Traverse dropped Shelter off near midnight. Letting himself into the dark, silent house, he was greeted by Norman, a fat grey-and-white cat, who rubbed against his legs and purred an urgent demand for food. Shelter still wasn’t used to the idea that Christa wasn’t upstairs sleeping, that her warm body wouldn’t be there beside him when he crawled into bed, dead tired on a night like this.
He foraged in the fridge, but there wasn’t much. He ate a chunk of cheese with some crackers and washed it down with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon left over from the night before. Almost asleep on his feet, he dragged himself up the stairs to the big bedroom on the second floor, barely managing to brush his teeth and strip down to his underwear before exhaustion dragged him down to the depths.
FIVE
Shelter woke up in the damp, cool basement where he’d taken refuge in the middle of the night. He refused to invest in air conditioning for the few weeks of the year that heat and humidity blanketed the city. But when those weeks came, the master bedroom on the second floor was stifling.
His ribs ached, and his right hip was stiff from Rory Sinclair’s tackle. He hobbled to the kitchen and fed the purring, insistent cat, made coffee and toast, and retrieved the newspaper from the front stairs. He took a step back into the gloom of the enclosed porch and kicked the door closed. The main headline read: Police Fear Serial Killer Stalking City. It ran across the top of a photo shot at long distance of Crystal Rempel’s body being rolled to the medical examiner’s truck the morning before. A smaller photo was set into the main image. It showed Shelter and Traverse conferring with MacIsaac at the scene and gave their names in the caption below the shot. Another inset photo was of Monica Spence. Under the photos, a secondary headline read: Woman found strangled at Omand’s Creek.
“Je-sus,” Shelter whispered.
He scanned the story and saw that the reporter didn’t have much beyond what the department had released: Crystal Lynn Rempel’s name, her age and where she was found. Whoever leaked details of the investigation at least had the sense not to describe how she’d been strangled or how the body had been wrapped. Still, the story linked the murders of the two Indigenous women and said the police were worried about more to come. Shelter went over in his mind who in the homicide unit would have talked to the reporter. But it could have been any one of dozens of people in the police department who’d even heard gossip about the Rempel killing.
The regular team meeting was at 8:00 a.m. Shelter still had ten minutes before he had to leave the house. He called his father-in-law’s house in Gimli. He knew the household would be awake and preparing for the day’s fishing.
Kelsey answered on the second ring.
“Good morning, Kel.”
“Hey.” There was no warmth in her greeting.
“Sorry I didn’t call last night. I’m working on a case, and things went late. Fishing today?”
“Fishing everyday. It’s like milking cows.”
Shelter could hear his father-in-law in his daughter’s fifteen-year-old voice. He’d heard that line at least a dozen times over the years. Commercial fishing on Lake Winnipeg was done with gill nets. The nets were set one day and had to be emptied the next, or else the fish went bad.
“We’re going out in a little while,” Kelsey said. “The season closes on Monday.”
“Grandma told me you want to stay up there when the summer ends.”
“Yup. I’m staying.”
Shelter felt his pulse quicken, annoyed she was presenting it to him as a fait accompli with no possibility of discussion, but he knew this wasn’t the time to get into it with her.
“Let’s talk about it tonight. Tell your grandma and grandpa I’ll hopefully be there around six. If there’s a change of plans, I’ll call.”
“Yeah, okay.” The line went dead.
The six homicide detectives rolled their chairs into a circle. Shelter nodded to Traverse and took his seat moments before Inspector Neil MacIsaac entered the room with a copy of the newspaper in his hand. He was perspiring heavily, even though air conditioning had the office at a comfortable temperature for everyone else.
