by J C Paulson
“No.” Shit, thought Adam. She understood someone was dead, apparently, but had completely missed — or already forgotten — the second part of his statement. How bad was her dementia? he wondered. He cast a quick glance at the nurse, who shrugged slightly.
“No, Margaret. It’s not your son. But the person is male.”
“Who is it, then?”
“That is partly why we’re here. We need to know if you recognize the person. Do you think you could look at a photograph of him? It’s not a very nice picture, I must warn you.”
He looked again at the nurse, pleading with his eyes, and she came over to put her arms around Mrs. Robertson.
“I’m right here, Margaret. We will get through this together, okay?”
The older woman nodded. “Okay.”
Adam slowly drew out the print and placed it on the table. “Take your time.”
Margaret leaned forward and peered for several breath-stopping moments at the man before her, grey and blue and closed in death, as Adam and Charlotte silently prayed for recognition.
But no. Margaret pulled away, shaking her head.
“I don’t recognize him. No. I’m sorry.”
A stream of curses flowed through Adam’s brain.
“You’re quite sure, Margaret?” Charlotte asked.
A very definite nod. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“When is the last time you were home, ma’am?”
“Ages ago. I don’t really remember. Angie?” she asked the nurse. “Do you know?”
Angie pursed her lips in thought.
“I don’t know if she’s been to her former home since she came here,” she said. “That was about two years ago. But of course, I wouldn’t know for sure. You may want to ask her children. We don’t necessarily know where they take her, when she goes out on visits.”
“No, of course,” Adam said. “Who takes care of your house, now, Mrs. Robertson? Um, Margaret? Is it rented? Does someone usually live there?” Adam had wondered more than once if the dead man was a tenant.
“I leave all of that up to the kids, Sergeant,” she said. “I think they’ve let it a few times, but I really don’t keep up with all that.”
“Tell me about them, Margaret. Your kids. Do they live here? Do you see them often?”
“My daughter, Elaine, lives in Calgary with her family,” she said, sadness weighing on every word. “I don’t see her all that often, of course. They’re very busy.”
“How often do they come to Saskatoon?”
“I’m not sure. Twice a year, or so.”
“And your son?”
“Alan is a police officer, like you two are. I’m very proud of him.”
Adam cocked his head and looked at Charlotte. Alan Robertson. He didn’t know an officer of that name on the Saskatoon police force. Charlotte shook her head back at Adam.
“He’s not in Saskatoon, then?” Adam prompted.
“No, he serves up north. I just can’t remember the town. But he does come to the city every month or so, I think. It’s always so nice to see him.”
Adam raised his brows at the nurse, who nodded in confirmation. Yes, the son did come to visit every month or so. The monthly regularity would fit with managing a tenant and collecting rent, he thought.
“And would he be able to help us with . . . identification? Or would it be your daughter?” he asked.
“Oh, it would be Alan. He takes more responsibility for the house, since Elaine is so far away. Come to my room. I’ll show you pictures of my family. You can see my grandbabies.”
“What a nice idea, Margaret,” he said. “Let’s do that.”
Perfect, he thought. I don’t have to ask.
Angie snapped back the brake levers on the wheelchair, backed Margaret away from the table, and wheeled her out to the hallway.
“Just follow me, Sergeant, Constable,” she said.
The room was a good distance away, and Adam had trouble slowing his long, impatient stride to match the wheelchair’s progress. Finally, Angie stopped in front of a wide door, and Adam pushed it open, allowing the nurse to take Margaret in first.
“Just over there, Angie,” the older woman said. The nurse stopped the wheelchair in front of the wide window sill, crowded with snapshots in tiny frames. Margaret picked one up and, with a gentle finger, touched the dusty faces before handing it to Adam.
“That’s my Elaine, and her children Jordan and Ashley,” she said. “Her husband isn’t in this one though . . . do you want to see him? He’s very handsome, just like you.”
