RED PAINT
Valerie Van Clieaf
Porteous Publishing
PP
Copyright
Red Paint © 2020 Valerie Van Clieaf
Published by Porteous Publishing
Porteous Publishing is a registered trademark.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data is available upon request.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cities and locations, where they do exist, have been used fictitiously.
Red Paint / Valerie Van Clieaf
eBook ISBN 978-0-9952180-4-8
Cover Design © Porteous Publishing. All rights reserved.
Image credits: Ship, Shawn Henry, unsplash
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Dedication
In Memory of James Daniel McIntyre
Chapter 1
Alex Desocarras had been back a week from a much-needed holiday in Maui, and already his workload had ensured that memories of that sunlit idyll were fading fast. Weary, he leaned back in his chair and at that precise moment, the late afternoon sun slid below the underbelly of a mass of cumulus cloud and nearly blinded him. He got up and adjusted the shade.
He’d spent his morning in court, testifying in a spousal abuse case—an officer at his detachment charged with assault. He’d answered the call with his partner, Constable Eugene Munroe. It took the two of them to pull the man off his terrified wife. She spent a week in the hospital. The presiding judge gave her husband two weeks and suggested couples counseling. Alex remembered the wife’s face now, frozen in defeat. He knew she wanted to leave her husband. Munroe was away on holiday with his girlfriend, Annie, and wouldn’t be back till next week. He wouldn’t be happy about the light sentence. Not necessarily so with a few officers at the detachment who thought Eugene and Alex should have buried this case that put one of their own on trial. His afternoon hadn’t been much better, running down leads on a young boy who’d run away from home a few weeks back. One neighbour had his attention. There was something off about the guy.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft ding; an email from Detective Jeri Fernice of the Vancouver Police. They’d worked a big case together a few months back, exposing a trafficking ring that targeted women and children. They were forced undercover when two police officers were implicated in the ring: one of them, Ford MacLeish, a high-ranking RCMP inspector with the Prince George RCMP; the other, Phineas Rhodes, a sergeant with the VPD. Others involved were members of BC’s elite, one of them a sitting judge; everyone in it up to their necks. Alex had been around long enough to know that most of them would find some wiggle room. But the police caught a break when Ange Batlan, a long-time member of the ring, made a deal with the Crown in exchange for testifying against the others. Alex clicked on Jeri’s email:
Just got word that Batlan was murdered. We didn’t get any details on the two officers guarding him. Have you heard anything?
My money’s on Gregori Kirigin. Are you in the office? I’m in a meeting till six.
“Dammit.” Just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse. And what about the officers guarding him? Thanks to Batlan, MacLeish and Rhodes—both major players in the ring—were still in custody. Together, or separately, they were responsible for the deaths of four people that they knew of, three women and a twelve-year-old girl. Never mind the unspeakable misery they’d inflicted on many others; how many others was anyone’s guess. Memory of one girl, Georgina, would haunt him for the rest of his days. She’d tried to escape from the farmhouse where she was being held prisoner with six other children. The desperate kid had jumped from a second-floor window—an attempted escape gone horribly wrong. Alex’s gut told him that there were other bodies. But would they find them?
The night he and Fernice led the raid on Batlan’s place, one man got away. But in his haste to cross the border to the US, he was forced to leave his overnight bag at the Clarendon, a private club in downtown Vancouver. A dry-cleaning receipt attached to a sweater led them to a business in Bethesda, Maryland. It was a Sunday, and it took the police a few hours to run down the owner. He’d given them the cell number for a guy named Gregori Kirigin, and his address, a high-end estate on the outskirts of the city. The house was leased to Eric Severall.
By the time the local police arrived at the Bethesda address, Severall was gone, along with any incriminating evidence. Neither Kirigin nor Severall showed up on any database, not so much as a parking ticket. Alex’s thoughts were interrupted by two soft dings in rapid succession.
He’d been cc’d in a short email from Sergeant Whittaker. He worked out of the North Vancouver RCMP detachment office and was part of the team that arrested the gang members.
Two officers went to Batlan’s home to investigate when his protection team didn’t report as scheduled. The officers protecting Batlan were dead.
They found Batlan in the woods behind his house. He was tied to a tree, his throat slashed. Looks like a vendetta killing.
Alex’s phone buzzed. It was Inspector James Brandeis, head of RCMP E Division for BC and the Yukon. Brandeis was coordinating the case file against the paedophile ring.
“Alex. James here. You got the email?”
“Just finished reading it.”
“Batlan was our key witness and someone has silenced him. Two officers are dead. All Crown witnesses have 24-hour protection going forward. Vancouver PD has been notified and I am liaising with them. Surrey Pretrial has been alerted. MacLeish and Rhodes could be at risk. Both you and your wife could be at risk.”