He held up the front page. “Whoever did this is jeopardizing two murder investigations,” said MacIsaac, glowering at one detective after another. “The chief takes this very fucking seriously. There will be no mercy when we find out who it was.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Shelter waited while MacIsaac’s words sank in. “Okay. Let’s get started,” he said. “We have preliminary autopsy results, but nothing yet from the crime lab. As you know, the victim is Crystal Lynn Rempel, aged twenty-nine, residing at twelve Edmonton Street, suite fourteen. She graduated from law school three years ago and was working at a North End activist organization called Anishinaabe Awakening. Her ex-boyfriend, Moses Kent, is the executive director. She was killed at an unknown location, washed, wrapped in a plastic tarp and driven to Jay’s parking lot. Blow to the head, likely a hammer. Cause of death: strangulation, possibly with a belt. Time of death: sometime late Thursday or early Friday.” Shelter looked at his notebook. “As of now, she was last seen in the bar of the City Hotel on Thursday night. Gabe and I talked to her half sister, Nicki Alexander. She’s a barmaid there and says Crystal came in at about nine and was sitting alone, texting and talking on her phone. She left around ten thirty. As of now, we’ve got no witnesses or video after that.”
He glanced at his notebook. “We found Crystal’s car in the parking lot, so it looks like she was picked up. Two other notable things. According to Nicki, Crystal had disappeared for a few days before she showed up at the bar. And she’d recently broken up with Moses Kent.”
“What do we know about the boyfriend?” asked Jennifer Kane, knowing where obvious suspicion would fall.
“His father, Daniel, was the grand chief of the southern Manitoba chiefs in the early nineties. Moses graduated from U. of M. law school the same year as Crystal and got his call to the bar. He’s twenty-eight.”
Shelter turned to Himmat Sharma. “What else we got?”
Sharma looked more like an accountant than a police officer in his pressed, button-down shirt, striped tie and thick glasses. He was a dogged detective, but his true passion was the Winnipeg Jets. His family had immigrated from India when he was a little boy, and he’d taken to hockey with even more passion than his Canadian schoolmates. Now, he followed the Jets obsessively, even through the summer doldrums, listening to sports talk radio and speculating with other fans in the office on trades and minor league players who could make the difference next season.
“We canvassed the apartment block and nearby houses,” Sharma said. “Nothing. Jay’s doesn’t have a camera on the parking lot.”
“What have we got from her cellphone records?”
“They’re coming in this morning. I spent most of the day looking at video from buses going up and down Portage Avenue. Still haven’t found a car pulling into that lot.”
Shelter nodded and picked up his notebook. “Okay, let’s keep at it. Gabe and I will see what Moses has to say for himself.”
It wasn’t hard to track down Moses Kent. A Google search turned up a long list of entries, including his blog, a Twitter feed, Facebook page and a professional profile on LinkedIn.
According to its website, Anishinaabe Awakening “defended the rights of the seventy-five thousand Indigenous people living in Winnipeg.” Shelter opened a Winnipeg Free Press article. A photo showed Kent and Crystal Rempel leading a march of a few hundred people down Memorial Boulevard. The marchers carried a long banner that said in crimson letters: Justice and respect — Now! Shelter scanned Kent’s blog. He wrote often on subjects such as treaty rights, the huge number of First Nations children taken into care and the need for a commission of inquiry into the more than one thousand Indigenous women who had gone missing or been murdered over the last thirty years in Canada, many of them in Manitoba.
Shelter found a phone number for Anishinaabe Awakening.
“Been waiting for your call,” Kent said after Shelter had introduced himself.
“Mr. Kent, we need to meet with you to discuss Crystal. Can you come downtown and see us?”
“I’d prefer to meet at my office, if that’s alright with you.” The tone was courteous. Kent gave an address on Selkirk Avenue, the North End’s main drag, and said he’d be there at 11:00 a.m.
Shelter steered the car onto Main Street with Traverse in the passenger seat, sipping on a cup of coffee. They drove through a crumbling underpass beneath the Canadian Pacific railway’s main line and emerged in the North End. They passed skid row hotels, pawnshops and vacant lots.
