Fire Lake

by J C Paulson

  “I’ll be fine. What would you like for dinner?”

  “Pork tenderloin?”

  “I can do that. Please take care of that hand.”

  “I will, Babe.” He kissed her, touched her face, missed her already and jumped out of the truck. “See you at seven, I hope.”

  Once in the station, Adam took the stairs two at a time and was almost at his office when Detective Constable James Weatherall stepped out to stop his sergeant.

  “Yo, Adam,” he said. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to have the day off . . . hey, what the hell happened to your hand?”

  “Long story. I took a gun to a knife fight but didn’t get the chance to use it.”

  “So you used your hand instead.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sarge, I’m sorry to switch gears, but your timing is impeccable.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We have a dead man. He was found an hour ago.”

  “I can’t actually ever leave town,” Adam said, “especially with Grace. All hell breaks loose. What’s going on? Come into my office. I have to print something off from my email.”

  “A man, maybe thirties or early forties, was found dead on an acreage by a neighbour,” James told him, as they strode together down the hall. “Turns out it’s in our jurisdiction, not the Mounties’, since the municipality’s police don’t do homicides. He was shot.”

  “Shot where? Could it be a suicide?”

  “Nope. In the back, chest level.”

  By now Adam was in his chair and opening his email as they spoke, with James standing across from him.

  “Are you going to sit down?” Adam asked.

  “No. You have to stand up. We have to get out there.”

  “Why? Who’s there?”

  “Lorne and Joan,” James said, referring to enormous Constable Lorne Fisher and Sergeant Joan Karpinski, of a more average size.

  “Crime scene?”

  “Either there or almost. I haven’t seen the body, but Adam, what Joan told me over the phone is pretty weird. I think we have to get out there right away.”

  Adam’s eyebrows went up.

  “Okay. You can drive. I have to call Jack McDougall.”

  The two officers strode out of the office, down the back stairs and into the parking lot where they jumped into an unmarked car. James turned the key as Adam pulled his cellphone out of a pocket and dialled.

  “Jack McDougall, please,” he said when a receptionist answered the pathologist’s direct line. “It’s Detective Sergeant Davis.”

  “One moment, sir. I’m afraid he’s in the middle of an autopsy, so I’ll ask him if I can set you up on speaker phone. Please hold on.”

  The line switched to terrible elevator music for a minute or two, then crackled back into live voice mode.

  “Adam,” Jack said. “I have your man on the table.”

  Adam punched the wrong fist in the air, then flinched. That hurt, but the more important thing was that Jack was on the job.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s very dead, Adam, for fuck’s sake. What do you want to know? I’m not finished yet.”

  “I want to know about ballistics. Can you tell anything from that mess in his head?”

  “Mess is right. No, not much. He was certainly shot, but with what? Your killer did an excellent job of smashing the skull, macerating the brain and extracting the bullet. Nice work, if you’re an asshole.”

  “Great.” Adam sighed. “What can you tell me?”

  “Probably a medium-calibre pistol, close range. No exit wounds, as you said, so one bullet to the brain, which he felt motivated to remove. In other news, your corpse did inhale some smoke but not enough to kill him. You know that, though. And some deep cuts and bruises.”

  “Consistent with throwing himself out a window? Or inflicted?”

  “Consistent, although I could go both ways. But there are shards of glass in his arms.”

  “Thanks, Jack. I’ll be in touch. Can you send me a copy of the autopsy report when you send it to the RCMP?”

  “A mere flick of the send button. Will do, Adam.”

  “As always, Jack, you’re my hero.”

  “In writing, please.” And Jack’s assistant hung up.

  “What the hell happened up at the lake?” James asked immediately, having heard the entire conversation.

  “Like I said, long story.”

  “We have time.”

  “How far out is our dead guy?”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  Adam gave James a quick rundown on Elias Crow’s death, the strange little burning shack and Tom Allbright’s attack on Grace. He was rewarded by a “holy crap” expression on his constable’s face.

