MURDER ON VANCOUVER ISLAND
Hatred, prejudice, or a heinous crime without motive?
Kathy Garthwaite
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2019
© Kathy Garthwaite
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in Canadian English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Also featuring DI William Gibson
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Chapter 1
It surprised David Hunter to see all the doors were closed. Was he the first one here today? It rarely happened that way. He threw his knapsack on the ground and fumbled about for a key; it was hiding out near the bottom, he was sure. A loud thump sounded somewhere out on the street, distracting him momentarily. When he reached for the handle, the door swung inward a few inches. He pushed on it, but something blocked the motion. A peek inside showed a dark lump on the ground. With every bit of his weight he pressed harder, but the obstruction wouldn’t budge. He reached through the gap searching for the light switch with his fingertips. The lone bulb that dangled from the cracked ceiling came on slowly, leaving shadows in the corners. The next glimpse sent him reeling back in horror. A hand, baby soft and smooth with dainty long fingers, was resting on the bottom tread as if the person was trying to clamber up the stairs. Tiny tracks of glistening blood trailed across a body and up the lifeless walls. Blow flies charged around the pokey landing with a nasty buzzing.
“Oh my God,” David cried out and twisted away. For a moment his breathing ceased. He peered back inside and recognized the tight bike shorts. As he tried to squeeze through the opening, someone nudged him from behind. He braced himself so as not to step forward onto the body and spun to confront the idiot.
“What the hell!” David scowled and flexed his fists, barely able to restrain himself from decking the fool. He propelled Tim Sanderson away from the door, but not before the guy stole a look.
“Holy shit. Is that who I think it is?”
“Yeah.” David pulled out his cell and dialed 911.
“Do something,” Tim shouted.
“Like what?”
The sirens started whirring like a ceiling fan on a hot summer day. David looked around as the ambulance closed in speedily down the empty streets of Victoria, BC toward the university. The firepit still glowed from last night, an occasional wisp of smoke escaping the coals. In the distance, the peaks of the Olympic Mountains dusted with an early snowfall glistened. The din grew louder, blasting his eardrums with intermittent pandemonium.
“What are you guys doing?” Jason Marsden, the foreman, demanded as he came round the corner of the building. “Let’s get moving.”
He placed his palm against David’s back to force him forward. But David dug his heels in and remained rooted to the spot like the saplings on the boulevard.
“There’s been an accident,” he stammered, his nerves jangling. “If you call getting your skull caved in an accident.”
“Out of my way,” Jason insisted and barged through to the now half-opened door. He turned away quickly and stumbled backward, his tanned complexion blanched a green sickly glow. “Did he fall?” The tremor in his voice rang out.
“Are you kidding?”
The crushing of gravel announced another person racing towards them.
“Hey, what’s up?” Nick Jones asked. “Am I late?”
A bitterness crept up David’s throat, leaving a sour taste behind his tongue. He faltered and felt the blood flee his face and a chill stalk down the back of his neck. Jason’s appearance had mottled into a grey pastiness that matched his flat hair and dull eyes. Tim’s normal blow and bluster was replaced with lips puffing in chaotic gasps, although he tried desperately to hide his fear by greeting his buddy with daring.
“Take a look.”
Nick reached for the door, but the squawk of a siren stopped him. He peered over his shoulder as a vehicle pulled into the yard. The howling sound ended, but the blue and red lights continued to rebound between the two maintenance buildings.
“Oh, Oh. Trouble,” Nick mumbled, glancing at his buddy.
“Wasn’t me!” Tim said.
A door slammed, and then another. Two detectives dressed in civilian clothes emerged.
“What’s the problem here?” Detective Constable Danny Na asked as he approached the men. His open-neck shirt and pressed pants hung loosely on his svelte frame. If this made him look like someone who could be pushed around, his sharp, brown eyes belied this illusion. He was all business. His partner, Detective Constable Blake Gunner, leaned against the front fender of the police car, his gun hanging idly at his hip. The thin scar on the side of his fleshy face was not something that could be discounted. His lopsided grin was more of a sneer.
“I think Robbie’s dead. At the bottom of the stairs.” David pointed at the entrance, his hand shaking. He pulled it back to his side embarrassed by his fear.
“What? Spencer?” Nick’s eyebrows shot up.
Na seized the handle and opened the door as far as he could. He peered in, swinging his torch around the landing. “Oh boy.” With a hint of a frown, he tilted his chin to his partner. “Looks like the guy is dead all right.”
Gunner leaned into the vehicle and grabbed the radio phone. “We have a homicide. Get the crime scene unit here.”
He listened for a moment, and then replied, “Yes, the DI. He’s on call.” The grim twist to his mouth made him look clown-like. “I know. This will choke him. What can do you?”
