“I said, you got it?”
“Yes.” Shelter had barely got the word out before the line went dead.
He took a minute to calm himself before punching Traverse’s number into his phone. He filled Traverse in on the photo in the arena and his confrontation with MacIsaac.
“Gordy fucking Taylor?” Traverse said. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“We need to find out about Taylor’s time in the RCMP — where he was stationed and for how long. Then we’re going to have to cross-reference with sexual assaults. And can you find out where this priest lives? Ted Wright.” Shelter spelled the last name out for his partner and said he’d be back in the city by early that evening. Once off the phone, he considered going back to Charlie Osborne’s house to confront him with the information and rejected the idea. He had to get back to the city, and he couldn’t risk Wright and Taylor being tipped off.
Once on the highway, Shelter pushed the car to well over the speed limit. He wanted to be back in the city in under two hours.
“Dirty bastard. Should have known it was a cop,” Nicki said, apparently oblivious to the insult to Shelter.
“We need evidence,” Shelter said. “You’re going to have to be patient until we figure this thing out.”
“Fuck that, man. It’s all there in front of your nose. He raped my mom, and that priest brought her to Winnipeg to have the baby and keep it quiet.”
“We don’t know for sure what happened, Nicki. Leave it to us to investigate. We’ll find the truth.”
“Look, you’ve been straight with me. I know you’ve been trying. But above you, they’re going to do everything they can to bury this. I know they are. They’re going to protect him.” She pulled her phone out and screwed headphones into her ears. For the rest of the trip, she kept a sullen silence, staring out the window at the passing fields. As he drove, Shelter vowed to himself that the scenario she had described was not going to happen. He dropped her off at her apartment building with another warning to do nothing until he got in touch with her. It was early evening when Shelter dialled Traverse’s cell.
“You find out where that priest lives?”
“He’s in Riverview.”
“I want to see him. Now.”
THIRTY
Shelter rapped on the front door of the bungalow and took a step back to stand shoulder to shoulder with Gabriel Traverse. The house was in an old, self-contained neighbourhood in a bend in the Red River. Shelter studied a small brass cross that the priest had nailed to the door. What was its purpose? To tell the mailman a man of God lived here? Shelter had lost whatever faith he had in his early twenties, and indifference to the innocuous theology of his family’s Protestant denomination had hardened to militant, if quiet, atheism with the grotesque revelations of child sex abuse and cover-ups in the Catholic church. When Christa was hospitalized, he’d felt only annoyance at the minister from his family’s church, who seemed to think it was his duty to call once a week and on a couple of occasions stop by her hospital room unannounced because he was “in the neighbourhood.”
The curtain over the window moved, and a pair of pale blue eyes behind rimless glasses examined Shelter and then darted to the left to take in Traverse. The deadbolt lock turned, hinges squeaked. Shelter felt an air-conditioned breeze hit him in the face. Ted Wright wore a beige cardigan over a checked flannel shirt. He was short and round, with a hooked nose. Shelter was struck again by the resemblance to an owl.
Wright opened the screen door and peered out. “Yes. May I help you?
Shelter made the introductions. “We met at Crystal Rempel’s memorial service,” he said. “May we come in?”
“What’s this about?” Wright’s voice was nervous, eyes moving from Shelter to Traverse.
“We just have a few questions to ask you.”
The small living room was crowded with a large chocolate-brown couch and two matching easy chairs. Wright pointed the policemen to the couch. Shelter surveyed the room as the priest settled in one of the chairs. On a hutch stood framed snapshots of Wright in his vestments, surrounded by parishioners. On a side table on the other side of the room was a large, formal portrait of Wright standing stiffly beside Pope John Paul II.
“I see you met the pope.”
Wright followed Shelter’s line of vision to the table and the photo. “Yes. It was during a year I spent at the Vatican in 1993. The highlight of my life.” The priest coughed and shifted on one hip in his seat to remove a white cloth handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroy pants. He touched it to his lips and laid it on a knee.