She chose a wedding photo, from at least twenty years ago, of Elaine and her groom.
“There, now. That’s our Bob.”
Margaret turned back to the window, and reached to her left, selecting a slightly larger photograph of a man and his family.
“And this,” she said, “is my Alan, his wife Gillian, and their children.”
Adam’s jaw, quite literally, dropped. He snapped it shut quickly, and nodded, but not before Charlotte caught his momentary lapse of control. She shot him a questioning look, but he shook his head, once. Later, the gesture said.
“What a lovely family, Margaret,” Adam said, as warmly as he could manage. “And thank you so much for seeing us today. Again, I’m so sorry we had to show you that photograph, and for the — ah, other circumstances.”
“No trouble, young man. No trouble at all. It’s nice to have visitors.”
“And thank you, too, nurse. We’ll see ourselves out.”
Adam and Charlotte left the room, and this time, Adam did stride down the hallway, toward the nearest exit.
“What is going on, Adam?” Charlotte asked, as evenly as possible, watching her sergeant vibrating with some powerful emotion as she hurried to keep up.
“I’d like to wait,” he said sotto voce, “until we are outside. Please.”
“Of course, Adam.”
They made it to Adam’s unmarked car before he exhaled and leaned against the hood with a thump. He crossed his arms, threw his head back and took a breath.
“Cough it up, Adam. What the hell?”
“I recognized Margaret’s son. Alan.”
“Alan Robertson. But he doesn’t work around here, she said.”
“No. He’s in Meadow Lake. The man we assumed would be named Alan Robertson is RCMP Sergeant Al Simpson, for fuck’s sake.”
*****
The moment they returned to the station, Adam and Charlotte made a beeline for the chief’s office. Adam called McIvor en route to warn him that he needed to speak to him immediately.
“Back already? Didn’t we just chat this morning?” McIvor asked. “Did you get your ID from Mrs. Robertson?”
“No. But we have a problem. The lady’s son, name of Alan, takes care of her house. She told us he was a cop, too, and showed us a picture of him. Chief, her son is Sergeant Al Simpson of the Meadow Lake RCMP.”
McIvor blinked at Adam.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Wish I was.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Why does he have a different name? Lay it out for me.”
“I assume she was married twice, but it really doesn’t matter. She has two kids, verified by the nurse, and Al is one of them, whether he shares her last name or not. My first thought is that he rented her house out, to cover its expenses, and either John Doe or the killer was, or is, the tenant. We’re going to have to ask him.”
“Yes, we are.”
“So, what’s the protocol, here, Chief, police force to police force? Can I just barge in and ask him what he knows?”
“I think so, since the John Doe murder is your case.” McIvor paused, and narrowed his eyes. “You’re thinking something else. I can see it. Out with it.”
“What if he’s directly involved in this somehow?”
“Like how?”
“Hell, I don’t know. But it seems like too much of a coincidence. I just talked to him this morning. He claimed not to recogni
ze the victim, and that was an end to it. That was all he said. In retrospect, it seems strange. They haven’t found Elias Crow’s family yet, either. That could be legit, but come on; how long could that take?”
McIvor’s lips thinned into a grim line.
“God damn it. I hope you’re wrong, Adam.”
“I do too. Chief, I think I have to head back out there. Doing this on the phone, when I can’t see him, or even in video conference, isn’t going to work. Plus, there’s the element of respect. I have to see him in person.”
“I agree. How soon can you go?”
“Tomorrow, I hope.”
“Okay. Let’s plan for that. Let me dig into the protocol, see what I have to say to his superior officer.”
“It would be better if he wasn’t warned, Chief.”
“Yeah, I know. Timing is everything, as they say in comedy. Although this really isn’t funny. Let me know when you leave, and I’ll do my best to call in the nick of time.”
