The Vanishing Track

by Stephen Legault

  “Well, we could be facing something else. It could very well be that a very troubled individual, or individuals, are stalking homeless people and killing them.”

  “My God,” sighed Juliet. “Why would somebody do that?”

  “Ask Willie Pickton. Ask Clifford Olson. That type of person might be motivated by anything, by money or jealousy or some other emotion. Some of them need no motivation at all. They are psychopaths. They kill or perpetuate other crimes for no reason other than personal gratification. They kill because they feel like it, and they operate beyond the societal and personal constraints that regulate most of our behavior. My fear is that maybe there is some . . . entanglement of motivation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Marcia drew a deep breath. “There’s been a lot of interference in this case. I had two of my investigators pulled last week for what turns out to be gopher work for the Big Cheese.”

  “Andrews?”

  Marcia nodded. “And there has been an unofficial policy of pestering.”

  “I think it’s called harassment,” said Juliet.

  “More like aggressive persuasion. I think it’s the wrong way to police a neighborhood like the Downtown Eastside. The reality is that since Andrews took over in Division 2, he’s turned a blind eye to some of the rougher elements on the beat. I’m—” She paused for what seemed to Juliet like an eternity. “I’m concerned that maybe someone on the force has stepped over the line. That we have someone who is both a psychopath and operating within some official capacity.”

  Juliet felt the heat in her neck spreading. “Do you have . . . a suspect in mind?”

  “No, this is just a crazy idea. There are lots of crazy things happening right now, and I wanted you to know that I’m covering all the angles on this.”

  “How do you catch someone like that?”

  “If they are on the force, that’s one thing. Let’s forget that as a possibility for now. And I need to tell you that if I get a call from Nancy Webber from the Sun about this, I will deny ever talking about it with you.”

  Juliet just shook her head.

  “If the person is a member of the general public, sometimes we don’t catch them because they just stop. They grow older and their behavior changes. Most often, though, they are their own worst enemy. They act on impulse and don’t care if they get caught, except that it will spoil their fun. They make a mistake and we get them that way.”

  “You’re saying we might have to wait around for a psychopathic killer, who is targeting the poorest and most disadvantaged in our city, to get old or make a mistake?”

  “Manpower would help.”

  “How can I help with that?”

  “Well, that’s part of what I wanted to talk with you about.”

  “That and what else?”

  “I need to get a feel for these people who went missing. What they did; where they spent their time. The Eastside is a big area, and I’ve only got limited resources. I need a better feel for where I deploy my officers.”

  “We have a map.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Cole and Denman have been working on one that might help.”

  “Can I get a look at it?”

  Marcia’s cell phone buzzed and she flipped it open. “Just a minute, okay?” she said to Juliet, then keyed in a message and pressed send.

  “Organizing a rave?” Juliet joked.

  “Something like that,” Marcia said. “Can you get Mr. Blackwater or Mr. Scott to bring me that map?”

  “It’s at Cole’s office. He’s in the Dominion Building. I can call him.”

  “I’m going to be in that area at lunch today. I can stop by if that suits him. I’ll call him on my way over.”

  “You said you needed me to do something else?”

  “Yeah,” said Marcia. “I need some more officers. I can’t get the department to budge. I need you to find a way to put some pressure on City Hall to free up more manpower. If my theory is right—that we are dealing with someone who is motivated by personal gratification—then we need to be there when he or she makes a mistake. Can you do that?”

  “I can’t do it myself,” said Juliet. “I work for the Health Authority. I’d get fired. But I will find someone who can.”

  “Great,” said Marcia, looking at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting over at Victory Square. Got to hoof it.” They shook hands and Juliet watched her leave.

  TWENTY

  COLE’S CELL PHONE RANG WHEN they reached the street. “Blackwater,” he said.

  “Cole, it’s Mary. Listen, I just got a call from someone at City Hall. The caller wouldn’t leave her name, but she wanted to give you a heads up.”

  “Did you give her my cell number?”

