by J C Paulson
Once in his condo, he pulled out a bottle and poured two ounces of Scotch into a glass, then downed it and poured another. He sat alone in the dark, on his gleaming black leather couch, head in his hands, wondering how people could be so fucking stupid and vindictive. Ashley Dunlop had hurt Sherry Hilliard, but then had the chance to save her life, and didn’t. Jesus Christ.
And what was he doing here, in this plate-glass and chrome condo, which had never felt like home, even after six years? It held no comfort for him. It belonged to someone else, a former self Adam no longer recognized.
He was a farm boy. A kid brought up by loving parents who supported him, dragged him through the hard times and gave him hell when he needed it. How did he turn into a fucked-up, womanizing jerk in a glass house?
Now, he wanted to be a better man. For himself, and for Grace. But his past kept screwing things up. How could he control his temper, when the smallest reminder of the bad time set him off? And the condo was a continual reminder, his own strange prison. How could he move beyond his nightmares, and be with Grace whenever he wanted?
He drained his glass and suddenly threw it at full power into the open kitchen, where it hit a cupboard door, fell and shattered on the granite countertop. It wasn’t enough. He picked up a tall island chair and flung it across the room, where it smashed into pieces against the concrete wall.
He was looking for the next victim when his intercom buzzed. What the hell? It was midnight, Adam noticed, when the noise surprised him out of his fury.
“Yes.”
“Adam, it’s me.”
“Go home, Grace. It’s late.”
“No. Let me in.”
“No.”
“Let me in. I want to see you.”
“I don’t want you to see me right now. Like this.”
“Like what? Adam, what is going on? Let me in this minute, goddamn it. If you don’t I will call the police.”
“I am the police.”
“No. You’re not the only goddamn detective sergeant on the Saskatoon police force. Not to mention all the other officers. You said so yourself. Let me in now. I mean it.”
“You would really do that.”
“Yes. Don’t try me. I heard your voice when you called earlier. Something is wrong. Now. Let. Me. In.”
Adam looked around the condo, at the destruction he had begun to wreak, and wondered what Grace would make of it. Hell. This tantrum was happening while he was awake. That made him fully responsible.
Grace buzzed again. And Adam, feeling his anger drain out of his muscles, pushed the entry button.
She was at his door in less than a minute, banging on it with her fist.
“Adam. Let me in.”
He did. Grace stepped in, kicked the door shut behind her and took him into her arms.
“I’m not leaving this time,” she said. “Don’t even try me.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Early the next morning, Grace awakened and turned to Adam. His eyes were already open.
“How are you feeling, Adam?” she asked, as softly and tenderly as a mother.
“Better. Thanks to you. She got to me, Grace,” Adam said, turning toward her and flinching as he leaned on his shoulder. “Sherry Hilliard didn’t have to die. She could have been in the hospital when her killer arrived.”
“I know, Adam. It’s heartbreaking. Your shoulder hurts, doesn’t it?”
“More than it should. Because it reminds me.” Of being shot.
“Ice it again, before you go to work.”
It had been a crazy night. Grace had grabbed Adam and held him as he shook in her arms, the fury seeping out, shame over his tantrum creeping in, the disgust over Ashley Dunlop’s actions rippling through his body.
“I lost my temper. Grace, I’m so sorry,” said Adam, when he had calmed down enough.
“I’ve thrown things,” she said. “I threw a stainless steel pepper mill weighing three pounds against the back door once. Which made a poor substitute for Mick. And it made quite the hole.”
Adam didn’t laugh, though. A woman throwing a pepper mill was not equivalent to a man in an uncontrollable fury. Grace read his face.
“You would never have touched me, Adam. I know it as sure as I’m alive.”
“Oh, Babe.”
“It’s okay, Adam. We’re okay now. I’m staying with you. It’s going to be fine.”
Adam wasn’t so sure about that.
*****
“James,” said Adam, leaning over his desk later that morning. “What have we learned about Dustin Wheeler?”
“I’ve reached two of his friends. I sure as hell wish we had witnesses other than friends. Both said he was extremely drunk. One said he drove Dustin home, got him inside, and left. It was about two in the morning.”
“And Sherry’s murder was between two-thirty and four a.m., and likely close to three, based on Suzanne’s evidence. He could still have done it. I don’t like the tow truck connection.”
“I know. If his friend is telling the truth, he would have been too drunk to kill someone, drag her into the basement, and cover his tracks. If he was faking, it’s perfect timing.”
“Have you pulled his sheet?”
“Yeah. One charge,” said James, with a strange grin. “Impaired driving, a few years ago.”
“That fits, then. Maybe he’s smartened up and doesn’t drive to parties anymore.”
“Kind of looks like it. Unless his friend is covering for him.”
*****
Adam went alone to the women’s low-security prison. At reception, he was greeted by Elder Eileen Bear, a spectacularly beautiful woman with dramatic, long, thick greying hair peppered with black. Regal, was Adam’s first thought. Her bearing was regal.
“Tanisi, Adam Davis,” said the elder. “Welcome. I am very glad you are here.”