  “You really shouldn’t go away,” James said.

  “Right.”

  The city now behind them, James drove down a two-lane highway and turned right into a pastoral area dotted with acreages, both posh and aging. Some were five acres, some forty; the homes were generally some distance from the others. A few kilometres further, James slowed to peer at the numbers painted or stuck on mailboxes.

  “Here we go,” he said, slipping the vehicle down a rutted path that barely resembled a road. It let out into a wide and weedy yard, already populated with police vehicles. Standing beyond was a small two-storey home in dire need of paint, and several outbuildings.

  “He’s in the house,” James said, as they stepped out of the car, boots crunching on the gravelled drive.

  Adam opened the trunk and both men pulled on white coveralls, gloves and masks before heading for the house. Joan apparently had seen them approach and met them at the door.

  “Hey Sarge, James. He’s in the living area. This way.”

  The sunny room, crammed with old, bulky furniture, crawled with cops and crime scene investigators constantly excusing themselves as they tripped over each other. They drew aside as Adam walked in, nodded to the crew, and knelt by the body splayed in the middle of the floor.

  “Jesus Christ,” he swore, with a mighty exhale.

  The man’s back had been opened in four strips of skin, neatly folded away from the primary wound — a huge, gory opening through which Adam could see organs and broken ribs.

  “James said he was shot. Got ballistics?” he asked, looking up at one of the crime scene people, name of Taylor. He could hope, but he knew the answer.

  “No, sir,” said Taylor. “Looks like the bullet’s been removed.”

  “But you know he’s been shot.”

  “Yes, sir. See here?” He pointed to the middle of the wound. “That damage to the rib is from a bullet, not a knife.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “About a day, I’d say. Maybe not quite. He’s still in rigor mortis.”

  Adam got to his feet. “Thanks, Taylor.”

  He gestured to Joan, James and Lorne and led the way into the kitchen.

  “Any ID?”

  “No. He looks like he might have been living on the streets, judging by his clothes, but hard to say. Killer could’ve taken it, too,” Lorne said.

  “Okay. So right now, there’s a dead man on Jack McDougall’s table with a big hole in the back of his head. No exit wound. No ammunition inside. Someone dug it out.”

  “Like this corpse. What the hell, Adam?” James asked.

  “We have a killer with too much time on his hands. Someone who doesn’t want us to find his bullets. That someone was in Meadow Lake Provincial Park thirty-six hours ago, and here in the last twenty-four.”

  “Got to be the same guy,” Lorne said.

  “Got to be. Job one is to get an ID on this victim. Kind of hard to make connections without knowing who he is. We do know the identity of the victim from Ferguson Lake. I have a photo of him, and of the guy who attacked Grace . . . “

  “Someone attacked Grace, too?” Joan interrupted Adam. “What happened up there?”

  Adam realized he had
told James about Grace, Tom and Elias, but not the others.

  “I’ll get you up to speed at the station, but the attacker, name of Tom Allbright, is in RCMP custody in Meadow Lake on charges of assault and suspicion of murder. I don’t think he’s the killer, but he might be. As I was saying, I have his photo waiting in my email. We’ll print it out and hit the shelters. Allbright’s a junkie, no fixed address. Do we know who owns this property? Could it be the victim?”

  “No. It’s a Mrs. Margaret Robertson, Sarge.”

  “Who is she? Does she live here? Was anyone home when this happened? Is her body in the house somewhere, too?”

  “No, no one else in the house. Don’t know yet where she lives. Got the name from Charlotte only about fifteen minutes ago,” Lorne said.

  “Get as clean a shot of the victim’s face as you can, then meet me at the station. I’ll have the photos printed out for canvass.