  “I did, but she said she would just leave a message. She said that tomorrow morning at noon, the mayor would be announcing a ‘New Vancouver’ campaign. It’s his plan to clean up the city. End homelessness, that sort of thing.”

  “Really? That’s amazing timing.”

  “Yeah, the woman was just giving you a heads up.”

  “She wouldn’t leave her name?”

  “Nope. Caller ID was blocked.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Mary.”

  Cole snapped the cell phone shut and told Denman the news. They walked across Dunsmuir Street under brooding skies.

  “What’s your sense of this?” asked Denman.

  “I don’t know. I’m betting that this announcement is going to be mostly fluff. Lots of Band-Aids. Maybe we’ll be surprised.”

  “Not by Mayor Don West,” said Denman. “He’s not the surprising kind. And the tip-off . . . ?”

  “Yeah, well, we’ve got friends where we think we have only enemies and enemies where we think we only have friends.”

  Denman looked at him. “Now Cole Blackwater . . . He’s the surprising kind.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “We came pretty close to landing in the clink. We may still end up there.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You really think that Livingstone is connected to the disappearances?”

  “If not him in person, then someone else he knows is in the Lucky Strike Supper Club, and that’s collusion, or something.”

  “It’s called conspiracy.”

  “Well, if neither he nor Frank Ainsworth is behind the disappearances—you know, in conspiracy with someone else—maybe one of the other members of the Supper Club is.”

  “I don’t know, Cole . . .”

  “Your problem, Denman, is that you want to give the benefit of the doubt to these people. You want them to play by the rules. But they don’t. They aren’t.”

  He stopped walking and faced Denman. His voice was starting to rise. “Denman, I wasn’t imagining a knife at my throat the other night. I wasn’t imagining getting kicked like a dog in that alley. That wasn’t in my head!” Cole pounded a finger at his own temple. “This wasn’t just me having a flashback. It wasn’t Cole losing his marbles. I was led to that Pender Street office, and I was led into that alley, and if you hadn’t shown up, I would be dead!”

  A passerby eyed the yelling man warily, giving him a wide berth. “The goons in that alley weren’t a manifestation of my addled mind. It wasn’t some sort of illusion. That shotgun was meant for me!”

  Denman stood listening to him, his expression calm.

  “Denman, I’m sorry . . .”

  “It’s okay, buddy.”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Cole.” Denman reached out and put his hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Cole, it’s going to be alright. I’ve got someone who can help you. We’re going to get you through this.”

  When Cole’s cell phone rang, he jumped, then scrambled to fish it from his pocket. “Blackwater,” he said weakly.

  “Mr. Blackwater, this is Marcia Lane calling.”

  “Hi, Marcia. What can I do for you?” he said, composing himself.

  “I understand you have a map I might be inter
ested in.”

  NANCY SAT ON the stone bench beneath the row of flags and waited. Victory Square was an interesting choice of locations for a meeting. On July 2, 2003, activists erected a tent city on this site and maintained it for more than three weeks. At its peak, more than one hundred people made Victory Square their home, living in tents donated by individuals from across the city and eating meals prepared by volunteers. Many protestors—who were mostly homeless people and members of various anti-poverty groups—said that sleeping together in the park, they felt safe for the first time. Some later admitted that as the protest wore on, they became easy targets for drug dealers and pimps. The demonstration lasted until the end of July that year, when squatters moved voluntarily, heeding the request of veterans who felt that the squat at the site of the city’s cenotaph was disrespectful.

  Nancy looked at her watch. It was 12:02. She waited. Five minutes passed. Then her cell phone buzzed.

  “Follow me,” the message read. Nancy turned, and just a dozen meters from where she sat saw Marcia Lane walking toward the intersection at Cambie and Hastings. She turned into a parkade and made for the elevator. Nancy followed her from a hundred feet back. When the elevator door opened, Lane held it and Nancy stepped in.

  Lane pressed a button and they ascended. “You’re taking a big risk,” said Nancy.

  “So are you,” said Lane.

