by J C Paulson
“Thank you. For now, for last night, for everything.”
“Don’t thank me, Adam. We’re in this together.”
“Together. I still can’t believe it.”
“Believe it, beautiful man.”
Grace scrambled into a robe, hit the kitchen and put the coffee on. Half an hour later, Adam was out the door, hair still wet, late for work.
An hour afterward, Grace was in her car and on her way to the newspaper’s offices, thinking only of Adam and the night.
Switch gears, brain, she pleaded with herself as she parked in the south lot at the StarPhoenix. It was time to dive in, to uncover the life of Elias Crow, and why he met his death at Ferguson Lake.
*****
Grace headed for Claire’s desk after plunking down her bag and turning on her computer. Informal protocol demanded pulling up the arts editor’s chair, if he wasn’t in it, across from the city editor and settling in for a chat.
Claire started right in.
“Are you all right, Grace?”
“I think so. It’s been a wild few days, and Adam was rather badly hurt, but I seem to be coping.”
“How was he hurt?” Claire frowned. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“It happened after I called you.” Grace quickly gave Claire a précis of the Tom Allbright episode.
“Oh, my God.” Claire peered at Grace’s neck and found the poke-wound from the attacker’s knife. “That’s quite the souvenir. I gather Adam’s is worse.”
“Much worse. He can’t really use his left hand for much and has to cover it with a plastic bag to shower. He’s tough, though. So,” Grace said, changing the subject, “I saw the story about the local murder yesterday. You’ve got Lacey on it.”
“Yeah. She’s becoming our surrogate Grace, since you’re always getting yourself involved in these crimes.”
“I’d like to investigate the death of the man killed at the lake, Claire. There’s a big story there. I’m sure of it.”
Grace couldn’t tell Claire that the two murders were connected; she had promised Adam. It was part of their pact, since their jobs crossed over at so many points. What Adam told her in private was off-limits, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t work the angle. She just couldn’t make it public. Yet.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m going to start searching for his army record, see what comes up, if anything. I’ll also look for courts martial from the mid-1990s, especially stemming from peacekeeping efforts in Somalia and Rwanda. I use the term loosely, in the former case.”
“Okay. I’ll have to send you to court if something comes up but carry on for now. And maybe you could help McPhail, if she needs it, on this John Doe.”
“Of course. Thanks, Claire.”
“You’re sure you’re all right.”
“Yes. Thanks. I appreciate that, Claire, but I’m fine.”
Back at her desk, Grace checked her emails and phone messages, and fired up her search engine.
“Okay, Mr. Google. Be good to me,” she instructed.
But searching for courts martial transcripts proved to be no easy thing. Grace, accustomed to requesting and easily accessing documents at the Court of Queen’s Bench, was unfamiliar with the military system and surprised at the dearth of information.
She found aged, almost-unreadable photographed documents dating back to the Second World War years. The Court Martial Appeal Court of Canada site contained, of course, appeals — which might have helped if the case she was seeking was appealed. Searching for Elias Crow produced no results, so if he had been involved in a court martial, he had neither appealed nor appeared as a witness.
For a second, Grace thought she’d struck gold at The Office of the Chief Military Judge, until she read the first sentence on the site: “The Office of the CMJ retains judicial decisions rendered since its creation in September 1997.”
Damn it to hell, she swore under her breath. Where, then, were the trial transcripts for between 1945 and 1997? Including the case she sought, if it existed?
Now what? Grace leaned back, thunked her head against the top of her chair and stared sightlessly at the television. The newsroom TV was perpetually on one news channel or another. At the moment, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation was airing the federal government’s cabinet shuffle. Minister of Justice, Alain Bourgault. Good choice, thought Grace. Minister of Finance, Helen Martin. Was she related to the former prime minister, Grace wondered? Minister of Defence, Richard Phillips. Minister of Canadian Heritage, Eleanor Collins-Booth.
