Omand's Creek: A gripping crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense

by Don Macdonald

  “What?” Shelter said.

  “Are you taking advantage of a situation?”

  Now, Shelter was well and truly pissed off. “I’m not doing anything, okay?” He got out of the car. “I’ll be at the office by seven.”

  Traverse remained silent, looking straight ahead.

  On the drive into the office the next morning, Shelter went over the fight he’d had with Traverse the night before. He had to admit his partner had hit a nerve. It was the first time he’d felt attraction to a woman since Christa’s death, but he couldn’t deny that acting on it would be a mistake. Not only were the power dynamics between him as a police officer and Nicki as a witness all wrong, but he wasn’t even sure the attraction was mutual. But the desire was strong, and a part of his brain refused to let go of the idea of taking it further with her. Stopped at a red light, he stretched and shook his head to clear his mind.

  Traverse arrived at the office just after eight and went straight to his desk without a word. Shelter decided to keep his distance. He focused on the information he’d pulled up on Daniel Stokes, going over the details of the solicitation and domestic assault charges and noting he made his living as a long-distance truck driver.

  The sound of chatting and squeaking chair wheels signalled the team was gathering in a semi-circle for the morning meeting. Shelter briefed them on the events of the previous night, emphasizing that for them nothing had changed. They were stretched badly by the unsolved homicides, with dozens of leads and tips to follow. And they worked under the knowledge that soon other killings would inevitably be added to the workload. Still, news of the sexual assault had them looking at one another with raised eyebrows.

  “Strangulation is the same M.O. as in the Spence and Rempel cases,” Ian Sim said, stating the obvious.

  “And we know Monica worked that strip,” Jennifer Kane added.

  “We know she worked in the area, but we don’t know where she was picked up,” Shelter said. “Let’s just keep working our cases and see what sex crimes comes up with.”

  Back at his desk, Shelter was working on an email to the RCMP detachment on the Lone Pine Reserve to say he couldn’t make it as planned when he heard a faint tapping behind him. He turned around to find Sue Marek at his office divider. She took a step forward, and the corners of her mouth turned up in an uncharacteristic show of good humour.

  “Hey, just wanted to let you know the girl picked Daniel Stokes out of a photo pack this morning. No doubt in her mind,” Marek said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “No problem. You have eyes on him?”

  “He’s in his house. Mom and the two boys have been in and out. But he hasn’t budged.”

  Detectives from the Sex Crimes Unit would be bringing Stokes in as soon as Marek could get a judge to sign warrants to enter the house and search his vehicle. He would be brought down to the PSB and booked with sexual assault. The SUV would be towed to a garage the Ident unit maintained for forensic examinations.

  Shelter would have loved to be in the room when Stokes was interviewed, but this was Marek’s investigation and he had to respect that line. A few hours later, he got confirmation the arrest had gone down without a hitch in an email from MacIsaac that went on to tell him to be in a conference room on the second floor in fifteen minutes. When he got there, MacIsaac was already set up at the head of the table with a notebook and a cellphone laid out in front of him. Sue Marek sat on the side of the table closest to the windows. Her body language was foreboding. She had her arms crossed tightly across her chest and a tense look on her face.

  Shelter gave her a nod of greeting, took a seat across from her, and angled himself to face MacIsaac. “What’s up?”

  “The Stokes case,” MacIsaac said. “Ident just found a roll of blue duct tape and a sheet of clear, plastic tarp concealed in the spare tire well.”

  Shelter was stunned. He glanced at Marek and back to MacIsaac, who was nodding. In his mind, Shelter saw Monica Spence and Crystal Rempel lying encased like mummies.

  “Holy fuck.”

  “Yup.”

  “He’s got two little kids, so the passenger compartment is a gross mess,” Marek said. “But Ident is pulling fingerprints, hair and fibres as we speak.” The tone was harsh, and when she finished, her lips were tightly pursed. Shelter could sense the disappointment coming off her. She was a competitive detective, and she was losing a huge investigation. But Shelter could barely contain his excitement.

