by P W Ross
He had their attention.
“Next we’ve got your basic Sociopath. They have no conscience and care only about fulfilling their own needs and desires. Everyone else is warped. Not them. Often, they actually believe they’re doing something good for society.
Then we have your garden-variety psychopath, a stone cold, remorseless, calculating individual killing for no apparent reason. These types the press loves to glamourise as being charming, intelligent and manipulative. They’ll taunt the police during the chase and the justice system when they’re caught.”
“Common backgrounds?”
“There’s a litany of similar experiences and traits. Broken homes, parental failure, no father figure, five times more likely to be males with co-morbidity of alcohol and drugs. There’re at least five different categories of ADPs and sociopaths.”
“What about psychopaths?” asked Jack.
“They are the wild cards. A rare breed. Maybe less than one percent of the population and you’ll never understand them in terms of antisocial child rearing or development. Those sick fucks are the true monsters of our society. They are morally depraved; unstoppable, untreatable predators.”
The room was quiet as they pondered the reality of one of these abhorrent beings on the loose in their midst.
Braxton said, “So Joe, enough of the lecture, what’s your best guess?”
“Not sure, never am. Walleye is a lone male, maybe an accomplice but doubtful. Seems to exhibit aberrant characteristics across the board. I don’t think he’s a psychopath. That behaviour is extremely rare but he’s got some of the qualities. Cold, calculating, plans well and if Brautigan’s right about the stun gun, he’s clever and resourceful.”
“I’d guess between thirty and fifty. We know he’s fit and a good bushman. Whoever said he’s a local, or has been, is probably right. Probably local. If he was a recent return, he’d stand out.”
“ Sometimes I break them into three simple groups.”
“The biologicals are sometimes triggered by physical defects, brain disorders and such.”
Then there are the psychological types we’ve been discussing, where family, business or sexual pressure becomes so great that they get a sort of release from killing.”
The sociological types find their surroundings have become so oppressive that the recourse is to strike back. To destroy a world he never made and that seems to keep on grinding him down. I lean toward the sociopath here. But here’s something else at work, a cruel psychopathic edge.”
“What about racial profiles?” asked Will. “Do aboriginals, North American Natives, fit into the equation?”
“Extremely rare. Just don’t seem to fit the mould. How many native serial killers have you heard of? I’m not saying it’s out of the question here, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I don’t think you’re going to find Walleye on the reserve.”
The relief on Will’s face was palpable.
“Joe, you said you think there’s something else. What are you trying to get at?” asked Jack.
“I’m not sure about anything here. There’s no obvious signature but I think there is some sort of messaging and maybe that’s the puzzle Walleye’s thrown out. The taunt.”
“A missive,” Jack offered quietly, eyes locking with Eugene.
“What about a terrorist?” Rene half blurted out of the blue.
Everyone’s head jerked up at that one.
“Christ Rene, what’re you suggesting?” Rowan almost shrieked. “What we have here is terror in Temagami, not terrorists.”
“Look Rowan, all terrorists aren’t bearded, swarthy middle eastern types out of an American editorial cartoon. Terrorist Group of The Week. There are a bagful of terrorist typologies. Most people relate to political, national or revolutionary groups but more and more they're cause- based and domestic.”
“You been goin’ to night school Rene?” Eugene jabbed sarcastically.
“Terrorism 101, Chief.”
“Rene’s correct,” interjected Friscolanti.
“Terrorists feel they do nothing wrong using any means to further the end. Many are APD but don’t appear unstable or mentally ill and don’t lack intelligence. Most of all they share the trait of simplistic thinking. I’m good and right. You’re bad and wrong.
That’s the key to their behaviour. Polarised thinking allows them to distance themselves from their opposite numbers and kill without remorse.”
Friscolanti took a sip of coffee, winced and continued. “Terrorist behaviour is a response to the frustration of whatever political, social or economic system is pressing in on them, along with personal needs and objectives.”
