Violet 24

by Baigh Queen

  Osh and I wait. I'm so intent on listening that I barely notice when we leave the parking garage. My only clue is that I'm blinded by the sun and have to put the visor down.

  "Ink?" Osh asks.

  "Are you waiting with bated breath? Oh, is the anticipation killing you?"

  Osh groans. "Yes."

  "Good. Because Fields's daughter is murdered in 1977 by a group of kids older than her. They drowned her in the nearby pond and claimed it was an accidentally drowning. For weeks Fields fought for justice for his little girl but the authorities believed the group of little murderers, even after the coroner said she had, and I quote, 'defensive wounds on her arms and legs that are common in sexual assaults cases’.” He lets out a disapproving grunt and leave us with that.

  "How old was she?" I ask.

  "Oh? Who's this? Osh are you picking up girlfriends again? You know Angus doesn't like that."

  "Shut up and answer the question," Osh answers.

  "Ah, it's the little blogger I bet! Gwen, you're a wonderful writer. A bit of a murder fanatic but who among us isn't?"

  "Ah...thanks...I guess. Her age?"

  "She was four," he replies, the playful notes in his tone gone again. "The group of three boys and two girls were between seven to nine. It wasn't until ’91 when one of the girls confessed that they had intentionally held the victim under the water when she refused to take her clothes off. Apparently one of the boys, the oldest, Jeremy Bearing, had wanted to play a game and when she wouldn't participate things escalated."

  Osh and I exchange a glance, knowing that year well. The final year of the Roundabout Bomber. I remember Lily’s date of 1979 on her board, and wonder if she had found some kind of bombing that nobody realized was his.

  "What happened to the group?" Osh questions.

  Inky types for a moment. "Looks like the woman that confessed was on her deathbed, cancer. The other woman married Jeremy and they were arrested and...oh. Weird."

  "What?"

  "They were each killed while in holding awaiting trial. Jeremy to an allergic reaction and his wife to a car accident while heading to trial. The other two boys were arrested and served their time for...three months before one hanged himself in his cell and the other was killed in a gang fight after being in and out of prison his whole life."

  "They all died?" It's a question for myself than anyone else.

  "That could have been why he stopped," Osh theorizes. "He found justice."

  I nod my agreement.

  "Keep digging into the storage lockers,” Osh orders, "whatever you can get. We're following another lead."

  "Oh, we?"

  Osh hangs up before she can say anything else.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As a kid I had a very active imagination, which led to many talks with my father about how the monster under my bed wasn't real. And more talks about how my neighbour was not a vampire, and just a guy that worked the night shift and didn't like garlic on his pizza. And even more talks about how I should mind my own business when I spot my third grade teacher kissing someone that is definitely not the man in the picture that sits on her desk. Okay, maybe not all of my worries were imaginary, which is what I was thinking as I stand in front of the mystery storage locker.

  That man…I’m certain he’s the Roundabout Bomber. The message I got on my blog that led to him was reassuring, but finding him dead...that didn't seem like a coincidence. It’s hard to ignore the theories that run through my mind; what if this is a trap set by the bomber? No, he likes that I’m reporting on him. What if the latest bombings are a copycat, and the real guy is sending me to my death for reporting the facts wrong? Well, almost all of my theories involved me being blown up the second the storage locker opens, but at least I have…

  "Are you going in or not?" Osh asks. I look at her over my shoulder, bolt-cutters held tightly in my hand. As I loosen my grip I feel the blood rush back to my fingers.

  "I said I wanted to open it," I reply, "so I will. Just give me a second."

  The Goderich Storage Facility is the only one in town. With such a small town one would think it would be small, but it takes up about eight houses worth of land. It’s divided in four plots, Cyan, Red, Yellow, and Violet. It’s outdoors, and the sun has gone low enough to light up the door in an angry glare. Right now we stand in front of Violet section, locker 24. Just a few doors down is my own locker in Violet 18. A chill dances along my spine at the thought I could have been here at the same time as the Roundabout Bomber.

