you want to spend it.”
“Yeah, lots to mull over.” What would it do to the team if Woodhouse managed to wrangle the acting job to replace him while he was replacing Heath? The thought of Woodhouse leading Major Crimes was inconceivable. Rouleau shifted positions in the chair. “So, how’s it going with the McKenna murder? Any progress?”
“If two hours of Woodhouse questioning Tristan McKenna is progress, then there’s that. I watched from behind the two-way. Woodhouse is surprisingly adept at interviewing suspects once they’re confined to a twelve-by-twelve room. He got McKenna to admit that he and his wife had had periods of rockiness in their marriage, mainly about money. He said all that was behind them, though, and he denied killing her or even wanting her dead.”
“Where’s Tristan McKenna now?”
“Some lunch was brought in for him. Woodhouse plans to question him again this afternoon after he stews a bit. Vera is off getting sandwiches for the team, but the snowfall is likely slowing her down. You’re welcome to share mine when she makes it back.”
“No, but thanks. I’ve got a working lunch and then back-to-back meetings. Let me know how the afternoon session goes with McKenna.”
“I’m going to sit in with Woodhouse. I’ll fill you in at the Merchant if you’d like to meet up at the end of the day.”
Rouleau glanced at the snow still falling thick and fast outside the window. “I won’t be free until six. Let’s see what the storm is like then and decide when the day’s work is done.”
chapter seventeen
Kala decided against returning to the McKenna neighbourhood after they left Lauren at the coffee shop. Driving was getting treacherous and there was no sign of the storm abating. She also needed to report on Lauren’s startling revelation about her father saying he relocated Zoe’s body and to consider its implications.
“What do you make of what she told us? Wouldn’t Forensics have noticed that the body had been moved?” asked Morrison as she blew on her fingers to warm them up. She’d taken her glove off to write notes on a pad before the truck’s heater kicked in.
“There was nothing in the report. It was a rainy autumn and she was in the woods a full week before she was found. It rained the night she went missing, which would have washed away the blood in the McKenna backyard if anyone had looked for her there, which they didn’t. A lot of physical evidence was destroyed by the elements.”
“I’d say that if the dad, David, found her body in the McKenna backyard, it’s even more likely that Tristan did it.”
“Or someone who wanted Zoe’s death to be pinned on him.”
“Here’s a thought.” Morrison tapped her forehead. “Lauren killed Zoe and Vivian and is now trying to get her brother blamed by pretending to believe in his innocence. After all, what she told us is more damaging than helpful for Tristan’s case.”
“And what was her motive?”
“Some twisted form of jealousy? They seem overly close for siblings.”
“I don’t know,” said Kala. To her, Lauren seemed a long shot to be the killer. Zoe had been Lauren’s best friend in high school and she’d had little contact with Vivian over the years. Motive appeared thin for both murders. “I see Tristan as the killer over Lauren, but we have no certainties yet.”
“Except for two women who were both involved with the same man being brutally murdered fourteen years apart.”
Gundersund called the team together after they arrived at the station. Woodhouse had finished with Tristan McKenna and sent him on his way — for now. “We shook him up,” said Woodhouse to Gundersund at the front of the room. “Just a question of time.”
“Don’t you want to wipe that smug look off his face?” said Morrison out of the side of her mouth to Kala.
“Tell me about it,” said Bennett as he took the chair directly behind them.
Officer Bedouin entered and took a seat next to Bennett. “They’ve called in the reinforcements to crack this one,” he said. “I’m here to save the day.”
“Hey Bedouin,” said Morrison, turning and smiling at him. “Long time no see.”
“Thought you were rid of me, eh, Morrison?”
“Like a bad penny.”
“If you’re implying that I’m discontinued and worthless …”
“Which I would never do.”
“Right.”
“You two,” said Bennett. “Like an old married couple.”
“We’re having a conscious uncoupling,” said Bedouin. “Getting along for the sake of our children, which would be you lot.”
“Let’s get this party started,” said Gundersund, drawing their attention to the front of the room. “Updates. Woodhouse, would you like to start by filling us in on the Tristan McKenna interview?”
“Right,” said Woodhouse standing next to him. “Tristan McKenna has no alibi for the time frame of his wife’s murder. He admitted to having marital problems last year, but insisted they were resolved and mainly to do with money. He kept repeating that they were both excited about the baby and had been trying for some time. He volunteered that there had been no physical violence during their marriage. However, as we all know, in the instances of pregnant wives being murdered, the husband is found to be guilty in the vast majority of cases.”