“Here’s the other thing,” Adam said. “I’d really rather know who our victim is before I talk to Simpson. Since we’ve had zero luck on that, I’m going to expand the search outside the canvass and law enforcement. How far can I go? Can I, for example, put his face out in the media? Have we ever done that with a murder vic?”
“How much would that suck if you’re a family member?” Charlotte put in.
“I know,” Adam said. “I know. Good point. Okay, let’s hold off. I’ll brainstorm another way before we do that.”
“Where are we at with the autopsy on John Doe?” McIvor asked.
“Not done yet. But I don’t think it’ll tell us much, frankly,” Adam said. “In this case, it’s less important to know how he died, since he was mutilated afterward, like Crow.”
“Right. Okay, Adam. Let me know if you’re taking someone with you. I would strongly advise it. I don’t need you to come back with another fucking knife wound, or worse.”
*****
Adam found Grace standing and stewing in her tiny backyard, a hand curled around a glass of wine and staring over the garden, still populated with a few late tomato plants.
“Hey, Babe,” he greeted her, adding a warm and thorough kiss. “You could sit down, maybe, and enjoy your wine.”
“Grrr,” said Grace, baring her teeth. “I’m too wound up. That had to be one of the most frustrating days not just of my life, but anybody’s life, ever.”
Adam grinned at Grace’s exaggeration. “No progress, then, on Elias.”
“Nope. Damned military and stupid Internet. Have the RCMP found his family yet?” she asked hopefully, brightening a bit.
“No. Grace, I have to tell you a whole lot of shit, but it has to be off the record. All of it.”
Grace nodded. “I’ll get you some wine, first.”
“I’ll get it. Be right back.”
She was still standing when he returned, but finally sank into a lawn chair.
“Let me have it. What’s happening?”
Adam told her about his suspicion about the ammunition; then he told her about Al Simpson.
“I have to go back to Meadow Lake,” he said.
“I’m coming with you.”
“That’d be nice, Grace, but why?”
“I’m going to look for Elias’s family.”
“Okay . . . but why would you have better luck than, say, the RCMP? Or even me?”
“They’re not looking for him hard enough, obviously. And maybe people aren’t telling the police what they know. I, on the other hand, have contacts.”
“We’re going to need two cars, then.”
“Too true. Are you bringing James or Charlotte?”
“James. Okay, that would work. You can have the truck while we’re up there; James can follow us in a police car, and we’ll use that.”
“When are we leaving?”
“Tomorrow. I’m hoping we’ll identify our John Doe first. I’d rather go in knowing, when I confront Al.”
“Let me see the picture of this guy.”
“Are you sure?” Adam had a powerful desire to protect Grace from, well, everything, although obviously that wasn’t working. Still.
“Come on, Adam. Of course, I’m sure. You know I’ve seen worse, in person. Let me see it.”
Adam got up, went inside and returned with the photo he now carried everywhere. Grace took it and looked at the man closely.
“God, he looks awful,” she said. Adam grinned, and she smiled back. “I don’t mean awful as in dead. I mean rough. Reminds me of Tom. I see why you think he lived on the street.”
“But as far as we can tell, he didn’t. At least, not in Saskatoon or Regina or the other major centres. We’ve done, with help from the other police forces, a serious canvass in both big cities, not to mention Moose Jaw, Prince Albert . . . no one recognizes him, or can ID him. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t living rough, but it’s starting to look unlikely.”
“Other cities and towns, too?” Grace asked.
“Everywhere with a police department or an RCMP detachment, which is a lot of everywhere.”
Grace mulled that over.
“Okay, so he looks like crap, but let’s say he’s not homeless. Where else could he have been staying?”
“Well, he could have been staying in that house. He could have been Mrs. Robertson’s tenant. Or, I suppose, Al’s tenant.”
“And he wasn’t recently in prison or in jail, somewhere.”
“No.”
“Well, if he wasn’t in the psychiatric centre . . . “
“No, he wasn’t.”
“There’s one more place you could try.”
“Where, Grace?”