Heritage. Ha, thought Grace.
She spun back to her computer and went to the website of Library and Archives Canada, part of the Heritage department, with a flicker of hope; but her suspicion was quickly confirmed that access to military records for living soldiers, and those who had died in the last twenty years, was restricted. They fell under privacy legislation. So much for that, she thought. Still, she would be able to file a request under their regulations, although it would take forever to get a response.
She gave up her search, for now. This was getting her nowhere. Instead, Grace started a search for Canadian Armed Forces in Somalia.
Apart from the Shidane Arone murder, and the shooting of the thief at Belet Huen, there was nothing else.
Chapter Sixteen
“Why,” Adam asked the assembled police officers at oh-eight hundred, “would someone dig ammunition out of a dead man? Give me some reasons.”
“The obvious thing,” said James, “is that the killer didn’t want it found.”
“If he’s a whacked-out freak, maybe he wanted to keep the bullets,” Lorne suggested. “Keepsake of some kind.”
“Or he likes gore,” Charlotte added. “Just killing the victims wasn’t enough, maybe? He wanted to mess with them, too? But he could have done that without going for the bullets. Still, maybe that gave him a sick thrill.”
“If James is right, why didn’t the killer want the ammo found? How special could these bullets be?” Adam wondered aloud. “Are they silver-tipped or some damn thing? Let’s assume there’s something unique about them. Maybe they’re not common in Canada, or home-made?”
He shook his head to clear it.
“I assume we’ve had no luck on John Doe, since I didn’t get a call last night or this morning.”
“No. Nothing. I’m hoping we’ll hear from another police force today,” James said.
“Me too. Okay, let’s break it up. Keep me posted.”
Adam’s cellphone vibrated as he left the meeting room and headed for his office.
“Grace,” he answered. “How are you? What’s up?”
“I’m very frustrated. I’m having a terrible time finding military records online. But first, how’s your hand feeling?”
“Not too bad. Tell me what you’re up to.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out where Elias served and what might have happened to cause his PTSD. I’ve been looking for courts martial transcripts and service records, but having no luck. But I had a thought. The military apparently holds summary trials for most disciplinary issues; there are hundreds of them every year, right up to disgraceful conduct. But get this. No proceedings are recorded.
“What if someone in the military wanted to keep an event out of the public eye? Let’s say an event didn’t hit the news and no one blew the whistle. They could just hold a summary trial to discipline a soldier. No one would ever know, outside the hearing room.”
“Or they could do nothing, using the same logic.”
“True. Damn. Okay, but what if they were worried that the soldier would do something that would jeopardize the military’s reputation again — I mean, look at the Arone killing — and had to get him out of active service? What do you think?”
“It’s possible. I didn’t know summary trials had no transcripts.”
“Neither did I. I’ve never covered military trials. So, because there’s no paperwork, I wouldn’t be able to find witne
sses. Like Elias.”
“Assuming he was a witness, and not a perpetrator.”
Grace sighed. “Yes, assuming.” She thought for a moment. “Have the RCMP found Elias’s family yet?”
“Not that I know of. They haven’t called me, but then it is their case. I’ll contact Al this morning and let him know about our progress, or lack thereof, on John Doe. I’ll ask him then.”
“I’ve always assumed Elias was from the Meadow Lake area, or at least Northern Saskatchewan. Nothing else makes sense. How else would he have known where to build his shacks? It can’t be too hard to ask the reserves nearby, can it?”
“No, it shouldn’t be. I’ll let you know, officially, if they’ve found the family. That’s what’s holding them back from releasing some of the details, including his name.”
“Thank you, Adam.”
“See you later, love.”
Spurred by Grace’s call, Adam’s next move was to call the Meadow Lake RCMP. Ellard answered.
“Hey, Nathan. It’s Adam Davis. How’s it going today?”
“Not too bad, Sarge. You? How’s the hand?”