  “And tomorrow, we’re going to have a meeting, oh-eight-hundred. We need to talk about what makes these bullets so damn special.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Adam handed every available Saskatoon police officer a photo of Tom Allbright’s gaunt, grey-yellow face, no longer topped by a filthy Blue Jays ball cap. He also gave them a horrifying picture of their new victim, temporarily dubbed John Doe, who was very obviously very dead. Blue lips. White face. Still and grim.

  A hastily-called meeting in the incident room produced the attendance of fifteen cops, ready to hit the streets, bars and shelters on the west side.

  “We’ll start there,” Adam told them. “By end of day, we need to cover the Salvation Army, the Friendship Inn, the Coronation and Ellis bars, the Twentieth Street liquor store, the bandshell in Kiwanis Park and the stroll. You never know what the sex trade workers might come up with; they see more than we’ll ever know. And get your vests if you’re not wearing.

  “Where is this killer? If we seriously think he snagged our victim from the street, is he back out there? If he’s connected at all to the stroll or the shelters, or looking for another vic, he’ll see us coming, so stay safe. Anything else?”

  There wasn’t. Adam didn’t have to point out the murderer was packing.

  “Okay. Let’s go. You get anything, anything at all, call me immediately. James, you’re with me.”

  Once Adam had assigned locations and the officers had streamed out, he asked James and Charlotte Warkentin to hold up.

  “Have we found Mrs. Robertson yet?”

  “Not yet, Sarge,” Charlotte said. “We have at least five Margaret Robertsons. Some of the M. Robertsons might make it more. We’re working on it.”

  “Okay. Char, can you stay here and keep looking for her? It’s crucial.”

  Adam knew Charlotte Warkentin, with her remarkable head for detail and dogged, determined methods of investigation, would find the owner of the house before anyone else would.

  “Yes, of course, Adam,” she said. “Good luck out there.”

  “Thanks, Char. Let’s get out there, James.”

  “Where do you want to start, Adam?”

  “The crisis centre on Twentieth. Let’s see if Tom Allbright or our new victim showed their faces there, or if any of the patients recognize them from the street.”

  Adam knew the homeless shelter well. He was a perpetual visitor to the dingy little house, tucked between pawn shops and down-at-heel businesses. It was a haven, where street people could drop in any time — if they weren’t too high — to find a few hours of peace and solace from Father Adrian Cey. Unfunded by any government, Harbour House scraped by on donations; but Father Cey was undaunted. A former addict himself, despite the clerical collar, he was determined to help Saskatoon’s lost souls get off drugs or, at the very least, keep them from freezing or starving to death. Adam kept it quiet, but he signed an annual cheque to the house. In his opinion, Father Cey was truly a gift from God to people Adam couldn’t personally help otherwise.

  Adam rang the doorbell — the premises were locked from the inside — and waited. Seconds later, Cey himself opened the door.

  “Hello, Father,” Adam greeted him. “How are things going? Do you have a couple of minutes?”

  “For you, Sergeant, I have all the time in the world. Come in, come in. Hello, Constable.”

  The tall, slightly stooped, but fit-looking priest led them to a tiny former bedroom that served as his office and counselling area and gestured for the officers to take a seat.

  “What can I do for you? Has someone been involved in a crime?”

  “Yes, but not just the way you mean,” Adam said. “I’m sorry, Father, but I have to ask you to look at a couple of unsettling photos. One of these men, as you will see, is dead. The other is in jail, in Meadow Lake.”

  “Oh, no. What can you tell me?”

  “The man in jail is a meth head, we’re pretty sure. He attacked my partner, Grace, while we were up north this weekend, and he’s also a suspect in a murder.”

  “I think I saw a story on that in the StarPhoenix this morning — a man who was killed on an island?”

  “Yes. That’s the one. Here’s the suspect’s photo.”

  Adam presented the picture of Tom Allbright, and waited, but not for long. Father Cey nodded.

  “Yes, I’ve seen him around. He has never come to seek help here, but I have certainly seen him.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not much. A few members of my flock have run into him on the street with unpleasant results. I’ve asked him to come in, once or twice, and he refused.”