“Yes,” said Jack, “but aren’t terrorists associated with groups that are mentally like-minded?”
“Essentially correct and that’s another anomaly. If there’s any sort of terrorist bent here it would be more like the pre-1980 lone assassins.”
“Jesus Christ!” howled Rowan. “I’m out of there.” He cursed as he headed for the door. “What are you guys talking about? You all nuts? I didn’t come here for some goddam college lecture out of a spy novel. I thought we were going to try and figure out how to catch this son of a bitch. When you’re ready to do that, let me know. In the meantime, I’ve got a town full of people so mortified they don’t know which way to turn. Why don’t you all get off your collective asses and do something?”
With that Rowan was out the door before anyone could respond.
Chapter Forty-Five
“Just let him go,” Friscolanti shrugged. He’d seen it all before. The local authorities never wanted to believe it was happening to them.
“Rowan can’t see it because the targets don’t seem to have any political, economic or social significance, but there is an undercurrent of terrorist mentality here. If there is messaging, it’s subliminal. Terrorism is propaganda by deed, but we don’t have any here. No wants, no demands, no taking credit for, or warnings.
Braxton spoke for the first time. “So, you think we can rule out the terrorist slant?” Ever looking to narrow the odds, thought Jack.
“Not at all. He’s sure as hell got this town terrorised, but is that the motive? It’s the planned, calculated, grizzly aspect of the murders that makes you think along terrorist lines but it’s no different than many other serial cases.”
Jill Parsons cautiously waded into the conversation. “What about environmental terrorism? Are you guys familiar with ELF and ALF?”
“ALF was the Martian in that TV series, wasn’t he?” Rene couldn’t resist.
“Go ahead Jill,” encouraged Eugene, glaring at Rene.
“ELF is the Earth Liberation Front.”
“Patty Hearst a member?” Rene cracked again.
“Rene... that’s enough.”
“Right Chief.”
“And Rene?”
“Yes?”
“Stop calling me Chief.”
Jill carried on.
“We studied these early eco-terrorist groups last year at the academy. They think they’re going to stop the exploitation and destruction of the environment by economic sabotage and guerrilla warfare. Elves have been involved in thousands of criminal acts and have caused hundreds of millions in damages over the past few years. From tree spiking, vandalism, theft to civil disobedience but arson is the big weapon. They like to call it ecotage.”
“What’s with ALF?” Jack questioned.
“Animal Liberation Front. Same shit except for critters. Sink whaling vessels, burn animal research facilities that test for cosmetics or drugs, as well as high production factory farms of ducks, chickens, hogs, egg hatcheries, fur-bearers. These are the type that release ten thousand mink from a ranch and think they’re going to survive in the wild,”
Braxton contributed. “These two groups sometimes work together and they’ve had the serious attention of the FBI for some time.”
Friscolanti stepped in. “Jill’s right. They torch resorts in pristine areas and whole subdivi
sions to stop urban sprawl. Focus sometimes on mining and logging. They promote economic sabotage and guerrilla warfare to stop exploitation and destruction of the environment.
They espouse an intrinsic value morality and if pristine nature has ‘intrinsic’ value then human values are inconsequential. Rousseau was the father of modern environmentalism.”
“God makes all things good; man meddles with them and they become evil.”
The press love to call it eco-terrorism, but if you ask ELF, they prefer eco-resistance movement. They want to take the profit motive out of environment destruction.”
“The FBI?”
“Right now, the FBI has got their hands full with right-wing domestic terrorism but these groups have continued to escalate their activity. Almost as if they can operate under the radar right now. With them, the real worry of the FBI is that they could escalate to a nuclear site.”
“Geez, where are you going with this?”
“The name Theodore Kaczynski ring a bell?” Braxton asked.
“The Unabomber?” Eugene guessed correctly.