  The lock is a simple silver combination one. One look at Osh’s business card, the name Sharpe, and a reminder that we’re here investigating an attempted child killer was all the clerk needed to let us in. Her name’s Susie, and I went to high school with her. She has a kid turning four this year, and I saw the anger in her eyes when Osh told her why we were there.

  She’d handed me the bolt cutters and said, “Get that son of a bitch.”

  I didn’t tell her that someone already had. At least, that’s my theory anyway.

  I lift the bolt cutters and position them at the lock, pushing the wooden handles together. There’s resistance and it’s hard to get enough force without the use of both my feet. But I struggle through the pain, too determined to let this single lock break me, and it snaps. I tumble off balance only to have Osh balance me with a hand on my shoulder. I nod my thanks.

  Sliding the lock off, Osh is the one to bend down and raise the metal gate. She’s slow to do it too, just as cautious as I was. Although I really want to just lift the thing and get it over with, it’s too dangerous.

  “No traps,” Osh says with an exhale.

  I gulp. “Not yet.”

  Osh takes a small flashlight out of her pocket and clicks it on. She shines it on the floor first, scanning the area quickly. “Wait here a moment.”

  The storage locker is stacked with boxes along the walls, with a wardrobe in the centre and a couple wooden chairs and pillows. It’s dusty, but even from where I stand I can see a few notes on top of the dresser. Osh passes by it, still shining her flashlight on the ground and taking slow, calculated steps. Finally, she’s looped around and is back beside me, clicking her flashlight off.

  “No wires anywhere,” she announces, “at least none that we can trip over. Just be careful opening any boxes.”

  I nod, even if the warning isn’t necessary. Then again, I do feel the urge to start ripping open boxes so we can hurry up and find out if this Fields guy is the bomber.

  Osh goes back in and begins to search through a box on the right. It’s labelled ‘clothes’, and she’s slow to go through it. Slow and steady, I remind myself as I take my first step. Slow and steady.

  I want to get a look at the notes on top of the dresser. It comes up to my shoulders, and probably the only thing here that isn’t coated in a thick layer of dust. Scratch that, one of the chairs has some disturbed dust on it, shifted just enough for someone to sit.

  There’s eight notes, written on papyrus paper, and folded as if they’re placement cards. Each one says ‘Don’t Touch’, but they aren’t in the same elegant calligraphy I’m used to. The first is messy and scratchy, and get progressively better down the line.

  “Someone’s been practicing,” I say. I pick out a card as Osh turns her head to me and show her the writing. “If this isn’t the actual bombers place, it’s the copycats.”

  Osh is quiet, and I find that unnerving. I wish she would just say what’s on her mind but that’s asking too much. She’s already brought me here, to a potential crime scene, without alerting the cops. So I let her turn back to the boxes as she sets the one she was going through on the ground and opens the next; this one’s labelled ‘old clothes’. I watch her back as she tenses up, her shoulders freezing.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Her hands reach in, pushing aside some things I can’t see and she pulls out a smaller cardboard box. The top is already open, so she isn’t as careful as before when she turns to me an
d sets it on the dresser. I perch on my toes on my good foot, and arch my brows. “I think that settles things.”

  “We don’t know for sure,” Osh argues.

  “You’re holding a box full of old broken thermometers, drained of their mercury.” I give her a hard stare. “I think Fields was the original bomber, and now someone is copying him for who knows what reason.”

  Osh plucks out a near empty thermometer with two fingers, but as she does it leaks from the bottom. A drop hits her pinky and she lets the glass drop back into the box with a surprised gasp, rubbing at her fingers. I’m surprised she doesn’t have a handkerchief in her pocket, considering the swath of other items she carries.

  “There goes that manicure,” she sighs.

  I look at her nail only to snatch her hand over the dresser before she can try to rub away from of the mercury. It’s settled around her cuticles and coloured some of her pinky in what almost looks like grey ink.

  Osh pulls back but I keep her in place with another tug. “I’ve seen this before.”