“I’ll take care of that soon as I’m off the phone.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch when I have more information.” Brandeis hung up.
Alex called Gwen.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hi there. What’s up?”
“Bad news. I just got word that Ange Batlan has been murdered. Both officers guarding him were also killed.”
“Oh no, Alex!”
“I want you to take the usual precautions.”
“Of course. Batlan. That’s bad, isn’t it? Do you think his murder will hurt the court case?”
“It’s anybody’s guess. I think the Crown has enough to proceed, even without his testimony, but Batlan’s the only one that’s confessed to anything.”
“What about the rest of the witnesses? Alex, tell me someone is watching Morgan!” When Morgan O’Meara, an Indigenous filmmaker, got too close to the ring for com
fort, MacLeish and Rhodes had ordered her abduction and murder. Alex and Gwen, fishing early one morning on Gustafsen Lake, about forty kilometers from 100 Mile House, had spotted her trying to escape her attacker and saved her life. Alex didn’t like to dwell on what complete serendipity that was.
“Don’t worry, honey. The VPD has Morgan covered. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling.”
“Thanks for letting me know. Think you’ll make it home for dinner? I’m going to pick up lasagna from Giorgio’s.” It was one of his favourites and they always had a big salad with it.
“That’s a great idea, but have it delivered instead and if you’re hungry, go ahead without me.”
“How long do you think you’ll be?”
“A few hours at most. I’ll heat it up when I get home.”
“Okay, sweetie. See you later.”
Alex pulled up the number he had for Morgan O’Meara. His call went to voicemail. Frustrated, Alex looked at his watch: 5:20 pm. O’Meara lived in Vancouver, which meant the VPD would be tasked with protecting her. He tried the number he had for her partner, Lucas Arenas. He picked up.
“Hi Lucas. It’s Alex Desocarras. Is Morgan with you?”
“No. She’s at a meeting with her production manager.” Alex knew Morgan had secured funding for a feature film a few months ago; he assumed the meeting had something to do with that.
“Where’s the meeting?”
“1680 Wall Street. The VPD just called wanting to know where Morgan was. The officer told me Batlan’s dead and all witnesses are getting around the clock protection. I gave them the address. She just messaged me that a patrol car is on-site.”
“Good. What about you? Are you alone?”
“I’m just leaving to join her.”
“Okay. Be careful, but I don’t need to tell you that.”
“Understood, Alex. I appreciate your concern.”
“You’re not in my bailiwick, but it doesn’t hurt to check.”
“Thanks, Alex. Later then,” said Lucas, hanging up.
Alex still had a few minutes before Jeri Fernice would be out of her meeting, and his thoughts returned to the ring. It was one of the bigger cases of Alex’ career, finding the link that blew the case wide open. It wasn’t often that the police had that a win against human trafficking, but there was little joy for Alex when it became clear that the BC portion of the ring was part of a much larger operation. About which, they still knew next to nothing.
His thoughts turned—as they so often did—to another of the ring’s victims, a young man named Seth Boyce, an Indigenous boy who’d been abducted by MacLeish eight years ago from his home in Prince George. It had been almost three months since his rescue from a mountainside in North Vancouver, hours after he wandered from Ange Batlan’s house. Lions Gate Hospital staff had kept him in an induced coma for two months, his mom by his side, all day, every day. It had only been a few weeks since they’d brought him out of the coma. He still wasn’t talking, and the prognosis for his full recovery wasn’t good.
Alex put a call through to the hospital and made sure there was an officer with Seth Boyce. He knew he was overreaching, but he didn’t care. MacLeish had befriended the boy as an elder at a church in Prince George, then victimized him, abducted him and together with other ring members, held him captive for years. The reality of this kind of behaviour sickened Alex. He didn’t have any answers; didn’t know what it would take for society to make the world a safer place for kids like Seth. But he knew the answer didn’t lie in preaching the love of a god that refused his love to some and not others; stood in judgment of some and not others; or in this particular case, hid the likes of Ford MacLeish under its saintly roof.
Seth was Secwépemc, a member of Alex’s nation, and the police had failed him utterly. Alex lived with that daily, a deep ache.
Alex and his older brother Manny grew up on Eagle Creek Reserve, under the umbrella of the Secwépemc Nation, north of Kamloops, BC. His grandmother, Gracie, left Eagle Creek when she fell in love with Rosario Desocarras, a miner. They got married and she moved to Kamloops to live with him. His dad, Ron, their first child, was born there. When he was still a boy, Rosie—as everyone called his grandfather—was killed when a mining shaft collapsed. Gracie moved back to her parents’ house at Eagle Creek.