  “I take it we don’t have much time for chitchat.”

  “We don’t. I’m reasonably convinced that the disappearances are not connected to the Lucky Strike Manifesto. I know you’re not convinced. That’s okay, but I want to caution you that following that lead will make you look like an idiot when we do catch whoever is responsible for these missing persons.”

  “You have proof that they are not connected?”

  “No. But I am working up a profile on these disappearances and it doesn’t really fit.”

  Nancy shrugged. “You didn’t set this up to tell me that.”

  “No.” Lane reached into her coat and pulled out an envelope that she handed to Nancy. The elevator reached the top of the parkade, and the doors opened. Lane pressed the button for the first floor again.

  “What’s this?”

  “Names.”

  “How did you get this?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “Do the people on this list know they have been fingered?”

  “Some do, so be careful.” The doors opened. “You ride this to the top and then walk back down to Water Street,” said Lane. She stepped from the elevator and was gone.

  COLE AND DENMAN waited in the reception area of Blackwater Strategies. Mary had gone for lunch. A few minutes later Marcia Lane knocked on the door and Cole let her in.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Lane said.

  “Thanks for taking this seriously,” said Cole.

  “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  On Mary’s tidy desk, Cole rolled out the map he and Denman and Juliet had been working on. “We used Juliet’s knowledge of where these folks spent most of their nights in order to come up with this.” Denman traced the triangle of marks, his finger resting on the most recent X they had added, where George Oliver had disappeared. “Through the Welfare office, we’ve confirmed all five people have stayed at the Lucky Strike at some point.”

  “I’ve got a photo of Mr. Oliver now. I’ll make sure all of the patrol officers have it in the next couple of hours,” said Lane, as she looked over the map.

  Finally, she said, “I can see why you think this is linked to the Lucky Strike.” Cole and Denman looked at her. “As I said to Ms. Rose this morning, I think we’re dealing with something else all together.”

  Cole stepped forward, pointing to the tight cluster of X’s surrounding the hotel. “If the disappearances aren’t connected to the Lucky Strike, then I don’t understand why all five people who disappeared seemed to hang out within a block of the place.”

  Lane continued to study the map.

  “Ms. Lane,” said Denman. She looked up at him. “Have you read the arrest report on the two men who assaulted Cole?”

  She nodded.

  “You don’t think that’s connected?” asked Denman.

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t think this,” she said, pointing to the Lucky Strike Hotel’s lot, “is connected to the disappearances.”

  “Then why are they all in such close proximity?”

  Lane put a finger to her lips. “Individual preference would be my guess.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Cole.

  “My hypothesis is that these disappearances are all connected, but I think we’re dealing with one individual who is taking people from the street.”

  “And doing what?” asked Cole.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why just one?” asked Denman.

  “A hunch. Look,” she said, pointing at the pattern of X’s. “All the people who have gone missing are, well, they are all in pretty rough shape. Addicts, a former prostitute, a native man with FASD. These people aren’t big, strong men who can defend themselves. Our perp isn’t taking out drug dealers or enforcers. He’s going after the weakest people on the streets.”

  “I don’t know,” said Cole. Denman looked at him. “If we’re dealing with one evil dude who is stalking homeless people, why haven’t people gone missing from other areas? It’s all happening right here,” he said, tapping the map with his finger.

  “You tell me,” said Lane, looking at Cole.

  Cole held her gaze. “Well, you know my theory.”

  “It doesn’t hold up, Mr. Blackwater.”

  Cole opened his mouth then closed it. He looked down at the map and crossed his arms. Five X’s, all clustered around the Lucky Strike Hotel. “The perp is on foot,” Cole finally said. “That’s why he’s working such a tight geographic area. Because he can’t get around.”

  “If he’s on foot, what’s he doing, walking his victims somewhere?” asked Denman.

  “We don’t know. We haven’t found any bodies,” said Lane.

  “Yet,” said Cole.

  “Hopefully never,” said Denman.

  “Don’t be naive, Denny,” said Cole, not too gently.