“You let him go?” asked Bedouin.
“I did, but I plan to bring him in again for another grilling tomorrow. Let out some line, reel him back in. A little more line, a little more reeling. How did your interviews go on the Zoe Delgado case, Stonechild?”
The look he gave her felt like a challenge and she knew he expected her to have nothing.
“Morrison and I had a conversation with Lauren McKenna. She told us that her father confessed to her that he found Zoe’s body in their backyard the evening she disappeared and moved her to the Rideau Trail where she was found a week later. He told Lauren that he thought he was protecting Tristan only to discover later that his son hadn’t killed her. He never came forward to the police investigators at the time for reasons we don’t know. Lauren also told us that her dad said he had not found the knife used to kill her.”
Silence. Everyone except Morrison looked surprised, working out what this could mean.
“It’s more likely her father was confused. After all, he was sick, but we can’t be sure he wasn’t confessing to what actually happened.” Kala needed to share her own reservations about the information.
“What does Forensics have to say, Stonechild?” asked Gundersund.
“I’m going to talk with them when we finish here.”
“Fourteen years is a long time to backtrack.”
“I’m hoping someone is still there who worked the Delgado murder scene.”
“Good. We’ll keep this under wraps for now until we know if her bombshell has any merit and what it means if it does. Rouleau and I will be holding a news conference tomorrow morning with the objective of allying fears about the serial killer rumours being spread on the Internet. We’ve been getting calls from worried citizens. I’ve borrowed a few officers to work the phone line, including Bedouin. Thanks for helping out.”
“Happy to be of service.”
“Vivian’s autopsy report should be ready tomorrow and will hopefully shed some light. Anything else, Woodhouse?”
“I’m coordinating the door-to-door search with officers and it’s ongoing. I’ll be interviewing the McKenna family members one by one now that the old man has died and they can’t use the death watch excuse for not being available.”
“Your empathy astounds once again,” said Morrison.
Woodhouse grinned and saluted her.
“And with that, off to your stations,” said Gundersund. “Keep an eye on the storm and leave early if you have to get home. Can I have a word, Stonechild?”
“Sure.”
She remained seated while the others filed out. Morrison gave her a sympathetic smile.
Gundersund took the seat next to her. “I heard from my contact in Corrections.”
“And?”
“Fisher Dumont is living in a halfway house in Toronto. He checks in every week with his parole officer. So far, no problems.” He handed her a piece of paper. “This is his parole officer’s contact info.”
“Is Fisher working?”
“He’s washing dishes in a restaurant on Yonge.”
“Thank your friend for looking into this for me.”
“No problem.” Gundersund ran a hand across the scar on his cheek. “Are you up for a drink at the Merchant on your way home? Rouleau is stopping by after his last meeting.”
“Sorry, not tonight. The weather is dicey and I want to be home with Dawn.”
“Another time.”
“Sure, another time.”
Darkness had fallen and the temperature had dropped by the time Kala turned onto Old Front Road. The wet hail had changed into steadily falling snow that slanted against the windshield and covered the icy roads a foot deep in places. Wet, heavy snow bowed the spruce and pine branches until they almost touched the ground.
The plows had not cleared this end of the city, but her truck made it through the drifts without difficulty. Gundersund’s car wasn’t in his driveway, but she hadn’t expected it to be. She neared her driveway in time to see the plume of snow from the neighbour’s snow blower clear out the last of her laneway, the throb of the motor loud in the otherwise silent evening. She rolled down her window and waved as he crossed the road in front of her on his way home. He waved back — a retired university professor named Frank who wouldn’t take money for his kindness.
Taiku was waiting for her when she opened the truck door. She found Dawn at the side of the house shovelling the walkway and went inside for her warmer boots and parka to help finish the front steps. The snow kept falling, and they finally gave up, leaving the shovels near the back door for a second round when the snow stopped.
“Omelettes okay?” Kala was at the fridge pulling out cheese, a red pepper, mushrooms, milk, and eggs.
“I’ll help chop.”
Kala took sideways glances at Dawn as they worked at the counter. Dawn seemed to have settled back in to living with her, but Kala wasn’t fooled. Silences that had once been easy now seemed filled with worry and distrust. Dawn had started off introverted and aloof when she lived with Kala the summer before but had made good progress until she’d been sent to live with the foster family. Now she was watchful and waiting again … waiting, Kala knew, for a sign that she would have to go to a new home. Dawn had become even more closed off than the first time, although her grades were back up and she wasn’t skipping school. Whatever peer group she said that she’d been hanging around with when she lived in the foster home appeared to have drifted away.
