“I don’t have access to that information,” Gerry said.
“Sure you do.” Hilstead’s voice turned hard. “I need that information, Captain. Or . . .” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Gerry shivered, imagining further humiliation, if that were possible — no job, no pension, maybe even a conviction.
“I’ll try,” he said and scribbled down Hilstead’s instructions.
The department emptied promptly at five every evening. Nobody paid attention to Gerry. He sat at his desk, sweating slightly, waiting until he was sure that nobody would rush back to pick up a forgotten phone or car keys.
He must have waited for half an hour, he thought, before he could muster the courage to push open the door to one of the few open-plan offices in the building. The bullpen, as the department called it, was a maze of cubicles, divided by flimsy partition panels. The office was noisy during the day and Gerry avoided entering unless he really had to.
Now it was silent and dark except for the blue glow of desktop monitors.
At the far end of the bullpen was a bank of filing cabinets. Gerry hurried over and rummaged in his pocket for a set of keys. He’d had the keys for years. Nobody had bothered to check or ask for them back when he went to rehab. They kept all the active investigation files in the last cabinet. They’d had this system for years. Occasionally, the department hired a new manager who got fired up about replacing the paper files with a software program. But this was a government agency, and after a flurry of meetings, the proposals usually died in the face of overwhelming disinterest, leaving operations personnel to complain about the constant paperwork.
Gerry was relieved that his key still fit, and his hand trembled as he unlocked the cabinets and pulled open the top drawer. Hilstead had only given him the name of the vessel he thought was under surveillance.
Gerry cursed when he saw the contents of the drawer. It was divided up by species and types of violations, not by vessel. There were thousands of manila files, and without more information, he could take hours or days to find the right file.
Gerry smacked his hand on the top of the cabinet in frustration. He couldn’t fail, he couldn’t.
His instructions were clear. Find the file. Make a copy. Leave it on the front seat of his unlocked car, parked a block from his apartment, no later than 7 p.m. Walk away from the car and pick it up an hour later.
He tried to think logically. For Hilstead to call and sound so desperate, he must be involved in something big. If the Fisheries officers spied small violations like fishing in a closed area or out of season, they acted immediately. To spend some of the precious department budget on a full-scale surveillance operation, this must be major.
Gerry’s hands moved over the files. He pulled them out one by one, checking and shoving them back, until finally his fingers found a thick file. He flicked through the documents. This was it. In line with protocol, the file didn’t mention names of individuals. But it had the vessel name he was looking for printed at the top of one page. Gerry whistled to himself as he leafed through the rest of the file. Photographs, details of dates and times and multiple vessels. No wonder Hilstead was worried. He was poaching abalone. There had been a complete moratorium on fishing abalone in Canadian waters since 1990. The sea snails were an endangered species, but highly prized by Asian consumers. Gerry had eaten them once or twice and couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about. But there was a thriving black market for the rare shellfish. With the promise of large sums of cash, there were people, like Hilstead, prepared to gamble in that high-risk arena.
And it looked like his gamble would not pay off. This was a thorough investigation, Gerry realized. The department would gather enough evidence to be certain of a conviction. They would seize assets, including boats, Hilstead’s truck and fishing gear, and impose fines. There was even the possibility of jail time.
He didn’t have time to read it all. Gerry quickly took the file over to the photocopier, praying that it wasn’t out of toner. It was working fine, so he carefully copied each document, making sure the file was in the same order when he finished. He dropped the file back into the drawer, locked up and walked back to his office.
With his heart pounding, he placed the copies in a large envelope, grabbed his jacket, car keys and phone, and left the office.
Gerry hung around in the coffee area more than usual the next day. He listened for snippets of gossip. He had collected his car at 8 p.m. and found an envelope stuffed with cash. It had been a long time since his last payment, and he was nervous. He pushed it under his mattress, thinking he would leave it for a few days. See what happened.
He jumped every time his cell phone rang, but Hilstead didn’t call.
A week later and Gerry was beginning to think maybe Hilstead and his cronies had had the good sense to lie low. If the surveillance didn’t produce any results, sometimes the department would drop the investigation. They were short-staffed and underfunded, so they needed quick conclusions. He began to breathe a little easier.
But he was wrong.
“Have you heard?” his new secretary said, plonking his coffee on his desk, causing some of it to slop and run down the side of the mug and pool on some documents.
“Heard what?” he said, irritated, scrabbling around his desk for a tissue.
“Those guys in there,” she said, nodding her head in the bullpen’s direction, “they got a result. Arrested some gang diving for shellfish or something. Something banned, anyway.”
“Abalone?” Gerry asked, holding his breath.
“Yep, that’s it. Do you want a cloth?” she said, looking at Gerry, who had become very still.
Gerry heard nothing from Hilstead. He followed the case as much as he could. Finally, it went to court. The gossip was that the lawyers expected it to be a slam dunk. So Gerry was surprised and a little hopeful when he arrived at work one morning to a despondent atmosphere.
“Fucking lawyers,” one of the enforcement officers told him, “they got off on some technicality.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Gerry agreed, trying hard not to clap his hands in relief.