While his dad was growing up, there had been a resurgence in the old ways and beliefs, including a renewed interest in their language, Secwepemctsín. He proved to be an apt pupil. By the time he was an adult, he was also a skilled dancer and drummer. Manny, his older brother, had followed in their dad’s footsteps. As for Alex, any kind of dancing was hopeless, and Gwen had given up on him long ago, but he did love to sing.
Manny left home when he finished high school and took a job at a gold mine just south of Kamloops. He still hadn’t settled down with one woman, and Alex doubted he ever would. He’d long ago abandoned the effort of keeping up with Manny’s love life.
In the late eighties, Simon Fraser University partnered with the Secwépemc to set up a satellite university on the Kamloops First Nation Reserve. His dad, with his mother’s support, quit his job at the band office and enrolled as one of the first students, eventually completing a degree in archaeology. His dad was in the unique position of discovering, studying, and documenting his own culture, a culture that stretched back thousands of years, with roots in an immense territory that included the town Alex ruminated in now. His dad loved Coyote U as the satellite campus was affectionately called. He especially loved the summer digs and was part of the first team to unearth a centuries old, ancestral pit house.
His dad had nearly finished his degree when his mom, Vera, started hers. At first, she was only going to take a few courses, just for fun, but in the end, she did a double major in English literature and First Nations studies and became, in his dad’s words, a formidable scholar. He expected the same from his youngest.
When Alex entered SFU, his plan was to follow in his mom or dad’s footsteps, but in the end, he chose a degree in criminology. He grew up watching his people suffer at the hands of the justice system. Too many ended up doing time—with or without trials—and he’d decided that the only way to change that reality was to work within the system. After graduation, he was accepted at the RCMP Depot police training academy in Regina.
For Alex, the choice had seemed so simple then. But eighteen years later, racism within the ranks of the force, in the courts, in jury selection and sentencing and the growing numbers of his people behind bars, had disabused him of the notion that working within the system was the answer. Lately, he’d found himself questioning his own participation.
As a young man, all his friends were from his home reserve, a united front at school and in town. When he moved to Vancouver to go to university, he did so alone. He had always been an excellent student and the work wasn’t difficult for him. He was fascinated by university life, a world peopled by so many who were so unlike him. While he was watching them, they were watching him. It didn’t take long for students from outside Canada to figure out his place in the social order.
As part of their grade for a criminology course Alex was taking, each student was required to do a presentation. The sessional instructor was organizing a list of who would present on which day.
“What about you, chief, does next Tuesday work?”
Alex stood and waited for the guy to look his way. When he did, Alex pushed back for the first time.
“My people have been here for eleven thousand years. You haven’t been here that long, so you wouldn’t know that traditionally, the role of chief is a great responsibility, not to be taken lightly. You can call me Alex. Next Tuesday works fine for me. “
He could still remember the instructor’s red face, and how hard it was not to laugh at a friend’s spontaneous whoop of pure joy. His thoughts were interrupted by his phone.
“Hi Alex.”
“Hey Jeri. How’s it going?”
&
nbsp; “Okay. How was Maui?”
“We had a lot of fun. We both tried surfing. Gwen’s better at it. She had to rescue me twice.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Jeri laughing.
“It’s true, I swear. How’s Jas?” Jeri’s partner worked with kids in the foster care system.
“She’s good. She just got a promotion. It comes with a lot more responsibility, but a rather good raise, so she’s a happy woman right now. Did you get my email?”
“I did, and one from North Vancouver moments later.”
“So Batlan’s dead. Can’t say I’m surprised. I guess it’s too soon for you to have any information on the hit?” North Vancouver RCMP was handling the Batlan murder—their turf.
“Both officers guarding Batlan were killed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that Alex, although we suspected as much. I mean, how else would whoever did this get to Batlan. Any leads?”
“Nothing yet. Forensics is on-site. Was your meeting about Batlan?”
“He was definitely a topic of conversation, but that wasn’t the purpose of the meeting. Portchanal called the meeting. He’s reorganizing Investigative Services.”
Tal Portchanal was the superintendent of Investigations, and, as Alex knew, a certified prick of the first order.
“Reorganizing?”
“I’m to be relieved of my responsibilities at MPU.”
“No way! You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I was. He’s moving me to Threat Assessment next month, and not as the head.”
“You don’t deserve that Jeri. Sounds like payback to me.”
“Oh, it’s payback. He’s been making a lot of noise behind my back about how I don’t trust the rest of the team, which is utter bullshit. Not to my face, of course, cause he’s a pompous coward. What he’s really ticked about is that he wasn’t part of the take down when we arrested the trafficking ring. Makes it look like I didn’t trust him, which I didn’t, and couldn’t.”
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