  Before I can elaborate, and before Osh can even ask me to her phone rings. She answers, setting it on speaker.

  “Hello ladies,” Inky says, “I think I’ve found what you’re looking for.”

  “Same here,” I mutter. Osh and I exchange a glance but I don’t say anything else. There’s this odd sense of doubt in my stomach, like maybe all the clues I’ve seen so far aren’t real, and I’m actually wrong. I don’t want to say who I suspect just yet.

  “All right,” Inky goes on, “I can tell by your shocked silence that you’re too in awe of my prowess to speak. That storage locker, which I assume you’re in right now, was owned by Charles Fields. And he got sick, cancer and Alzheimer's. He always paid by the month in person but since he was hospitalized a few times, he missed his payments and the place went up for auction.”

  “He bought the place,” I realize.

  “But do you know who it is?” Inky questions defensively, like I’m stealing his moment. Maybe I am, but I’m certain I do when we both say, “Gary McLean.”

  Inky lets out a surprised grunt. “You already knew?”

  “Just wanted to confirm. Why would he start copying the Roundabout Bomber? He’s rich; he owns the ice rink and a few other business in Goderich and Vineville.”

  “Not for much longer,” Inky reveals. “Dude’s broke. I checked out his financials and he had to foreclose his businesses in Vineville; the Goderich Ice Rink is all he has left.”

  I squint, rubbing my hands over my face. God, why didn’t I realize that the ‘ink’ on his hands was mercury? Why didn’t I notice just how excited he was that I was there to ask questions? Why didn’t—

  “We need to call Bane, and the Vineville Bomb Squad,” Osh interrupts my thoughts, “by the looks of these vials he’s had more than enough mercury to practice, and he’s probably already got another bomb. I’m betting it’s at the ice rink again.”

  “Why?” I ask. Why risk trying to blow up the same place?

  “He’s looking for money,” Osh tells me, “he failed once, so I’m better he’s trying again. And what better way to get insurance that with a string of bombings that aren’t linked to you?”

  I nod, my mind in a flurry.

  “Uh, guys?” Inky says. “A call just came into the GPD about a hat at the ice rink and…oh, no…”

  “What?” I prod.

  Inky seems flustered as I hear typing. It’s frantic and too quick, even from what I heard from him before. “It was an anonymous caller, no reports of seeing a hat yet. There’s a free skate going on right now with a police escort and everything. If he’s just in it for the money why try for so many casualties?”

  I don’t have an answer other than he’s nuts. Anyone that would do this has to be nuts. I think of Fields, and how I still don’t even know what he looks like, but I know he was angry. Furious. Desperate.

  Just like McLean.

  “Inky, call Bane and tell him we’re on our way.”

  “On it. Don’t do anything—” Osh hangs up on him and starts out of the locker. I’m on her heels, but it hurts to move so quickly. There’s no time to think about that though, and Osh doesn’t slow her pace like before.

  We leave the locker wide open, but when I walk past the front desk I ask Susie to lock it up for us. Osh hesitates, eyes coming back from her mission and she adds, “Good idea.” She looks to Susie, who’s already got a new lock in her hand. “Do not let anyone near it.”

  Susie gives a solid nod, face determined.

  We keep moving. Osh doesn’t open the passenger side door for me and I almost think she’s going to tell me to stay put. But she doesn’t argue when I step in and slam the door. Adrenaline is already rushing through me and I'm starting to shake. I eye Osh's hands on the wheel as she drives away at high speed and notice she's shaking too. This is new for her too. I wonder if she's just as scared as me.

  “Inky will get Bane to go after McLean,” she says finally, “and we'll be able to go from there. Everything is going to be fine.”

  I know for a fact she’s telling herself that. Her fingers grasp the wheel the same way my mother’s did when I fell of her bed and broke my pinky toe. She had to drive me to the hospital just to make sure I was okay.

  I nod at her. “You’re right. His last bomb didn’t go off, so this one may be a dud too.”