  “You and Traverse will conduct the interview,” MacIsaac said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Interview room two’s only furnishings were a grey steel table and a chair bolted to the floor. Shelter and Traverse rolled office chairs into the room. Traverse closed the door while Shelter arranged a red file folder and yellow legal pad on the table. The top page was blank. His interview plan and questions were scrawled on the pages that followed, but he rarely needed to look at them.

  Shelter examined Stokes as he introduced himself and Traverse. This was Shelter’s first glimpse of the man except for a mugshot. He was no more than five foot eight inches, and he looked to have put on weight in the three years since he’d been photographed after being charged for soliciting a prostitute. His face was jowly, like a Boxer dog, and he had only a few strands of greasy brown hair running across his scalp. He had a thick brush of a moustache and bulky shoulders. The stubby fingers folded on top of his basketball of a belly had black hair growing from the knuckles.

  Shelter passed him a bottle of water.

  “Daniel, you’ve been charged with sexual assault, and you’ve spoken to your lawyer,” Shelter said for the benefit of the video camera. “We can stop the interview at any time, and you can talk to your lawyer for as long as you like. Do you understand all that?”

  Stokes’s cinder block of a head had been bowed as Shelter spoke. Now he raised it and fixed pig eyes on Shelter. “Does this one have to be here?” he said, pointing a finger at Traverse but not looking at him.

  “You have a problem with Detective Traverse being in the room?”

  “Shouldn’t he be in a bar drinking with his buddies?”

  Shelter and Traverse stared at him in silence.

  “What?” Stokes said, still addressing Shelter. “When his people aren’t lying drunk on Main Street, they’re cruising around town in taxis to the liquor commission or the bar, and it’s all paid for with our fucking tax dollars.” Stokes turned toward Traverse for the first time, his eyes in a defiant squint, his chin extended. “But you’re a good little Indian, eh?”

  Traverse’s face was impassive, his gaze unflinching. “If you’re finished, Daniel,” Shelter said in a calm voice, “we’ve got some questions to ask you.”

  Stokes shrugged and lowered his head again, making a show of examining a hand balled into a tight fist on his thigh. Shelter noticed the thumbnail had been chewed to the nail bed.

  Stokes had declined a lawyer. Shelter assumed it was a combination of overconfidence and not wanting to spend the money. Whatever the reason, having him alone improved the chances of getting him to talk, and his racist outburst was another good sign. He was already talking. Far from being upset, Traverse would be pleased.

  “You’re a truck driver, yeah?” Shelter said.

  “No comment.”

  “Listen. I know your lawyer told you not to speak to us, and that’s fine. That’s your right. But we need to confirm some basic information. Now, you’re a truck driver for what company?”

  “I don’t work as a driver no more.”

  “Why?”

  Stokes was silent. He opened his hands and closed them so tight, they turned red. “Because of my son. He’s autistic. Too much for my wife to handle alone.”

  “So where do you work now?”

  “In a cold storage warehouse, freezing my ass with a bunch of pakis and chinks. And even some of yours, when they can drag themselves out of bed,” he said, glancing at Traverse.

  “Where were you on Saturday night?”r />
  “Home with the wife.”

  Shelter looked down at the legal pad before locking eyes with Stokes.

  “We have a witness who saw you pick up a girl about 8:00 p.m.,” he said. “The girl you picked up has identified you as the man who beat and choked her behind a building on Stevenson Road, near the airport.”

  “No comment.”

  Shelter sighed and tapped his pencil on the table. “Our guys are tearing apart your car right now, and they’re going to find this girl’s fingerprints and DNA all over the vehicle. And there are video cameras throughout that industrial park.”

  A knock on the door interrupted the interview. Shelter nodded to Traverse, who exited the room, only to stick his head in a minute later to ask Shelter to step out. In the hallway, Jennifer Kane was waiting with Traverse. She was holding a notebook in her hand, and Shelter noticed her hand was trembling.