“I am honoured to meet you, and to be here,” said Adam, taking in her wise and smiling eyes as he shook her hand. “Thank you very much for seeing me.”
“Justice Lafond,” said Eileen Bear, “is on her way. She was held up by a bail hearing.”
Adam knew all about that. Ashley Dunlop.
“Shall we take a tour, first?” suggested the Elder. “We can walk and talk together.”
“Yes, thank you.”
She walked him through the commons, including a cafeteria, a crafting area, a gym, and then out into the garden. There was also a large therapy room fully populated with women participating in a group session.
“I can take you through because all of our women are in the session,” explained Bear. “That’s why I asked you to come at ten.”
“How many women do you have, presently?”
“Thirty. We work with them very closely. Therapy comes in many forms, Detective. Talking. Exploring one’s creativity. Participating in life — they are all given tasks, such as laundry, cooking, making beds. But they never do the real grunt work, like cleaning bathrooms or mopping the long hallways. We take care of those jobs with janitorial services. They don’t need it.”
“Tell me about one of them. Tell me what brings her here.”
“I will tell you about ‘Susan.’”
Bear described the woman’s hideous marriage, the beatings, the drinking, and the murder.
“She couldn’t take any more. One night, her husband came home in a drunken fury, as he had so many times before. On this night, he had a weapon. But he was intoxicated, and Susan was not. She stabbed him, and he died. And now, she is here.
“This is the cycle of abuse, Detective. Susan’s husband came from a dysfunctional family, where his father beat him. And his father was beaten and otherwise abused at a residential school. So, Detective. Where does the fault lie? It lies in our past. It lies in our present. It lies in our system. Susan’s husband had deep scars, but did they give him permission to hurt her? In the last moment, when he tried but failed to hurt Susan again, and she ended his life, where did her fault lie?”
“
Why is she even here?” asked Adam. “Was it not self-defence?”
“Not in the eyes of the justice system, Detective. She wielded a knife. He held a statue.”
Adam immediately relived Ashley Dunlop hurling her own bronze artwork at him, just last night. But he could cuff her and drag her away. Susan couldn’t have done that.
“The two weapons were not considered equal,” Elder Bear continued. “She was convicted of manslaughter. I’m not convinced it was a fair finding.”
“Why do they stay with these men?”
“Love. Kids. Money. Nowhere to go. Is it better to be homeless, take your children onto the streets, or be beaten every week? How do you make those decisions?”
A young woman was approaching them. “Elder Bear, Justice Lafond has arrived. She’s in your office.”
“Thank you, Andrea. We’re on our way.”
Adam had testified before Justice Deborah Lafond many times, and they greeted each other with familiarity.
“What can we do for you, Detective?” asked Lafond, who was used to getting down to business.
“I came for a clearer understanding of what women, particularly Indigenous women, are facing, in terms of violence, domestically and otherwise,” said Adam. “Elder Bear has been very helpful. But I have an immediate and difficult problem. I believe we are seeking a serial killer of women, many of them Métis and First Nations. The women are young, petite, dark, and either employed or taking education. We haven’t found any victims of this killer who are living on the street.
“I don’t think the killer is Indigenous, for several reasons; among them, that most serial killers are white men. But why is he doing this? Who am I looking for? Can you help me?”
Adam felt he had stripped the women’s faces bare with his words, so horrified were their expressions. He could hear them thinking, oh, my God.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I don’t pretend to know how upsetting this is for you; it must be terrible. But I need your help. I have to catch this man.”
Adam laid it out for them, as gently as he could.
“Obviously, he’s a psychopath, or a very, very disturbed human being in some other way. But why is he choosing to kill Indigenous and other women, all of whom look much the same, on a serial basis?”
“You know, Detective, about the Highway of Tears in British Columbia,” started Eileen Bear. Adam nodded. Right. Most of the women who had disappeared along the infamous highway were Indigenous, but not all. The other women were marginalized, poor, isolated, addicted, abused.
“You know Indigenous women are more vulnerable, in countless ways, than most people in society. I’m sure you also realize when an Indigenous woman goes missing, it sometimes takes longer for it to be noticed; and much more often, to be taken seriously. Many police forces — including your own, sir — will think she simply ran away. Or she will eventually show up on her reserve. Or she’s a street worker, or a drug addict; she will be hard to find, so why bother?
“This may be at work with your case. How long did it take for the disappearance of Alexis Ironstand to become a serious case file?” she asked.
Adam didn’t know the answer, since neither Ironstand nor Martin had been his cases; but he was damned well going to find out from Terry Pearson. That fucker.
“And then your killer leaves Sherry Hilliard in her basement, thinking no one would care to find her for a few days, and he would be long gone, along with much of the evidence. So let’s say it’s easier to kill Indigenous women, and not be caught.”
“I don’t have to tell you, Detective,” added the judge, “the colder the case gets, the less likely it will ever be solved. Killers know that too. They also get cockier; if you didn’t catch them the first time, the second time, the third time, why would you catch them the fourth or fifth? Then we have more dead women. As to his motive, Detective, I can’t imagine.”