“You’re still a priest, I take it?” Shelter said.
“I’m retired. Now, how may I help you gentlemen? I haven’t had my dinner.”
Shelter ignored this. “I was interested to see you with Chief Taylor the other day. Where did you meet?”
Wright’s brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed at the question. “We’ve known each other for many years.”
“But how did you meet? Mr. Taylor isn’t Catholic, so I’m curious.”
“We met on the Lone Pine Indian Reserve. I was the priest there.”
“What year was that?
“Oh my goodness, it was the eighties. I served on a number of reserves when I was a young man. I’d like to know why you are asking these questions.”
“You coached the hockey team at Lone Pine?”
The priest’s lips tightened in annoyance. He was used to deference, not having his questions ignored.
“Not really. I just helped out.” The tone was cool, clipped. “Driving the boys to games and getting them hot chocolate when they were finished playing.”
Shelter leaned forward and opened a notebook he’d placed on the coffee table. He was unsure of how to proceed. His first impulse was to go hard at Wright. To frighten him. But looking up from the notebook, he found those blue eyes studying him. There was something cunning in the look. He decided to go cautiously.
“We are tying up a few loose ends on an investigation, Mr. Wright.”
“What does Gordy Taylor or a boy’s hockey team thirty years ago have to do with your investigation?”
Shelter was careful to keep a blank expression. He felt a chill on his back and sensed cooled air being pumped from somewhere behind him. “There was a teenage girl on the reserve at that time named Anne Alexander. Do you remember her?”
A slight upward movement of the eyes. “There were so many children. I can’t say I remember the name in particular, no.”
Shelter leaned forward and raised his voice slightly. “Mr. Wright, we know you arranged for the adoption of Anne Alexander’s child. We also know that child was Crystal Rempel. These facts aren’t hard to verify.”
Wright removed his glasses and examined the lenses before blowing on them loudly to remove nonexistent dust. He picked up the handkerchief from his knee and polished the lenses as if cleaning a chalice during Mass. When he looked up, Shelter noticed his round face had turned red, and his stomach was rising and falling.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened on the reserve from the beginning?” Shelter said.
Wright examined his hands, apparently considering his options. How much to say? How much to hide? “Yes. You’re correct. I did make arrangements for the girl. She was in trouble and needed help.”
“She’d been raped, and you helped cover it up.”
Wright’s jaw tightened with anger. “That’s an outrageous accusation. I did no such thing. The girl got herself pregnant, like so many others.” He pushed himself out of his chair. “You have no right to come into my home and speak to me in that way. I think you better go now.”
“Sit down,” Shelter commanded in a low voice. The priest sagged, as if the air were escaping from a tire. When Shelter spoke, it was as if he was musing to himself. “We can take you downtown right now and continue our discussion there.”
Shelter waited while Wright arranged himself in his chair again. “The question is, why would you c
over up a rape?”
Wright began to speak but stopped himself. He seemed confused, and again his cheeks coloured. He kept his eyes on Shelter. Something in that look gave the answer.
“Because you were abusing children too.”
Wright shook his head and looked from Shelter to Traverse. “No.”
“It was either help him cover up the rape or be exposed yourself. That’s how it was, wasn’t it?” Shelter turned to Traverse. “Gabe, I think we need to look into Father Wright’s career, starting with the reserves he worked on. They do still call you ‘Father,’ yes? Or have you been defrocked?”
“I am a priest,” he said, trying to preserve some dignity, but it came out as a whine. The fight had gone out of him.
“We can start with a call to the diocese and squeeze what they know out of them,” Traverse said.
Shelter nodded. “It shouldn’t be that hard to make a case. They’ve been handing out harsh prison terms for child abuse. And the publicity — just incredible.”
Wright brought his hands together, raised them to the tip of his nose, and closed his eyes.
Shelter knew the priest was wrestling with his options, trying to find a way out. Now was the time to wait.