“Also not too bad, thanks. Is Al around today? Or should I ask you my questions?”
“He’s in. I’ll find him for you. Give me a sec.”
Adam spent the moment waiting for the RCMP sergeant mulling over what Grace had said about summary trials. Only the armed forces, he thought, would get away with that in this century.
“Hi, Adam. Sorry for the wait. How are you doing? What’s going on?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Just wanted to check in with you about a couple of things. I sent a note up late yesterday about a man who was killed in Saskatoon, along with his picture. We have no ID on him yet, so I wondered if anyone in your detachment recognized him?”
“No. We all took a look and I’m afraid he’s still a John Doe.”
“Damn. I’m positive his death is related to Crow’s.”
Adam launched into a detailed description of the dead man’s body and explained his reasoning. How many killers removed ammunition from bodies? Adam had certainly heard of such a thing, but it was extremely rare. Most killers wouldn’t hang around waiting to get caught.
“True,” said Al, after that comment. “Doesn’t look like anything else is connecting them, though.”
“Can you show his picture to Tom Allbright? What kind of shape is he in?”
“Rotten. When he’s sleeping, he’s rolling around and moaning. When he’s awake, he’s shrieking his head off. I don’t know what kind of sense we’ll get out of him. I’ll try, though. Anything else you need?”
“Yeah, also wondering whether you’ve found Crow’s family yet.”
“Not yet.”
Adam’s brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together. Grace had made a good point: it couldn’t be all that difficult to check with the neighbouring reserves, although there were several of them, if Elias had First Nations status. Were people not admitting to knowing Elias? If not, why?
“Okay, well, keep me posted,” was what he said. “Thanks, Al.”
Adam sat, frustrated, at his computer for several minutes, willing his email to ping with a missive from the Regina Police, or the RCMP from southern detachments, identifying his victim. Come on, come on. I need to know who this guy is, he thought. Then he picked up the phone.
“Adam,” answered the chief of police. “Want to come to my office?”
“Yes, if you have a few minutes.”
“I do. Bring coffee.”
Adam grinned. “Are you sure? Should I make a Starbucks detour?”
“Mighty tempting, Sergeant. But no, I’ll stick to the station dreck, thanks. Black.”
Five minutes later, Adam stood at Chief Dan McIvor’s door clutching the handles of two mugs, filled with very bad coffee, in his right hand and knocking lightly with his left.
“Come on in, Adam,” said the chief cheerfully, turning from his computer and immediately noticing the bandage. “What the fuck happened to your hand?”
“A little altercation with a suspect,” Adam said, and explained, again, what had happened at Ferguson Lake with Tom Allbright.
“Shit,” McIvor said. “How’s Grace? Is she, at least, okay?”
“A small puncture wound in her neck, but she seems fine otherwise. Thanks for asking.”
“Well, at least the, ah, altercation was not for nothing since you caught the guy. Should you be here?”
“Yes. I’m fine, Chief. Well, not great, but functioning.”
“Look after yourself, dammit. I do not need you in the hospital again. Now tell me about your victim.”
“Not much to tell. He’s still John Doe. We’ve done a street canvass with his picture, sent it to police forces across the province and to the hospitals. This afternoon, though, I’m going to interview the elderly lady who owns the house he was found in. I sure hope she knows who he is, but I gather there’s some encroaching dementia there. She may not recognize him.”
“Terrific,” said McIvor, after a sip of his bitter brew.
“Have you been briefed on the man who was killed near Meadow Lake, Chief?”
“I know he’s dead, there was a fire, he was shot, you were there, and it’s the Mounties’ case. I haven’t seen the autopsy.”
“I haven’t either, but I’ve seen both victims. Whoever killed John Doe also killed the guy at the lake — Elias Crow, by name. He was an army vet, possibly served with the so-called peacekeeping tour in Somalia, according to Grace.”
McIvor’s eyebrows shot up. “According to Grace?”