  “Ident made a positive match to the rear left wheel of his vehicle and the tire track lifted near Monica Spence’s body. They’ve also got a match from the passenger compartment for almost a full set of Donna Davis’s right-hand fingerprints.” The three detectives were standing in a huddle, looking at each other. They had their man. Shelter felt relief wash over him. “Get them to send up pictures of the tire and the tracks.”

  He followed Traverse back into the interview room. Stokes ignored them, keeping his head bowed and raising his thumb to his mouth to inflict more damage on his ravaged nail.

  “Sorry about that,” Shelter said. “Can I get you some coffee? Need to go to the bathroom?”

  Stokes shook his head. “When can I talk to my wife? She’s alone with my son. He screams all day long and throws himself around.”

  “We’ll see about that in a little while,” Shelter said. “Daniel, I want you to look at a couple of pictures for me.” Shelter pulled the red file folder out from under the legal pad and opened it. He laid two eight-by-ten photos on the table side by side. They were the same photos that had been in newspapers. Both women smiling brightly, Monica in her grade twelve high school picture, Crystal in her graduation photo from law school. Shelter tipped the red file folder toward himself and examined a sheaf of documents inside.

  “Do you know who these women are?”

  He studied the images only for a moment before dropping his eyes to his lap. “No comment.”

  “This one is Monica Spence, and this one is Crystal Rempel. Monica was found dead in a culvert just inside the Perimeter Highway. Crystal was found at Omand’s Creek near Portage Avenue.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you two.”

  “What were you doing on June 16th, a Friday night, a little over a month ago?”

  “How the fuck would I know? Probably sitting at home watching TV.”

  “You know Plessis Road in St. Boniface, right? When was the last time you were out there?”

  Stokes lifted his head slowly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “It’s been years.”

  Shelter referred to his notes again. “Did you get your snow tires taken off that SUV of yours this year?”

  Stokes shook his head and grunted.

  “Do you remember the brand of tires on your truck?”

  “They’re Michelin. What’s this about?” He said it in a growl of annoyance, but Shelter detected uncertainty, even fear in his voice. Still, curiosity was getting the better of him. Again, there was tapping at the door, and Jennifer Kane stuck her head in and called Shelter out of the room. She handed him a grey folder and briefed him as he examined the photos inside.

  Shelter returned to the interview room and slid the two pictures of the women back into the red folder. He replaced them with two photocopied images from the grey one. One was a close-up of a rear tire on a vehicle and the other a tire track in heavy mud just off a paved road.

  “Take a look at these pictures. This one was taken from your SUV this morning, and this one was taken on Plessis Road on the morning of June 17th. That was the day that Monica Spence was found dead in a ditch a few metres from where this picture was taken.”

  “They’re both winter tires. Now look at this.” Shelter used his pen to point to several wear marks and a shallow but distinct cut across one of the treads. “Our forensic guys tell us these two tires match perfectly. But you said you haven’t been to Plessis Road in years. How do you explain that?”

  Stokes stared at the images but said nothing.

  “We also found a roll of blue duct tape and a plastic tarp in your trunk this morning. The bodies of both Monica and Crystal were wrapped in plastic, which was then secured by blue tape in exactly the same way.” He paused and then continued in the same calm, quiet voice. “How do you explain that?”

  Stokes sat for long minutes, his eyes on his lap, tightening and loosening his fists. Finally, Shelter said, “Daniel! Look at me.”

  Stokes raised his head with a jerk.

  “Where are we going with this? It won’t take us long to match the tape to what was used to wrap those women. And their DNA is going to be all over your car. You know it is.”

  Stokes had crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders, as if trying to shield his body. Another minute of silence passed before Stokes raised his head and nodded toward Traverse. “I’m not saying a fucking word with him in the room.”

  Shelter glanced at Traverse. He knew his partner was used to dealing with racism, even though it was rarely expressed this brazenly. It was sickening to hear, but the important thing was to get a confession.