  “How unpleasant?”

  “A few scrapes, bruises, cuts from altercations. The poor man has little control left. He’s very agitated, very angry.”

  “His name is Tom Allbright. Do you know if he has a street name?”

  Father Cey shook his head. “Can you leave me the photo? I can ask around.”

  “I’d appreciate that. This is the second photo, of a recent victim. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve seen my share of unpleasantness, Sergeant,” said the father, only a slight admonishment in his voice.

  There was that word, again — unpleasant. Adam smiled. The father was a master of understatement.

  “Of course. I’m sorry. Here he is.”

  Father Cey looked closely at the picture, and slowly shook his head.

  “I don’t think I know him. Is he — was he — on our streets?”

  “We don’t know. He may or may not be a street person; we have no idea as to his identity. His clothing and general appearance suggest he wasn’t in good shape, so we’re starting with that premise.”

  “Sadly, many of them look so much the same. If I’d just seen him on the street, I likely wouldn’t recognize him.”

  “May I leave this photo with you, as well?” Adam asked, rather tentatively. Showing pictures of dead people to addicts might not be the best possible thing for the father to do.

  “Of course. I can see you’re worried, but these people are, in some ways — many ways — tougher than you think.”

  “Right. As always, Father. Thank you very much, and please stay in touch, even if you have no news. I’d like to know, either way.”

  “I’ll do that, Sergeant.”

  The father ushered them to the door, and Adam and James were back on the street.

  “A bit early for the stroll,” James said.

  “Yeah. Let’s hit the Barry.”

  The infamous Barry Hotel with its reeking bar stood shabby, scarred and shifting on a corner not far from Harbour House. Rumours swirled that a local businessman planned to buy and demolish the building, and Adam couldn’t help but hope they were true. For now, though, men and women down on their luck, but with a few panhandled or prostituted coins to spend, still drank their afternoons away into stuporous, staggering states, or broke into boisterous brawls.

  Adam had been shot in a bar similar to the Barry. To this day, he had to force himself to enter the premises, drawing h
imself up to his full height and deliberately pulling the mantle of authority about him. The vest he wore would not have saved him from the arterial wound to his leg six years ago, but it still gave him a measure of comfort. Adam sucked in a lungful of air, knowing he wouldn’t take another pristine breath for some time, and strode through the door, wondering how many patrons would be inside. It was Monday, not Friday; and mid-afternoon, not midnight, but one never knew.

  The bartender recognized and nodded at the two officers as they walked in, but his expression suggested he was not particularly pleased to see them. Adam approached him to put him at ease.

  “Hi, Burt,” said Adam. “How’s it going today?”

  “Not too bad, not too bad, Sarge. You?”

  “I’ve been better. I’ve got a dead guy, Burt, and I need to find out who he is. I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Got a picture?”

  “Right here. Brace yourself.”

  “Yep. No problem.”

  Adam produced the photo, and Burt leaned over it, peering through the dust and dim light. He shook his head.

  “Nope. Dunno him.”

  “How about this guy?” Adam brought out the likeness of Tom Allbright.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him a few times. Not a regular, but he’s been in. Had to kick him out a couple times. Likes to pick fights.”

  “Know his name? Street name?

  “N-no . . . can’t recall a name.”

  “Okay if we ask around?”

  “Help yourself.”

  James and Adam split the copies of the photos and prepared to canvass the patrons.

  “How drunk do you have to be before you don’t recognize someone?” James said, sotto voce, to Adam.

  “I don’t know. I was just asking myself the same question.”

  Adam, coughing a little in the thick atmosphere, approached a table of three men to the left, and James chose a nearby group of women to the right. Saskatoon had banned smoking indoors three years earlier, but somehow the denizens of the bar managed to sneak in a few butts by hanging in the bathrooms, back lobby and God knew where else. The place reeked from years of chain smoking, spilled beer, sweaty bodies, vomit and greasy food.