“She knew him.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He had PTSD from serving in the forces. He lived alone in a shack south of the lake and had a fishing hut near the water. Dropped off the Earth after serving, apparently. Grace says the timing lines up with Somalia or Rwanda.”
“Wow. So why do you think it’s the same killer?”
“Both men were shot from behind, and in both cases, the killer removed the ammunition from the wounds. Crow was shot in the head, the other vic in the middle of the back. And they were killed within, say, twenty-four hours of each other, in different locations but just four hours apart by car. It’s the same guy.”
“Holy crap. Why the hell would he do that? It would take some time. You’d think he’d scram after the job was done. And so much for ballistics. Have you ever heard of that before?”
“A couple of times, but not around here.”
“Weird. So, you’re talking to this older lady, the homeowner. What’s up after that?”
“If the homeowner — a Mrs. Robertson — can’t identify John Doe, we’re going to have to get creative. We’ve been working on the assumption, which could be erroneous, that he’s a street person, based on his appearance. No ID, of course. So far, that hasn’t worked. If you have any ideas, I’m listening.”
“Maybe it’s time to send the photo of our victim to the Canadian Armed Forces.”
Adam chewed his lip. It was the obvious next step, and he knew it; but somehow, it didn’t feel right to go there. Not just yet.
“I’d thought of that, but can you give me a few more hours? They may not want to play. If not, we don’t want them to know what we’re up to. Or they may want to play, but all by themselves. And this is my case, Chief.”
It was McIvor’s turn to chew on the problem.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Let me know what happens with this homeowner. But somehow, we have to ID this guy. Very, very soon.”
“And we have to figure out why the killer dug out the ammo. As James said, it’s probably because he didn’t want it found . . . “
Adam stopped talking and stared at his chief.
“Holy hell,” he whispered. He couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him before.
“What, Adam?”
“Full metal jacket. It’s got to be.”
McIvor’s eyes widened. “The bastard’s using military ordnance. Bullet
s that don’t fragment as easily. Bullets that are easier to identify. And he doesn’t want us to know that.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mrs. Margaret Muriel Robertson perched primly in her wheelchair, grey hair curled into a soft halo, a dab of lipstick and a puff of rouge adorning her still-pretty face. A blanket of many colours draped her lap and legs, allowing patent leather shoes to peek out from underneath.
“Not, strictly speaking, that I have to be in this thing,” she said, indicating the chair, and sighed. “But sometimes my feet go all funny. They don’t want me to fall, you know.”
“No, it’s best to be safe,” Adam agreed.
The older woman awaited them in a sunny common room when Adam and Charlotte arrived at the seniors’ home. Adam introduced himself and his colleague, and inquired about her health, as politely as possible while skirting the senility issue. Interviewing a frail or sick person was not his favourite thing; it felt vaguely unfair, adding stress and sometimes misery to a life already etched with pain or confusion.
Adam had asked Charlotte to send the photo of John Doe to the nursing home staff, but none of the nurses or aides recognized him. Angie, the nurse attending Mrs. Robertson, had told Charlotte earlier that the dead man was not Margaret’s son; she had seen the latter, a few times.
Adam asked the nurse if she could stay, in case her charge became agitated or emotional. She nodded, smiling warmly at Adam with her eyes as well as her mouth.
“Mrs. Robertson,” Adam said, finally, ending the pleasantries. “I’m afraid I have something upsetting to tell you.”
“Margaret,” she said. “Call me Margaret, please, Sergeant.”
“Margaret, then. Thank you. I have to tell you this, and I’m very sorry. Do you feel ready?”
“Yes, of course. What it is, Sergeant?”
Adam cleared his throat, giving himself another moment to find the right words. He sighed, then, knowing there were none.
“Margaret, we have found a person dead in your house. The person is male, but we know he is not your son.”
Predictably, she paled.
“Oh no, oh no,” she whispered. “It’s not my son, is it? Or my daughter?”