“Any trouble getting home today?”
Dawn started to shake her head but stopped and said, “I caught a later bus.”
“Were you kept after school for some reason?”
“No.”
And that’s all you’re going to tell me. “I’m ready to start cooking the onions if you want to get some toast going.”
“Okay.”
Food ready, they ate sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Kala took a bite and asked, “Have you given any thought to visiting your mom?”
“No.”
“You could write a letter to her if you want to break the ice that way.”
“I’ll think about it.” Dawn pushed her plate away and rested her elbows on the table. “What do you know about my ancestry?”
“Your ancestry?”
“Yeah. My mother and father. Where do we belong?”
Kala’s heart jumped. Had Dawn heard from her father? “Any particular reason you’re asking?”
“I’ve been wondering. I haven’t had any education about my ancestors or our heritage. I look like you, but are we from the same band?” She bit her bottom lip before saying, “If you don’t want to tell me, it’s not important.”
“No, heritage is important.” Kala struggled to recall details. She’d been raised mainly by white foster families from the age of three but had faded memories of life on Birdtail Reserve for a short time when she was a child. “We’re descended from the Dakota. Your mother and my mother were Dakota but your dad is Métis and my dad was Ojibway, which would have been rival tribes way back. Within the Dakota side, we’re Yankton. The Dakota first lived in Wisconsin and Minnesota and then South Dakota. We have ties to Birdtail Reserve in Manitoba, one of three Dakota reserves in Canada.”
“Were they warriors?”
“More farmers, I think. I don’t know all the details.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I never gave it much thought.”
I was separated from my family, my roots, my home.
I was ashamed.
They are part of me but not me.
“Did you know your parents?”
Kala shook her head. “I don’t remember much. They lived off reserve in Winnipeg and I was very young when I was taken from them.”
“I’m going to find out more about our ancestors. Is that okay?”
“I’d like to know what you find out.”
“I’ve got a math test tomorrow but I might have time to start searching before bed.” Dawn stood and picked up her plate and glass.
“I’ll tidy up. You scoot.”
“Are you sure, Aunt Kala?”
“I am.” She looked out the window. “Look at that snow still coming down. Maybe we can do some shovelling before bed if it lets up. Otherwise, we’ll need to dig our way out first thing in the morning.”
“Call me when you’re ready.”
Kala stood staring out the window over the kitchen sink for a long time after Dawn had gone upstairs, thinking about the young girl she’d once been and her lonely memories of living on Birdtail Rez. Her reflection seemed ghostly in the glass, the snow softly falling against the backdrop of darkness.
She and Dawn were not that different. They were joined by a history of loss. Would knowing more about their a
ncestors help them move forward? All her life in the white world, she’d sensed that her heritage and darker skin made her inferior. The idea of embracing what she’d tried to deny was foreign to her. Foreign and frightening, but maybe just that bit hopeful too.
chapter eighteen
“Can I go downstairs?” asked Antonia, her face scrunched into a pout. The sound of her whiny voice grated on Boris’s ears and he reminded himself to breathe deeply and be patient.
He’d looked out the window in his bedroom that faced the front yard and Grenville Crescent before walking down the hall to check on her. Eight a.m. and all was quiet. No sign of activity at the McKenna house and no unmarked police cars parked on the street.
“I’ll make you some tea,” he said. They spoke in their native Romanian as they always did when they were alone. He’d learned English in school as a boy but she had spoken only Romanian until they came to Canada. She was never comfortable with the new language. “We’ll sit in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Boris.”
She held up her arms and he helped her from the bed, swinging her legs onto the floor and slipping her swollen feet into her bedroom slippers. Then he retrieved her housecoat from its hook on the door and held it up, guiding each of her arms into a sleeve.
“I’ll give you the medicine when you’re back in bed.”
“I don’t like it.”
He ignored her and held on to her around the waist as he walked her down the stairs and into the kitchen. She blinked at the harshness of the overhead lighting.
She reminds me of a little sparrow startled by its own shadow, he thought as he set about making the tea.
“Here you go, my dear,” he said and set a cup of black tea in front of her along with the sugar bowl.
She eagerly scooped sugar into her cup while he buttered toast and brought it to her on a china plate.
“I didn’t do it,” she whispered.
Her eyes were button-bright and devious. He took away the sugar bowl and she let the spoon drop to the table. “Too much sugar isn’t good for you,” he said.
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