The priest’s hands dropped to his lap. He picked up the handkerchief, removed his glasses and mopped his face. “I need immunity from prosecution.”
“Right now, we’re interested in the murder of a young woman. Why don’t you tell us what you know? And we’ll worry about the rest later.”
“No. I need assurance that I won’t be prosecuted.” It was the same petulant tone as before.
“We’ll consider it,” Shelter said. “But one thing’s for sure. If you don’t help us get a killer off the street right now, we can’t help you.”
Again, he silently weighed his choices. A minute passed. Two minutes. Then finally, he said, “It’s not hard to imagine, Detective. He was a young man with a lot of power. When she became pregnant, it was something he needed taken care of.”
“By ‘he’ you mean?”
“Gordy Taylor, of course.” Wright stopped speaking for another long pause and then continued. “An evil man. A dangerous man.” He paused. “There had been a complaint against me.”
“It wasn’t the first time. You had a lot to hide.” Shelter said it as a fact, not a question.
“But you’re still a priest,” Traverse said, his voice tense with anger. “The church didn’t do anything?”
“Yes, I’m still a priest. But the church has taken measures to help me with my...” he stopped to search for a word, “…personal problems.”
Shelter said, “You took the girl to Winnipeg, and when the time came, you arranged the adoption to the Rempel family.”
“Through the proper authorities,” Wright said. “The mother and child were well taken care of.”
“Earlier this month, we believe Crystal Rempel found out about her mother’s rape and the circumstances of her adoption. Did she contact you in the days before her murder?”
Wright shrugged and smoothed the handkerchief on his knee. “She was irrational.”
“What did she want?”
“She’d started looking into Gordy Taylor’s activities on other reserves and certain business dealings that I know nothing about. She was preparing a file to take to the police.”
“And you told Taylor about it?”
Wright hesitated.
“I’m sure it won’t be hard to establish your contacts with Taylor through your phone records,” Shelter said. “By the way, where were you the evening of July 8th?”
“I was right here, Officer, the same as every evening. I lead a quiet life.”
“Did Gordy Taylor kill Crystal Rempel?”
The pale blue eyes were watery behind the lenses. The priest looked to Traverse and Shelter again. “I can’t do your work for you, Detective.”
Shelter considered whether to arrest Wright on the spot as an accessory to Crystal Rempel’s murder. He’d tipped off Gordy Taylor to the danger Crystal Rempel posed to him, and he could do it again. On the other hand, taking him downtown would likely have the same effect — Taylor would find out within the hour.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Wright. I’d advise you not to talk to anyone about this, especially Chief Taylor.”
THIRTY-ONE
It was almost 8:00 p.m. when Shelter climbed into the passenger seat of the Crown Victoria. He was dead tired and in need of a shower.
“Fucking little pervert,” Traverse said, his features drawn into a tense frown. “He’s not walking away from this. No way.”
“I’m hearing you,” Shelter said. “We’ll deal with him once we’ve got Taylor off the street.” After a moment, he said, “There’s nothing to be done tonight. We’re going to have to set up an off-site meeting tomorrow with the professional standards unit. Who’s the inspector again?”
“Gary what’s-his-name,” Traverse said, pulling the car away from the curb. “Gary Gallagher.”
“Right. Gallagher. He reports directly to Taylor, so we’re going to have to be careful in laying it out for him. He’ll have to bring in the Justice Department.”
“Unbelievable,” Traverse said.
The sun was setting as Shelter said goodnight to Traverse and slammed the car door. The smell of freshly cut grass was still in the air from his next-door neighbour’s lawn. Shelter dug a handful of junk mail and a couple of bills out of the mailbox and picked the newspaper off the stairs. A teenager’s ability to step over a mess and avoid even the simplest of tasks was a constant source of amazement. But he was relieved to find the door locked.
“Kelsey,” he called out as he dumped his keys and phone and stripped off his blazer. He noticed none of the lights on the main floor were on. “Kelsey?”