Chapter 2
Detective Inspector William Gibson had started out early before the indigo skies had warmed to a cyan blue. He had sauntered across the street from his home and wandered down the ramp to a dock that jutted out a hundred yards into the cove. High on the right, a ferry terminal to Mill Bay loomed over him. A quarter-way down, a kayak shop occupied a dazzlingly coloured shack—mustard, plum and fuchsia. The young man who ran the storage and rentals raised his eyebrows as Gibson ambled past toward a triple-layered rack adjoining the shed. He stored his kayak on the middle platform, double-locked and effortlessly accessed. It took ten minutes to set his gear into place, ready for a relaxing tour of the bay.
Soft water caressed the wooden surface as he dipped the paddles from side to side. The kayak glided through the calm. The cry of gulls and the splashing of k
ingfishers diving for illusive fare were melodious against the background of movement. Boats with their colourful unfurled sails and intricate manoeuvres raced the length of the inlet, putting on a show for spectators on the shore or lounging in the bars and cafés. His muscles worked hard to sustain a constant pace, but the effort kept him warm in the chilly fall air. The day was still early, and he wasn’t in a hurry—no work today and his wife, Katherine, was occupied in the greenhouse.
His cell phone buzzed, shattering both tempo and peace. He ceased paddling and looked in the waterproof pack clipped around his midriff for the annoying squeal. Compressing his lips, he grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”
Gibson clenched his jaw, exasperated by the interruption. Dire thoughts invaded his mind. Another day spoiled, but he was uncertain by whom. The job or Katherine? Damn. The office meant disaster had befallen someone—can’t be helped—and Katherine meant compromised calm at home, giving him palpitations already. He wasn’t positive which scenario was worse, being on call and getting the call or having to soothe his wife. He glanced at the number on the screen.
“Gibson.”
“Hi, Inspector. There’s been a murder at the university,” the dispatcher said, his deadpan voice flat down the line. “Sorry. You need to come in right away.”
The news stunned the DI. “Wow! We were at a party there last night. Do you know who the victim is?”
“Robbie Spencer.” Fritz rustled the paperwork.
“Has the crime scene unit gone out?” he asked. The name wasn’t ringing any bells.
“Yes.”
“And Scottie?”
“Yes, Sergeant Cruickshank is on her way.”
“Thanks.” He hung up, glad his partner was already headed out. For just a moment he tilted his head backward, letting the sunlight fall on his face. Then he dipped the paddles into the water, swung the kayak round and doubled his speed to scoot to the wharf. Katherine would demand an explanation for his hasty departure although she knew the drill. Each time he was on standby and had to take off, her abandonment issues resurfaced. He shivered at the imminent showdown.
Gibson commanded the Vancouver Island Integrated Major Crimes Unit, VIIMCU. He had transferred from Ontario for this much-coveted promotion. Hunting the lowest, the most vile, was his passion. Justice for the victims of hideous crimes drove him forward. He petitioned to be the champion of the underdog, of the sufferer and their families. A rising rage gnawed at his psyche, boiled his blood and threatened to unleash his fury against each despot. And behind all of that, there was a personal reason that he rarely spoke of, not even to his wife.
The kayak bumped the quay—thwack—a little too hard. He hopped out of the boat and whipped a rope around a cleat so he could clear out his gear. With expert deftness, he lifted the boat into its cradle and fastened it with the sturdy straps.
“Until next week,” Gibson whispered and tapped the hull. The surface was smooth, reassuring and granted him a modicum of pleasure. He strode up the ramp, past the Seaside Café at the top and crossed the street to his house. Katherine wasn’t about, so he stole a hurried glimpse out the kitchen window. She was still in the greenhouse. Her gardens bedded for the winter were barren, but he could see the green of herbs through the glass. She appeared jaunty in the vivid red top and stylish jeans, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail. The lightness of her movements reflected her inner calm—this was her safe zone.
Gibson headed to the bedroom and changed into his official attire. Not a uniform, always a suit. Today he favoured a worsted wool blue suit with a striped blue and white tie. He liked to set a solid precedent for the officers who worked with him. Coming across as professional and acting professionally was imperative both for morale and their public image. He unfastened a lockbox to retrieve the 40 calibre Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol and snatched his badge off the dresser.
The door banged, and Katherine glanced toward the disturbance. Gibson knew his suit would tip her off about his intentions. He watched her pleasant countenance draw into a pout, the lines racing from her mouth setting into a sulk. She twisted to stand facing the other way.
“Turning aside doesn’t mean I’m not leaving,” Gibson said as he opened the greenhouse door, and the sweet fragrance of basil came tumbling out. He slipped into the heady warmth. “Katherine, you realize I have to go when on call.” He spoke in a soothing, placating tone. She remained quiet.
“It has to be something awful for the dispatcher to contact me.” Gibson paused. This scenario never got easier. “I know today was special. Andrew and Heather will be there. They’ll keep you company.” Andrew Thompson was Katherine’s brother, and Heather Clark was her best friend. Would that persuade her that all would be well? He waited to see which way her mood would swing.
Katherine edged toward the far corner, somewhat aloof. But with the mention of Heather, her expression had relaxed somewhat. A more or less imperceptible smile passed over her lips. Her mouth opened into a heart-shape, then drew into a straight line as she bit her bottom lip. He felt the weight upon his shoulders lift a tiny bit but kept up the chatter, struggling to get intimate, to caress her, to set her mind at rest.
