“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Looks like we gettin’ a lot of gawkers an’ traffic is jamming up. Go sort that out. Help’s on the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
I went back to our car and popped the boot. I took out a wool blanket and brought it back and covered Fletcher’s body.
“Everythin’s set. More cars an’ the ambulance are on the way,” Pete said a few minutes later when he came back. “Why’d he do it, you reckon?”
“Dunno,” I said, lookin’ down at the covered body. “Guilt, maybe. Fear.”
“Fear?”
“Of hangin’. It isn’t a pretty way to go.”
“Hmm. Yeah, I suppose so. Still, it’s too bad. Might’ve given the girl and her mother a feelin’ they got some justice out of a trial.”
“They did...in a way,” I said. “Besides, he saved the costs of a trial an’ puttin’ the girl through it. Now let’s get to work.”
We moved off to help Foyle get the scene under control.
It was eleven-thirty, when we finally got back to the station. Fletcher’s body was taken to the Victoria General Hospital; his car was driven to the parking lot at the Grand Parade, and the curiosity seekers were dispersed.
I told Pete to pack it in and go home. We could do the paperwork tomorrow. I took my own advice and headed for the street, opting to walk and clear my head of the images of a man blowing his brains out.
I arrived at the station the following morning at eight-ten. Pete was already in and sitting at his desk.
“Mornin’,” he said, turning in his chair as I poured a mug of coffee.
“Mornin’,” I replied. “How you feelin’?”
“Okay. Aggie helped set me right.” He was smiling when he said that.
“Hmm. Good. You ready to write this up?”
“Way ahead of ya,” he said, pointing to a sheet of paper in his typewriter. “You gonna call Mrs. Marchand?”
“No. I thought I’d take a drive up an’ tell her in person. I figure she an’ her daughter should hear it straight from me,” I said, sitting down at my desk.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I’d do. What about the warrants? You gonna serve them today?”
“Right after I finish with the Marchands.”
Pete sat back in his chair, locking his fingers behind his head.
“This is a good week. Closed three cases bing, bang, boom. Not bad.”
“We got lucky,” I said.
“Hey...I’ll take lucky.”
“Me to, but let’s not get to smug about it. Next time things might be a lot different.”
“Yeah, I know,” Pete said, sitting up and turning back to his typewriter.
I reached for the envelope with the warrants Lieutenant Morrison sent down yesterday afternoon. Opening the flap, I extracted the documents and scanned them, then folded them up and put them in the inside pocket of my jacket with a smile on my face. I was looking forward to nailing those two and the others. There are days, I thought, as I stood, picking up my hat, when it was good being a cop.
Epilogue
In the following two weeks, Phil Mulroney reported his people, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, operating outside the city successfully raided no less than seven illegal still operations and destroyed them. He also said twelve arrests were made and at least half of them would go to trial. There were bootleggers were still operating in the city with a source of liquor which, at least, was not concocted with dangerous substances.
In the matter of Dartmouth Marine Supplies, Mr. Sinclair and McPherson were officially charged with profiteering and defrauding the government. The more serious charge of involuntary manslaughter was dropped for their co-operation in identifying the companies involved in the scheme. The last I heard their company had closed while a new owner was found. The proceeds from the sale of the company were to be returned to the government as restitution.
As for Stella Marchand and her mother. Stella was sent home three days after Charles Fletcher did himself in. She is doing very well, according to her mother, who keeps me updated, and has returned to being a happy teenager. She, and her girlfriends, no longer go to Fort Needham looking for ‘fun’. They accepted what happened to Fletcher, saying all they wanted to do was to put this behind them and go on.
Life went on as usual for Pete and me and the rest of the force. We kept busy dealing with all the daily headaches we had come to expect from a port city at war. We were fine with that, although I saw the early signs of growing tensions and waited for the next ‘big’ case.
The End
Author Notes
Disclaimer
The place names and references to the convoy operations are drawn the historical records from the period. Any other reference to the names of person alive or dead and the murder at the center of this story at that time are entirely fictious and a product of the Author’s imagination.
Sources
Halifax Regional Archives
Nova Scotia Public Archives
Military Museums at CFB Stadacona
and Royal Artillery Park.
I was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia in 1948. I left home at age 16 and, after a brief stint in the army, I began a career as a merchant seaman (12 years). This took me to many places in the world. Following that, I entered into a professional career as a transportation/logistics specialist. Somewhere in there I took a few years off and ‘thumbed’ my way across North America and Mexico as part of the ‘Hippie’ counterculture movement. I was also active in the civil rights and anti-war movements. I have lived and worked in many countries over the course of my life and have gained a knowledge and appreciation for the differences we share as humans. I like to think that this life experience has enabled me to apply a certain perspective to my characters and stories.
The Evil Men Do Page 16