“Eighteen years of mail bombs, three dead, twenty-nine wounded or maimed in the fight against the evils of technological progress. Harvard grad with a PHD from the University of Michigan. An angry neo-luddite that packed in the world for a remote ramshackle shack in the woods. Remember the manifesto? He wanted to halt progress, free people from technology and return to life in nature. The FBI labeled him an anarchist but he was clearly a paranoid schizophrenic. Somehow they found him competent to stand a trial. Let’s burn him at the stake.”
“No one’s really aware but the first Earth liberation action was here in Canada in 1995, when a wildlife museum and hunting lodge were burned down in British Columbia. Scary thing about these folks is they work as individuals or in unrelated cells. They’re hard to track and closer than you think.”
He glanced up. All eyes were on him.
“Can terrorism be a motive here? You bet. Walleye sure as hell has this place terrorised but the question is whether or not that’s his real objective.
I’ll tell you frankly, off the record, that in most police circles right now the old adage has applied. We’re not really going to do much about eco-terrorism until someone gets killed. Sooner or later someone will, maybe they already have.”
“Right here on your doorstep.”
“What if we’ve got a nutcase right here in town who’s decided to up the ante?” Jack asked.
Braxton stopped him short, tired of the lecture and speculation. He wanted to get on with something he could really chew on. The work in progress, the monotonous, labour intensive, detailed, behind the scenes police work that would ultimately narrow the field.
“What’s happening with the patrols?” Eugene probed.
“We’re interviewing every cottager on the lake and the ones that aren’t here we’re tracking down at their home residences using the tax rolls. Same for the townies. That’s maybe seven hundred cottagers and a thousand folks in town and surrounding district. We’ve got additional help from the North Bay detachment but there’s a long way to go. They’re doing a criminal record search and as much medical history as we can get. We’re looking for psychiatric disorders but privacy laws make it tough. I’ll give you a status report tomorrow at noon.”
“Not enough,” Braxton replied curtly, to which Eugene responded with an exasperated grimace and a head shake.
“Ten years ago, there were two mines on this lake, The Strike Copper Mine and the Sherwood Iron Ore pit. On top of that, Miller Timber employed almost two hundred and fifty men. If we can get ‘em, I want the employment records of all those operations and somehow we’re going to track down as many as we can and go through the same process. I want the same records for every lodge on this lake, primarily handymen, fishing and hunting guides. This Walleye guy is on the lake or he’s been on it in the last ten years. If we grind it out, my guess is we’ve got about twenty-seven hundred checks to do. I don’t believe the victims are simply random choices. Maybe the water and the turf in this case are immense, but the haystack of people we’re looking through ain’t that big. If we’re thorough, this guy’s going to stand out. Let’s consider ourselves looking in this stack for something more the size of a nail than a needle.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Leaving the station, Jack took a pad of flip chart paper, a couple of large felt tipped pens and went down to the dock to deposit them in the boat before attending the wake. He rolled, lit a cigarette and sat in the stern looking up at the Miniwassa. Vehicles surrounded it. The parking lot and sides of all the adjoining roads were choked with battered pick-ups, vans and cars that had all seen better days. It was obviously going to be one hell of a wake. He could clearly hear the jukebox thumping out Randy Bachman, ‘Takin Care of Business’. If things kept up like they were, Jack mused there wouldn’t be any business in this town to take care of. Tired, he reluctantly clambered out of the boat and made his way up to the hotel.
On the porch, children played, parents taking turns watching over them. It was one wild shindig inside the hotel. Jack had never seen so many people crammed into this room. The noise was deafening, every table packed with revellers. Capacity regulations be damned. The tables had been removed from the screened porch which was full of smokers and the odd joint being shared. He saw Pony at the corner of the bar where they were two-deep, passing bills overhead for their drinks. She waved and he squeezed his way toward her. What with stopping at tables to talk with friends and neighbours it took him a full five minutes to reach her. With relief he accepted the cold draught she had waiting for him.