Back in his office, he rejoiced inwardly and stretched back in his chair. Now, finally, he could have some peace. Just keep his head down and make it to retirement. He began to feel optimistic. His new secretary, Christina, stared at him, as he hummed under his breath and thanked her for her hard work.
That was two months ago. Gerry’s warm feeling of relief ended when Hilstead finally called.
“Captain, not good news, I’m afraid to say. Not good news at all.”
Gerry gripped the phone, feeling his world collapse around him again.
“You got off!” he said, almost pleading with Hilstead. “How can that not be good news?”
“Well, that’s the problem, Captain,” Hilstead said. “I got off, but I owe my good friend a considerable amount of money. The Fisheries confiscated our product, and then there are the lawyer fees to deal with on top of that. The thing is, Captain, when I’m doing good, you do good, right? And if I’m not doing so good . . . well, it’s only fair that you help me out. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”
“I can give you back some money,” Gerry said quickly. “I haven’t spent much of it.” It was true. For once he was being careful, just taking the odd few notes here and there, so as not to arouse suspicion. His ex-wife was always looking for evidence of income, accusing Gerry of hiding money from her.
Hilstead laughed, without humour.
“No, Captain. After everything I’ve done for you, you owe me. You’re going to help me out.” He told Gerry what he needed.
“I can’t do that!” Gerry gasped. “I’m not in the same department anymore, you know that! I’m behind a desk!”
He pleaded with Hilstead, but Hilstead just said, “You’re going to pay, Captain. Somehow, you must pay.”
Tonight, Gerry Roberts stood at the door of his office and wished he could crawl into a dark room and wait for t
he mercy of death. This would never end. And now he had reporters sniffing around.
He heard the distant hum of a janitor’s vacuum cleaner. He wasn’t sure of the time, but it must be late. He’d lost all track of time. He walked to the men’s washroom and splashed some cold water on his face.
He’d shaved in a hurry this morning, sleeping through the alarm and having to propel himself from sweat-drenched sheets into the shower. He couldn’t remember getting to bed or undressing himself. He found the empty bottle of vodka on the floor beside the armchair.
He did remember that he’d been dreaming again. It was the same dream, over and over. He was crawling through the darkness, keeping low, hiding. He was being hunted. He’d woken in his usual fog and hadn’t taken care with his razor, the dream still real and vivid in his mind. He knew he’d nicked his neck, and although he’d stopped the bleeding, there was a raw patch that had chafed against his collar all day.
At work, he’d sat at his desk knowing he couldn’t go on like this. He called the number that Hilstead had left him and waited for him to answer. When Hilstead didn’t pick up, he left a message. Told him about the reporter and the picture. “I think she knows something,” he said, trying not to sound desperate.
All day he’d taken papers out of his in tray and put them back in again, unable to concentrate until he heard back from Hilstead.
He stared at himself in the mirror, red-faced from the booze and red-eyed from lack of sleep. He wished he had the courage to slice that razor across his neck and end his miserable existence. I can’t even do that right.
He walked slowly back to his desk, picked up his jacket and shoved his phone in his back pocket. His ex-wife had called several times today, but he couldn’t face that conversation. He owed her money too, and there was no way he could deal with her until he had a good half a bottle of vodka inside him.
Outside, he felt the cool breeze from the ocean, and it occurred to him that the happiest days of his life had been on the water. On an impulse, he walked away from his car and down towards the sea. He crossed the manicured lawn and stopped at the edge of the stony beach. The tide was coming in and he breathed deeply, taking in the scent of the seaweed and feeling calmed a little by the rhythm of the waves, lapping nearer and nearer.
He pulled out his phone and turned it over and over in his hand, wondering if he should phone his wife and apologize. Tell her everything. Clear his conscience. Maybe a fresh start?
Or maybe he should just turn himself in. Would it be so bad? Maybe he could cut a deal, give them Hilstead, and avoid prosecution. He mulled this over. In his mind, he pictured himself as the hero, conveniently forgetting for a minute all the bribes he had taken over the years.
He heard a footstep crunch behind him.
Gerry turned around, expecting a groundsman. He probably shouldn’t have walked on the grass.
It wasn’t a groundsman.
“Hello, Captain.”
Gerry stared in surprise and held out his hand as if to defend himself.
Before he could speak, he saw a flash, and stared in horror at Hilstead.
Gerry crumpled wordlessly to the ground.
As his eyesight faded, Gerry saw Steve Hilstead walk away from him. It all got fuzzy, but he thought he saw Steve stuff something into his jacket pocket.
A seagull landed beside him, and Gerry watched as it pecked at wisps of seaweed. He felt something warm trickle down the side of his face, and then the ocean lapped over his feet just before Gerry felt nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Inspector Andrew Vega was irritated. He needed space and privacy to do his work. The RCMP detachment had one small conference room, and his team had squeezed in, bumping elbows and tempers as they perched laptops on the corner of shared desks and tried to keep the noise at manageable levels.
The building was old and badly insulated. Brown stains had formed on the white ceiling panels from previous roof leaks, and Vega’s assistant had driven to Nanaimo to purchase an electric heater to counteract the damp. The result was akin to a sauna, especially when they were all gathered for a briefing.