  “I’m afraid statistics are against us on this one, Mr. Scott. Chances are—”

  “I’m not willing to give up on these people.”

  “Nor am I,” said Lane. “But—”

  Cole interrupted again. “If the perp is on foot, how does he dispose of the bodies? Wouldn’t the bodies turn up if he was knocking people off right here in the city? It’s not like he could bury them or anything.”

  “There are lots of places to hide bodies in the city.”

  “Really? Places that don’t get checked at least once a week when the trash gets picked up?”

  “I’ve had my team looking into the obvious places.” They all looked at the map.

  Cole put a finger on the map. “What about here?” he said, pointing to a patch of green next to Centennial Pier.

  “Portside Park?” said Denman.

  “Or here,” Cole said.

  “In Burrard Inlet,” said Marcia Lane. She was already reaching for her cell phone.

  TWENTY-ONE

  WHEN GEORGE OLIVER WAS TWELVE, his brother and some of his friends tied him up with a skipping rope and left him to sit in the sun for most of the afternoon. Eventually George had worked himself free, dislocating his shoulder in the process. The injury had never been attended to by a doctor, and to this day, George could pop his shoulder out of joint by simply pressing it against a door jamb.

  He waited in the darkness. The pain was bearable. He’d endured worse.

  The hardest part was not being able to free the other two men who were in the stinking cell with him. In the total darkness of the room, George couldn’t even see them, though he was aware of their presence. He had seen the man with the flat eyes who called himself Sean come in with each of them. Each had been unconscious when Sea
n had dragged them down the stairs and into the concrete bunker. Through the light of the open door, and then by the dim glow of the dust-caked florescent tube, George had watched Sean beat them with that strange metal object on their backs, legs, chest, arms, and neck.

  George closed his eyes. The sick fuck had tied him to a chair with rope, his hands behind his back, his fingers free. He taped George’s mouth shut with thick strands of duct tape. Then he pulled his fingernails out one at a time.

  George had passed out after the fourth nail.

  The one Sean had called Aluminum Man hadn’t lasted past the second nail. He had pissed himself, the dark stain emerging through his already filthy pants, then his head slumped forward onto his chest, a thin stream of vomit leaking from the corner of his mouth to congeal in his ragged beard.

  The third man Sean had brought down just that morning. He had “introduced” him as Pigeon Boy. He had managed to thrash in the chair while Sean worked on his fingers and flipped over backward, cracking his head on the concrete floor of the bunker, knocking himself unconscious.

  George thought that was lucky for Pigeon Boy. Sean had stopped working on his fingers, and instead wiped his hands on an oily rag to clean off Pigeon Boy’s blood. The white coat he wore was covered in blood.

  Pigeon Boy hadn’t moved since, and George wasn’t certain now if he was unconscious or dead.

  Now George hunched in the darkness where he thought the door to the shelter must be. He had rocked his chair until it fell over. Then he was able to wiggle out from under the rope. His hands were still bound, but by dislocating his shoulder, he had been able to slip his hands under his feet and get them in front of him. If he was wrong about where the door was, Sean would come into the bunker too far away for George to knock him down and get away. Or Sean might knock George over as he came through the door to the concrete room. But if he was right, he might have just enough time to bowl Sean over and reach the road, and safety.

  He huddled in the reeking darkness for what seemed like an hour, then fell asleep.

  He woke suddenly to the sound of the outer door to the fallout shelter being pushed open.

  JULIET SAT IN her office for an hour after Marcia Lane had left, thinking about their conversation: a psychopath, on the loose in the Downtown Eastside. Now, faced with the very real possibility that there was one prowling the streets killing homeless people just for kicks—or for some other bizarre motivation only the psychopath knew—Juliet felt overwhelmed. She sat at her desk and looked at the bulletin board on the wall. Dozens of grainy black and white photos were thumb-tacked to the cork, each the image of a man or woman Juliet had come to know and care for in her eight years working on the street. She felt hot tears staining her face, and pushed them aside with her knuckles.