“Saskatchewan Hospital. In North Battleford.”
Adam breathed. “Of course. The mental hospital.”
He leaned over, took away Grace’s glass, lifted her to her feet and enclosed her in his arms.
“You’re not just fucking beautiful,” he said, with a sly smile. “You’re a fucking genius, too.”
Chapter Eighteen
“If it’s okay with you, I think I should go back up north,” Grace told Claire Davidson the next morning. “I’m never going to get to the bottom of this if I don’t find Elias’s family, or at least a friend.”
“No luck online, I take it.”
“Nothing. It’s like Elias didn’t exist, which of course is what he was trying to achieve; but still. And how long is it going to take for me to wrest information from the military? Weeks? Months?”
“Years?” Claire added. “I know. When are you leaving?”
“As soon as I can get organized.”
“Stay in touch, and for God’s sake, don’t find any more bodies.”
“I’ll do my best. Thanks, Claire.”
“Is Adam coming with you?”
Grace hesitated. She couldn’t tell Claire what was going on with the RCMP sergeant, nor what Adam was thinking about the ammunition’s origins. But Grace also hated lying and sucked at it besides.
“He is. He’s as anxious to find out more about Elias as I am, but he also wants to compare notes with the Mounties.”
“This is very good. I won’t worry about you quite so much. Okay. Keep me posted.”
Grace gathered her digital recorder, extra batteries, work computer and several notebooks and headed home to pack for the lake . . . again.
Adam was already loading up the truck when she arrived; James was helping.
“Hi, love. Just need your clothes,” Adam said when she came into the yard. “We’re almost ready to go.”
“Okay. Give me ten. Here — can you put this stuff in the back seat? It’s my work gear.”
Not knowing how long they’d be staying made packing a little tricky. How much food? How many pairs of socks and underwear? Grace decided to be ready for three days, and if it ended up being longer, they’d just have to do some shopping and laundry.
She threw clothes and toiletries into her suitcase, locked the door and
jumped into the truck with Adam. James was already behind the wheel of an SUV, ready to follow them back to Ferguson Lake.
They had discussed where to stay. It made more sense for Adam to get a hotel room in Meadow Lake, but Grace wanted to talk to her fellow cabin owners — those who were still there in late September, and those who more or less lived at the lake. Adam didn’t want Grace to be alone; and if Grace was honest with herself, she didn’t want to be, either.
“We’ll have to reopen and close the cabin again,” Grace had warned him the night before.
“It takes two hours, Grace. No big deal.”
“What about James?” As much as she loved James, Grace wasn’t sure she could get through three days without making love. Having someone else in the cabin might cramp her style.
“He’s already booked a cabin rental.”
“Perfect.”
The trip was uneventful until they reached North Battleford, where they turned down a winding, tree-lined road leading to the stately red-stone hospital. It had housed patients with various mental disabilities since 1914, and while it was beautiful on the outside, it was starting to rot on the inside.
Adam hadn’t sent the administrator a photo; he had simply called to book an appointment. He wanted to see her reaction, in person, to the photograph of John Doe.
Adam and Grace pulled up in the parking lot with James right behind them. They climbed the concrete steps to the double doors, set under a wide and deep overhang, to find the administrator, Kate Deverell, awaiting them.
“Welcome,” she said, a slightly uncertain smile on her lips. “Please, come in. You are Sergeant Davis?
“Yes. Nice to meet you, Ms. Deverell. This is Constable James Weatherall, and Grace Rampling.”
Adam glanced at Grace with a strange expression, and she realized that Adam was in an uncomfortable position. How should he identify her? As his partner or a reporter?
Grace offered her hand, and quickly intervened to reassure the administrator.
“I’m a reporter with the StarPhoenix, working on this story,” she said. “But I’m only here on background, for now. If you are able to identify this man, I won’t report anything without your permission.”
Deverell tilted her blonde head for a moment, then nodded.