Only Norman the cat responded to his call, rubbing against his legs for food as Shelter turned on the hall light. With all the activity, he hadn’t texted his daughter all day. Upstairs, her bedroom door was open. She never left it open if she was using the room, but he checked it anyway. From the top of the stairs, he called her name again, this time louder to cover the whole house.
Descending to the kitchen, he found the sliding door to the backyard locked. There was no sign of Kelsey on the deck or in the yard. He wheeled around and headed for the door to the basement. Not bothering to throw the light switch, he descended the roughly cut staircase. In the gloom, he scanned the rec room with its old La-Z-Boy armchair and couch. He glanced at a jumble of sheets and blankets on a mattress where he or Kelsey sometimes slept to escape the summer heat and humidity. No sign of his daughter.
He climbed the stairs to the main floor in twos, pulling out his phone to text her. Hi. I’m home now. Where r u? As he stared at the screen, waiting for an answer, he realized the day’s events had put him on edge. She was probably just at a friend’s house or picking up something from the corner store. On the other hand, she could have run away again. He brought a hand to his face and rubbed stubble on his jaw and cheek as he tried to gather his thoughts. With a jolt, he remembered the dog-walking job at Gordy Taylor’s house.
Now, his heart was pounding and his face grew hot. Adrenaline coursed through his body, making it hard to think clearly. She would have gone to Taylor’s house in the late afternoon. Had he heard about their visit to the hockey arena on the reserve? Had the priest tipped him off? Could he be holding Kelsey? He felt panic clawing at his chest and made a conscious effort to calm himself. He punched Gordy Taylor’s number into his phone. He answered on the second ring.
“I’ve been waiting for your call, Mike.”
“I’m looking for Kelsey. Is she there?’
“Yes. She is.” Taylor’s words were slightly slurred and Shelter could tell he’d been drinking. “Janet’s out for the evening, and I’ve had a busy day. So I asked Kelsey to stay for dinner and give Heidi her evening walk.”
“I’m coming to get her,” Shelter said, struggling to bring his breathing under
control and keep an even tone.
“That’s probably a good idea, Mike. We have some things to discuss. And for everyone’s sake, I think it’s best not to make any other calls tonight.” The line went dead.
The threat was unmistakeable. It suddenly hit him Taylor might have offered Kelsey the dog-walking job as a way to keep her close to him in case he needed leverage over Shelter. He considered calling MacIsaac and getting backup at Taylor’s house. But a heavy-handed response could trigger a hostage-taking situation. Shelter couldn’t take that chance with Kelsey. Instead, he called Traverse and filled him in on the situation. “I’m going over there now.”
“No, Mike,” Traverse said. “Seriously, it’s too dangerous. At least wait until I get there, and we can go together.”
Traverse’s farm south of the city was at least a forty-minute drive, assuming light traffic. “There’s no time. I need to get her out of there now.” Shelter realized how loudly he was speaking. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. In a calmer voice, he said, “Come now, Gabe. But wait outside the house where Taylor can’t see you.”
There was a pause. “Your daughter, your call. But I don’t think you should go in there alone.”
“No choice. I’ll see you later, buddy.”
During the familiar ten-minute drive to the Taylor’s house on the other side of the river, Shelter considered how to handle him. He had to pacify Taylor, make him believe he had options, until he could get Kelsey away. He parked a short way down the deserted street and from the car examined the familiar three-storey stucco house in the dying light. The curtains were drawn and the front door closed. Shelter removed his holster from his belt, pulled out his Glock, and slid it into the waist band of his trousers, concealing it against the small of his back.
The heat and humidity were still high, and as Shelter approached the house, he felt beads of sweat running down his back. When the door swung open, Shelter found Taylor dressed in a flowered Hawaiian shirt untucked over jeans — an uncharacteristically casual outfit that made the situation all the more incongruous.
Omand's Creek: A gripping crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense Page 23