“How many serial killers have there been in or around Saskatoon, Your Honour?” Adam asked. “Have any appeared before you?”
“There was one a few years ago,” she said. “He was always on the move; he had killed women in three provinces, but we ultimately caught him here. And there was your very own bishop murderer, although he was not a serial killer, by definition, even though he killed three people. He kept killing to cover his secrets. There was also David Threinen, in the mid-1970s, who killed four children.
“Serial killers like to change locations, usually, Adam,” she added. “Although not necessarily by large distances, as the Threinen case showed.”
Adam knew that, but hearing it from Justice Lafond turned a light on in his brain. Alexis Ironstand was not in, or near, the South Saskatchewan River. She was somewhere else. He was sure.
“What about Emily Martin and Deborah Clairmont? They look very similar to the Indigenous women, but one is English and the other French by descent.”
“Men often kill to type, Adam,” said Lafond. “You have to look for why the other women are marginalized, or isolated somehow, or perhaps living in poverty. It has to be fairly easy for him to find them, and get to them; maybe he culls them from their groups. Is he a misogynist? A racist? An opportunist? Or all three?”
“Any thoughts on why there’s a connection to water, or storms?” Adam asked.
“He could connect water with something terrible in his past,” said Justice Lafond. “Perhaps he almost drowned? Or someone he loved drowned? Or, could it be some warped cleansing ritual? For example, if he is washed by water during the crimes, or if the victim is, has he been somehow absolved? Or, has she?”
The first motivation had occurred to Adam, too, especially after talking to Grace about the children in the domestic case she had covered. But not the second.
It was his turn to look like he had been blanched by disgust and horror. He could not imagine this man being absolved, nor his warped arrogance over absolving others.
Eileen Bear reached out to Adam, her eyes deep wells of sadness, and took his hand.
“This is our River of Tears, Detective.”
*****
Before Adam left the women’s prison, Eileen Bear took sweetgrass down from a high shelf in her office, lit it, and brought it over to him. She showed Adam how to cup the smoke in his hands, and waft it over his face and shoulders.
She murmured in Cree as the small smudging ceremony took place, and told Adam afterward what she had said.
“You have a sadness within, that you carry everywhere. But you also have found a great passion, at great emotional risk. You must carry those together. They will help you understand.
“I have blessed you. I have asked the Creator to make you strong for us, and for our sisters. We do not have enough of our own warriors in your world. Not yet.”
The Elder paused.
“Detective Davis. I know your police force has made some strides in the last few years. But there is much more to do. You need Indigenous cops, and you need Indigenous women cops. There must be greater sympathy and understanding. Your society exists on our lands, but we are ignored upon them.
“Your presence here tells me you are doing your best, and I appreciate it. But more must be done. I’m counting on you.”
Aside from his experiences with Grace, Adam had never been so moved in his life. Nor had he felt the weight of responsibility so heavily. He felt his spirit shudder within him as he looked into the Elder’s eyes, heard her words. What had Grace called Eileen Bear? A pragmatic mystic. A perfect description.
He bowed his head to the Elder. “I will move heaven and earth and water to stop this man.”
*****
Immediately, he moved on his vow.
“Chief, it’s Adam. Do you have a moment?”
“Sergeant. How are you doing? I heard about your shoulder. That woman sounds like a piece of work.”
“I’m doing okay, thanks. Chief, I’m wondering how hard it would be to get a boat out to Pike Lake and Blackstrap.”
“What are you searching fo
r?”
“Anything that looks like a grave. It will be near the shore.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Do you know how long those shorelines are?”
Both Pike Lake and Blackstrap Lake were very long, narrow bodies of water, which posed some problems; but Adam still thought it was worth a shot.
“I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out. I talked to McDougall about this, and he talked to a forensic anthropologist. I know what we’re looking for. I have a strong feeling our other victim, the one still missing, is at either of those lakes.”
“Or at any slough or pond in southern Saskatchewan.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. I think this guy takes the women out somewhere. Makes nice, does dinner or drinks or something. He’s not going to end up on a farm or in a ditch. He acts the Lothario. He pretends to himself he’s looking for someone special, but of course she never measures up. No one could. He becomes furious. He intentionally creates anger within himself.”
“What about the first victim? He didn’t take her out somewhere.”
“Practice. As he goes along, things change. He tried the first attack in a park, but screwed up because he was in too public a place. Someone came along and he didn’t get it done. Now he meets these women first, controls the situation. He thinks about the murder scene, and how to get rid of the bodies. He doesn’t pick them up on the street.”
Chief McIvor heaved a sigh.
“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” he said. “Okay. Prep the guys and get them out to whichever lakes you want. You have four hours of boat time. I’ll clear it with Pearson so he doesn’t freak on you if he finds out you asked me first.”
“Thanks, Chief. I know it sounds ridiculous. But they can avoid all the heavy traffic areas; she won’t be near a cabin, or a store, or a boat launch. We have to try. We might get lucky.”
“I guess that narrows it down.” He sounded unconvinced. “A bit. Good luck with this, Adam.”