“You know this guy?” Shelter asked Traverse.
Traverse turned his head slowly toward his partner. “Like, personally? You think we all know each other?”
Shelter smiled. “You fully caffeinated yet?”
“Not even close, my friend.”
After a moment, Shelter said, “I’m heading up to Gimli later on to see Kelsey.”
Traverse nodded but remained silent. Shelter thought he detected disapproval. “I’ll be back early tomorrow. You can hold the fort till then.”
“You don’t need my permission to go see your daughter.” Shelter glanced at his partner but decided to let it go. Traverse’s silence had said it all. It was crucial hours in the investigation, but he needed to sort out what was going to happen to Kelsey in the fall.
Shelter’s cellphone rang just as he turned onto Selkirk Avenue. The call was from Sergeant Richard Slawsky, the officer in charge of the Ident unit. Shelter pulled to the curb to take the call. “We’re at Crystal Rempel’s apartment on Edmonton Street,” Slawsky said. “Someone beat us here. The place has been ransacked. Drawers dumped and clothes pulled out of closets.”
“What do the doors look like?”
“No forced entry. There’s an outdoor staircase that leads from a parking lot to the back door. It was unlocked. Looks like our visitor had a key.”
“And was anxious to find something,” Shelter said, glancing over to Traverse and giving him a nod.
“You got it.”
“I’ll get some uniforms over there to canvass the area.”
The building housing Anishinaabe Awakening looked to have been a pharmacy or a small department store at one time. It had large display windows on either side of a glass door. Kent was seated at a battered desk positioned for a receptionist. When he stood to shake hands, Shelter saw he was tall, dressed in jeans and a navy-blue golf shirt. He wore his hair in a long plait, and Shelter caught a subtle whiff of aftershave. Kent’s handshake was firm, and he kept steady eye contact through the introductions.
Along the walls on either side of the building, dividers had been set up to create offices. He led them to the back of the building, where he had the only enclosed office. When they were seated, Shelter told Kent they were investigating the murder of Crystal Rempel and asked him how long they’d known each other and what their relationship was. As he replied, Shelter studied him closely for signs of nervousness.
“We met in law school and started going out something like four years ago. We lived together for almost a year.”
His voice was even and his breathing shallow and steady. No sign either way of whether they were dealing with a distraught ex-boyfriend or a brutal killer.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“I hadn’t seen her in a couple of weeks, at least. We weren’t together anymore. I took my stuff and moved out, and that was it.”
“Out of the Edmonton Street apartment?” Traverse asked.
When Kent nodded, Shelter followed up. “And why did you break up?”
“Once I’ve told you I hadn’t seen her in two weeks, I’m not sure why that’s relevant.”
“We’ll decide what’s relevant,” Traverse said. “Why did you break up?”
“And if I said it’s none of your damn business. What would you say then?”
“We’d say you had something to hide.”
After a pause, Kent said, “What community you from, Detective Traverse?” He said it with a smile, but his eyes were serious.
“We’re talking about Crystal Rempel. Not my background.”
“It’s all about our background, brother.”
“Why did you break up with Crystal?” Shelter asked.
“She was committed to the work we do in this office, providing legal advice to people and fighting to change what’s wrong with the system. We also do organizing to celebrate all the good that’s happening here. Help people reconnect to their identity and share their gifts with the world. That’s why it was so hard when Crystal started to change.”
“Change how?” Traverse asked.
“She just became really angry about everything — the gangbangers, dealers, pimps. She pulled back from me, and not just me — everybody around her. She didn’t want to see me anymore, and I couldn’t get her to talk.” He paused and shook his head. “And on top of it all, her mother commits suicide.”
“When was that?”
“Recently. Anne was living in a shitty apartment block, and Crystal had to get the caretaker to open the door. She was in the bathtub in cold red water. Slashed her wrists.”
Shelter nodded and waited before asking, “But she was already upset before that happened. Why? Was it connected to some event? What did she tell you?”