  Osh purses her lips and takes a sharp turn. I hold onto the door to make sure I don’t go crashing into her, even with my seatbelt on. I grip it tight with my other hand, eyes now on the road as the ice rink comes into view. There are already cop cars all around it, at a safe distance, and I can see officers ushering people away. The cars in the parking lot are abandoned, with people choosing to just run as far as they can to get to a safe distance in case. I gulp. In case the whole place blows up.

  I realize now that the bomb McLean has made is most likely larger than his previous ones. The one at the park was actually small, but this time he wants to destroy an entire building, and a large ice rink at that. Debris will be everywhere, and I fear what the shaking ground will feel like when it goes off. If, I remind myself, if it goes off.

  Osh screeches to a halt next to a police cruiser. I spot Bane among the officers, waving his arms at people and telling them to get as far away as possible. But beyond him I see another familiar face, his eyes wide and wild, his normally pressed shirt wrinkled.

  McLean is sneaking out among a crowd of parents holding their children; none of the kids are trying to run on their own.

  “Bane!” I cry, pointing towards the man. Bane looks at me a fraction of a second before whirling towards McLean, who knows he’s caught when the giant officer starts barreling towards him.

  I’m not part of the chase, but my heart is hammering against my chest. My breathing increases, and all the pain in my body from the explosion the other day completely vanishes as I watch Bane chase down McLean. Osh stands with me, apparently not feeling the need to join in. We both wince as Bane tackles the much smaller man to the ground, and another two officers joins to help.

  There’s a long beat when I don’t hear anything around me. I know there’s crying kids, crying parents, too, and a lot of questions swinging around, but I really don’t hear it as I watch Bane slap a pair of cuffs onto McLean. Is that…it?

  “I’m going to aid the search for the bomb,” Osh announces. I’m not sure if she was talking to me at all, but she doesn’t wait for me to acknowledge her when she walks away. I follow. “You should stay here, you’re not an officer.”

  “Neither are you,” I argue. I glance around the area, where it seems like all the officers of Goderich are too busy getting people out of the way to do any kind of search. “And it doesn’t look like the Vineville bomb squad is here so I’m going to help.”

  Osh’s lips form a straight line, her lipstick fading from doing that so much. I try to straighten my back and show some resolve, and it’s enough for her to agree. “Fine, but stay with me.
And watch your step.” Her eyes fall to my injured ankle, and I walk on it as if it isn’t sending knives up and down my spine.

  As we approach the front doors an officer comes up to us. Smythe. “Where do you think you’re going?” He grabs my upper arm. I wrench out of his grip, nearly falling off balance if it weren’t for Osh who places a firm hand on my back.

  “To find the bomb,” I say, “wanna join?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs, eyes on the building. But then he nods, and I have a little more respect for him. He grabs at the radio on his shoulder and says, “Escorting two civilians into the ice rink to aid in the search.”

  Bane’s voice booms over the mic. “Who the fuck is—” a groan, “never mind. Just don’t get blown up before I get this guy into a car.”

  I tilt to the right to see Bane give me his typical ‘I’m watching you’ gesture as he walks McLean to the nearest cruiser. But instead of putting him in the back he slams him against the door. I flinch back and bare my teeth at Osh.

  Smythe doesn’t tell us to hurry up, only waves towards the doors. He does take the first steps, and Osh and I are right with him. In a trio we enter through the sliding glass, the ice rink empty.

  I can’t see my breath, and the lobby is warmer than on the actual ice, but I can still feel the chill of it. I try not to rub my arms, and only then notice how much I had been sweating as the cold sinks in.

  “You two stay with me,” Smythe orders.

  “It would be better if we divide and conquer,” Osh argues. Then, for some reason unknown to me, they each turn their heads in my direction.

  I’m caught in the middle, literally and figuratively. I’m torn between wanting to get the search done faster, and my instinctual urge to stay with the pack. Huh, never had that second one before…

  “I think since Smythe has a radio it would be best to stick together,” I finally say, “we can stay within ten feet of each other and look in different directions for anything suspicious.”