“Don’t worry. I’m not deserting you. Text me. I’ll call as soon as possible,” he pleaded, covering all the bases. Today’s lunch was to mark a significant milestone for his wife—the one-year anniversary of her sister’s death.
There was a slight uplifting of her mouth. Resignation. She wiped tears from her sad brown eyes with the back of her hand.
“Okay.” Her sweetness shone through. Gibson brushed velvet lips across her salty cheek and escaped.
Chapter 3
David’s eyes flickered, but Robbie lying dead on the cold cement floor had burned onto his retinas. Every ropey muscle on his buttock and every bump of his spine were accentuated by the skimpiness of his outfit. His cleated shoes faced upwards with one ankle bent sideways at an awkward angle. David blinked and glanced over to the rack where Robbie’s street bike was locked, ready for the ride home. A streamlined helmet was placed casually over the seat. His mind skipped back to Robbie’s prone figure, his limbs contorted and hands grasping for safety. Blood splotches on his clothes and pooled underneath him shone glossy in the dull light. Bits of dirty blonde hair were glued to the tip of a bat that had rolled against the wall. Pinkish stuff, maybe brain matter forced out of the wound, glistened in the pall of death. The images had found a place to harbour in David’s mind, hard as he might try to shake them. Someone was speaking to him. He nodded, uncertain what they were saying. Bile caught in his throat. Don’t be sick, he thought, and stood panicked on wobbly legs.
The four men huddled together in shock as a dozen vehicles slipped down the boulevard that ran through the campus and crammed into the small space between the buildings. Soon there was hardly room to move. A low rumble settled to a gradual hum as the crime scene officers set up their stations. From an unmarked vehicle that had slid into the commotion mostly unnoticed, a tall black woman emerged. She marched straight to the constables standing by the landing. Her steel-blue eyes held a wariness as she scanned the scene. Shortly after, a large cube van drove in, snaking its course through the packed courtyard toward the parking lot. Four black-clad officers exited the vehicle, each one larger than the last. David watched their movements as they opened the rollup rear door and tossed out its cargo onto the ground. It looked like tents, poles and lots of rope.
The ruckus started up again. Men pounded stakes and strung tape until a substantial fortress enclosed the crime scene. The detective in command, the tall dark lady—someone had called her Scottie—shouted orders and requests to her workforce. Despite all the action, the maintenance crew remained paralyzed, their feet frozen to the earth as if a flash freeze had swept through the yard.
“Jackie. Something horrible has happened.” David had scurried to a long row of poplars at the entrance of the building. When the spring breeze weaved down the open landscape, their leaves w
ould quiver. Now the branches were stripped bare, exposing the furrows on their bark to the harsh storms coming and giving no shelter to him as he stood aloof from the crowd.
“What? What is it? Tell me,” his wife demanded, always fearful of the anger that lived at David’s workplace.
“There’s been an accident. A murder,” he whispered, not wanting to say the word aloud. He heard the intake of her breath over the hum of the connection.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not kidding. Robbie is dead. Someone bashed his skull.”
“Oh my god. How terrible. Why?”
“I don’t know anything, but there are cops everywhere.”
“Should you tell them?” Jackie asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Be careful.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you when I get a chance,” David said and hung up. Most of the crew had arrived and clung together in packs, wondering, guessing and questioning. What happened? Who is it? Who did it? Why? Nobody knew anything for sure. David struggled to remain calm, looking down at his feet, his hands tucked in the pockets of his work pants. He watched the others twitch and shuffle. It wasn’t until the black truck with dark tinted windows pulled into the courtyard, silently and stealthy, that his flesh truly crawled with trepidation. The F150 pickup had no strobes and no sirens. David had a sudden urge to run when the man stepped out of the vehicle.
Gibson’s feet hit the gravel with power. His long limbs were straight but not stiff. He carried his height with easy self-confidence. His gun-metal eyes were not unblinking but steady. And he had a quirky smile that flashed and softened his ruggedness. Almost perfect, except for the crook in his nose. His image was deceiving to most, hiding the danger that lay underneath.
Gibson let his face harden—a warning for everyone to look out. A murder was as serious as it got, and he would bulldoze his way through to get the killer. When he marched onto his stage, he willingly embraced the tension, the fear and the guilt. The characters in this tragic drama would be exposed as he opened their lives for all to see. He would pry into their buried secrets and reveal their predatory behaviour. Without compunction, he would collect every detail, hear every sound, tune in to every voice and amass the data in his memory. He had a shrewd capacity to recall specifics. Something stored deep in his mind would leap to the front of his consciousness at the most unlikely moment like a fluorescent lamp powering on—slowly flickering and then enlightenment. As he worked his way through a case, every detail was important until it wasn’t. Some would be useless information but some would give him clarity. So his routine of scanning the site from the onset was a fundamental part of the process. The goal was to bring the antagonist to his knees.
MURDER ON VANCOUVER ISLAND: Hatred, prejudice, or a heinous crime without motive? Page 1