That was another thing that irritated Vega. Day four, heading into day five of the investigation, and he had virtually nothing to report to his superintendent. Logically, he knew that it took time to thoroughly process a crime scene and gather and analyse the data. He and his team had worked twenty hours straight after being notified of Mason’s murder. Vega’s job was to coordinate and guide his specialized team toward a prosecutable conclusion. The time didn’t matter as much as the end result.
Still, the longer it took to get answers, the harder it would be.
Refusing to think about the department budget, he’d requested a police diver. They hadn’t found the murder weapon yet, and he was hoping that the killer had discarded it in the area. A thorough land search turned up nothing, so Vega was betting on the ocean bed around the fish plant. It was a long shot, he knew. But he needed to move this investigation along, before it went stale.
Vega was trying not to feel the pressure. He’d joined IHIT three years ago and had risen through the ranks to inspector and operations officer, overseeing the investigation units.
Every officer recruited to IHIT felt some pressure to get speedy results, he knew that. The Integrated Homicide Investigations Team had been formed in response to the RCMP’s spectacular failure to apprehend one of Canada’s most notorious serial killers, Robert Pickton, before he had butchered nearly fifty women. Vega shivered. He wasn’t even out of college when the Pickton Pig Farm killings were taking place, but still, he felt the responsibility of never allowing such an atrocity to happen again. The motto of the unit was “Justice for Those Who Have Died Unfairly”, and Vega was driven to be worthy of this mission.
His job was to coordinate seven investigative units from the mainland office. He didn’t like to be chained to a desk, so he often visited crime scenes and incident rooms, trying not to interfere or undermine his officers but offering the benefit of experience and making sure they had the resources they needed.
This time, he’d opted to come to Coffin Cove and head up the investigation himself.
Vega was familiar with the town, having worked a homicide here a year ago — a joint operation with the US Drug Enforcement Agency. They’d got a good result, but he’d battled to get information from suspicious residents.
“Coffin Cove is . . . er . . . unique.” He’d struggled to find the right words to describe the tiny isolated fishing town to his superintendent, Sharon Sinclair.
“How so?” she asked. She was a veteran of a major crimes unit. She liked procedure but knew how to be flexible, if the results were worth it.
“The residents are slow to trust outsiders,” Vega said. “They prefer to turn a blind eye, not get involved.”
“Aren’t many communities the same? What makes Coffin Cove different?”
Superintendent Sinclair was hesitant but knew that Vega got results. She also knew that most of their successful investigations relied on help from communities. Somebody usually had a key piece of information that cracked open a case — even if they didn’t know it. It took gentle professional persistence to tease out all the relevant facts of a homicide case.
Vega tried to explain. “They have their own . . . code, I suppose. They dislike authority. It’s isolated, just one road in and out. Back in the seventies, Vietnam draft dodgers hid there, and they still have the same mentality of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’. Also, this particular homicide will rake up an unpleasant past.” He explained why Pierre Mason was significant to the town.
“You think maybe Mason’s homicide has something to do with the cold case?”
“Maybe.” Vega shrugged. “I’m keeping an open mind. But even though Mason was cleared, it’s possible he still had enemies in Coffin Cove. Plus, he was a controversial figure for the forestry industry and fishermen. We’ll need to get people who are willing to talk. Otherwise, it will be an uph
ill battle if we don’t get slam-dunk forensics.”
“OK,” Sinclair said, “I’ll authorize it. But don’t fuck up. I want to retire gracefully in a year or two, with my reputation intact.” She smiled but Vega knew she wasn’t joking.
Vega needed to clear his head. The claustrophobic atmosphere of the detachment was clouding his thinking. They were still waiting on forensics from the old fish plant building, and Vega knew that would take some time. They had one person of interest: Brian McIntosh. Local fishermen told them that McIntosh was likely living in the disused building, and the forensics team spent hours sifting through debris and bagging evidence, even human faeces. The reporter, Andrea Silvers, had handed in the victim’s phone, and they obtained a warrant to search contacts. Vega was satisfied that each team member was working diligently on their assigned tasks. It was his job to pull all the data together and analyse the story it told.
Vega wrinkled his nose. The room smelled of grease and sweat. He wandered round the small room, gathering up sandwich wrappers, discarded coffee cups and a pizza box. In most circumstances, he would blast the team for a dirty, disorganized work area. He hated clutter. But they had all been working long hours in cramped conditions, so for once, he was letting it slide.
He decided to go back to his motel room and work there for a few hours. He needed to focus. His colleague from the Cold Case Division of IHIT had sent over the files for the Sarah McIntosh homicide. Vega had only found enough time to scan them quickly, and he wanted to read them thoroughly. He also had a pile of research on the victim, Pierre Mason. He had been a controversial figure, especially in Coffin Cove. Vega had promised Superintendent Sinclair to keep an open mind, but his gut was telling him that somehow the two cases were connected. Vega didn’t believe in coincidences. Mason had been linked to Sarah McIntosh and Coffin Cove all those years ago, and now he’d been killed in the same town?
Vega never ignored his gut feelings, but he knew he needed data.
COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) Page 17