  Traverse stood up, his face impassive, picked up his notebook and left the room without a word.

  Shelter let Stokes sit in silence for another full minute before saying, “Daniel. Tell me what your concerns are?”

  Shelter waited and watched the war within the man — sighs, frowns and even a rueful laugh as he searched the room with his eyes. Finally, he said, “It’s my wife. She’s had enough pain. I don’t want you guys tearing up our house.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Daniel. We have no intention of causing any unnecessary pain to your wife or family. Look at me. Let’s start with Monica. Where did you pick her up?”

  It was like he was on the edge of a cliff, trying to screw up the courage to jump. When the two words came, it was in a whisper. “On Ellice.”

  Shelter maintained a poker face, but he knew officers monitoring the interview by video feed would be hooting and hollering in victory. Once the dam had broken, Stokes described in a flat, unemotional voice every detail of how he’d murdered Monica Spence. How he’d driven her to a vacant lot in the Point Douglas area by the Red River to have sex. How he’d refused to pay her, and when she tried to get out of the car, he’d pulled her back and choked her to death. How he’d driven the body to his garage and wrapped it in plastic and secured it with duct tape. How he’d taken her to a stretch of Plessis Road and forced her body into a culvert.

  Shelter only needed to interject occasionally with clarifying questions. When Stokes was done, Shelter glanced at his watch. It was mid-afternoon. Much more work would have to be done on the Spence murder, but he was anxious to keep Stokes going, to move on to the Crystal Rempel and Rory Sinclair killings. “How are you feeling? Do you want to take a break here or go on to talk about Crystal Rempel?” he asked.

  “What about Crystal Rempel?”

  “How did you meet her? What happened?”

  “I never met no Crystal,” Stokes said, his eyes boring into Shelter’s.

  “Come on, Daniel. Let’s not go through this again.” Shelter flipped open a file and glanced at a timeline of the Rempel murder.

  He looked up. “Let’s start with where you were on the evening of July 8th, a week ago last Thursday.”

  Stokes narrowed his eyes, a sly expression Shelter hadn’t seen before. “That’s easy. I was in a hotel room in Edmonton.”

  Shelter felt blood rushing to his face. “Edmonton?”

  Stokes watched him, drawing out the moment. “We were looking at houses and s
chools,” he said. “Alberta’s services for autistic kids are way better and cheaper. We’re moving next month.”

  Shelter stared at Stokes for long seconds in a state of shock. He stood up abruptly and gathered his papers.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Shelter was in the bathroom splashing cold water on his face when Traverse came through the door. Shelter dried his face and then set both hands on the counter. He was angry at himself for his overconfidence, for letting his hopes cloud his judgment. The possibility Crystal Rempel’s murder had been made to look like Monica Spence’s had always been there. Not only were there the differences in the profiles of the victims, but also the discrepancies in how the killings had been carried out. “A god-damned copycat,” he said to Traverse’s reflection in the mirror.

  Traverse nodded. “Jennifer is checking out Stokes’s Edmonton story, but it looks that way.”

  Traverse had been all business with Shelter since their confrontation over Nicki, and the tension was weighing on Shelter. He was still stinging from the rebuke he’d received in the car the night before. Now Shelter had to admit to himself that Traverse had always been more skeptical about the theory that one killer had committed the Spence, Rempel and Sinclair murders. His instincts had turned out to be right and Shelter’s wrong, and it burned.

  “Assuming Stokes was in Edmonton, we’ve got to get up to the reserve and interview Osborne right away,” Shelter said. “You coming?”

  “You still planning on taking Nicki with you?”

  “I told you. I have no choice.”

  Traverse wheeled to face his partner. “Mike, if you don’t get your head screwed on right about this woman, you’re going to find yourself out on the street.”

  “What are you talking about?” Shelter asked. Then, after a pause, “What’s this really about, Gabe? Is it because she’s Indigenous?”