“Not a lot. That’s why it was so hard to understand. Something was bothering her, but she wouldn’t share it with me.”
Shelter was again struck by what seemed to be a lack of emotion in Kent’s demeanour. People grieved in different ways, and it wasn’t unusual for men especially to shut down emotionally in the face of such a loss. Or perhaps it was the mask he’d chosen to put on for this conversation.
“Where were you on Thursday night?”
Kent chuckled. “Always the boyfriend, right?”
“You’re a lawyer, Moses. You know we need to eliminate you from our investigation.”
“I was at home watching the football game on TV. The Bombers lost to Saskatchewan, and then I went to bed. I was interviewing somebody for a job the next morning, and I wanted to be fresh.”
“Were you with anyone?”
“No. I live alone now.”
“Do you have any ideas about who could have done this to Crystal?” Shelter asked. “Did she have enemies?”
“If you don’t fight, nothing is going to change in this world, and that causes friction, okay? But if you want a name of someone who would kill Crystal, I can’t help you.”
“Her adoptive mother, Violet Rempel, said something or someone was scaring her. Do you know anything about that?”
Kent shook his head.
“Why wouldn’t she have come to us if she was worried about her safety?”
Kent shook his head again and let out a harsh laugh. “No offence, but she didn’t have a great opinion of the Winnipeg police. She would have wanted to handle it herself. That was her nature.”
Shelter considered this. “Did Crystal know Monica Spence?”
“Not any more than what’s been in the media, as far as I know.”
They got up to leave. “If we need to talk to you again?” Traverse asked.
“Tomorrow, you can find me at city hall. We’re going to march on the place.”
“What march?”
“To honour Crystal and Monica and all the other girls and women we’ve lost. And to put this city on notice that we want justice and change, and we’re going to get it.”
SIX
Shelter had his sunglasses on, the windows down, and the radio tuned to an FM rock station. Highway 8 cut straight north to the west side of Lake Winnipeg through farmland that slowly transitioned from fields of golden wheat and lemony canola to scrubby bush. He’d be in Gimli in an hour.
It had been two weeks since Shelter was up to see Kelsey. He knew fifteen was a difficult age, but it wasn’t helping to have her so far away from
him, and he didn’t like the idea of her staying in Gimli when the new school year started. He feared becoming like those divorced fathers who only saw their daughter once every couple of weekends, and he knew Christa wouldn’t have wanted that either. But could he take care of her with the crazy hours of this job? It wasn’t just the practical considerations like feeding her and getting her to school; it was also the fights over everything from her clothes to the late hours she kept. Christa had always known how to smooth things between them, what it took to soothe hurt feelings, find a compromise. Without her, arguments flared over the slightest disagreement.
“Dammit!” he said out loud, banging a hand on the steering wheel when he realized he’d been ruminating on the problem for the whole trip. He made a conscious effort to break the loop by concentrating on the passing countryside, picking out details like a collapsing barn, waterfowl in a pond and stands of trees until he was in sight of the turn-off for Gimli.
He pulled off the highway and headed toward the little town with its familiar grid of streets hugging Lake Winnipeg. Shelter caught site of the banquet hall where he’d met Christa when he was nineteen. He’d come up from Winnipeg with a gang of his buddies for a dance, and they’d ended up in a brawl with some local boys. It didn’t come to much, but his white T-shirt was ripped and smeared with blood from someone’s nose. When he’d gone to the parking lot to grab a shirt from the car, he’d passed three girls standing in a circle.
“Going home so early?” one of them had called out to him. He turned around and picked her out right away. Her white-blond hair was illuminated by a streetlight, and she wore a halter top, tight jeans and sandals. He’d turned and sauntered back. He kept his eyes on her and said, “I just got to change my shirt. I’ll be back. You’ll be around?”
Omand's Creek: A gripping crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense Page 4