She leaned in close to him and he caught a faint hint of Channel.
“Wake or no wake Jack, they're here to blow off steam.”
He looked around the room and nodded. The town had been on tenterhooks for a week now and it was clear they were going to let it all hang out. Murderer on the loose or not, this was going to be a classic ‘Sudbury Saturday Night’ in Temagami.
“How would you describe the crowd?”
“Northern eclectic.” she replied.
Eclectic wasn’t the word. From eighteen to eighty; miners, loggers, artists, trappers, guides, shopkeepers, natives, tourists, local politicians, business people, truckers and a few overdressed types that Jack assumed had driven up from the south to pay their respects and had anticipated perhaps a more civilised event, or at least a modicum of decorum.
The ‘look’ was as diverse as the occupation. The crest of the human wave was topped with an undulating surge of beehives, baldness, cowboy hats, baseball caps (industrial and sporting), a bright yellow and red Mohawk, braids and pony-tails. Two men had left their hardhats in place acknowledging this event could prove as dangerous as the workplace. Plaid hunting shirts, leathers, fishing vests, bush jackets, torn t-shirts and tank tops with overflowing breasts. Shirts that even Kramer wouldn’t wear.
Sandals, Kodiaks, moccasins, pointed Tony Lamas and square-toed Fry boots, flip flops, deck shoes, funky high-topped runners, Nikes, winkle pickers and high heels. Jeans, walking shorts, cut-offs, lycra peddle pushers, capris, the odd mini, overalls and... wasn’t that? ... yes! a lime- green leisure suit.
The whole patchwork an undulating, pulsing quilt of northern Canadian fabric. Jack loved it and could not repress a smile.
Pony poked him in the ribs sharply. “You see that Henry made it?”
“What?”
“North wall, under the photographs.”
Black and white nostalgia photos hung there and five people in a semi-circle, their backs to him, stood still, heads down. A distinct contrast from the frenetic pandemonium around them, an oasis of static. Slowly they raised their heads and shuffled off to their left only to be replaced by another group who again gazed downward.
Jack shrugged. He didn’t get it. Then careful, so as not to topple over into the crowd, he raised himself up to stand on the rungs of the bar stool to look above the sea of humanity. This t
ime as the ‘quiet folks’ moved off and he could see a rough-hewn, pine box casket resting on a folding church table. The coffin supported assorted framed portraits of Henry Wainright in his better moments.
“Christ! Is Henry really in there?”
“Sure is,” piped in Abe Farrell, sitting next to Pony. “We got word the morgue in North Bay was releasing the body this morning, so a few of the boys went down to bring him up. No use missing your own wake.”
“What’s with the casket? It belongs on Boot Hill.”
“Well, the boys didn’t know what kind of casket the family might want so they whacked together that box, put him in the box of an ice truck and here he is.”
“I'm sure they’re thrilled.” Jack winced.
“Who?”
“The family.”
Pony inhaled deeply, put both hands to her mouth and stifled a laugh.
“Can’t be very comfortable in there.”
Abe Farrell was already two of what would eventually be three sheets to the wind and reeled slightly on his stool.
“Sure he doesn’t feel a thing. Anyway, they’re going to flip him into some fancy coffin tomorrow before they put him down for good. Waste of money I say. They were going to prop that box up in the corner and open it so Henry had a good view and sort of join in the party, but apparently, he’s not too pleasing to the eye, definitely a closed casket corpse. Family didn’t care too much for the idea in any case.”
Taking in the raucous scene, Jack could see that this determined civic blowing-off of steam would go long into the night and was determined to evacuate early before getting drawn into whatever nonsense was bound to occur.
Behind the bar, Bob came over with a plate of very oversized greyish eggs and what appeared to be sausage. It exuded a peculiar odour that Pony could not put her finger on. Bob had had a few himself and was relishing the role of jovial innkeeper, regardless of the circumstances or perhaps more succinctly, precisely because of the circumstances.