Anderson: “So... what?”
“The autopsy shows that (a) Sam is not the old guy who was reported missing in the spring, (b) we so far haven’t the faintest idea who the hell he is, and (c) he didn’t drown. The cause of death was blunt force trauma – severe blunt force trauma, apparently one hard blow.”
16:00 JULY 17
“You gotta be kidding.” Arnold was the first to speak. “Could whoever he is have fallen and hit his head on a rock or something? I just can’t imagine anyone around here killing someone, especially an old guy.”
“Well, he actually wasn’t all that old a guy – the autopsy puts him at around fifty. And unlikely it was accidental or suicide; we have enough evidence of foul play to have already officially launched a homicide investigation.”
“That’ll set the fox among the chickens in our little town,” said Anderson. “Arnold, you’ve been here all your life. Has there ever been a murder around Spirit River?”
“Well, there was a nasty thing maybe twenty years ago – A family of three moved in from Mississauga. They were staying in an old bus outside of town, on government land at the provincial campsite. Of course we all had the feeling they were kinda different. Anyway, guy killed his wife, kidnapped their little boy, then killed his son and himself out in the bush. Tragic, but folks suspected there were family issues there. Somehow, though, this is different. It feels threatening, like it ain’t over. No explanation.”
“So now what?” Anderson paused a moment. “You folks at Maple Falls cop shop suddenly have a pretty full plate: a young woman missing under what now seems like mysterious circumstances, the murder of an unknown man, and you still have an old guy missing and presumed drowned. Was the medical examiner able to tell when the murdered guy was killed?”
“Well, not very precisely at this point, since spring and over a month ago is as close as they’re saying.”
“Any leads at all?”
“No. Basically, everyone in Ontario is a potential suspect at this point, you guys included!”
Anderson laughed: “Well, I guess I’d be a prime suspect then, ‘cause I’m always out on the lake. But for the record, it wasn’t me. And I can vouch for Arnold... only time he gets out from under the hoist in his garage and onto the water he’s with me, and I watch him real close!”
The sergeant joined the laughter, and then got serious. “Actually, guys, my imagination is beginning to run away with me perhaps, but I’m supposing that there may be some connections between those three cases – and some other stuff – so I’d like to stay in close touch and pick your collective brains on this. The Anita Antoine thing has me worried, especially with information you picked up from the musicians last night. And, I’d like you to tell me a little more about your meeting this morning. You seemed worried about it, and I sense it had something to do with your “shoreline” group. Is there something I should know?
“Not likely any real connection there,” Arnold responded. “The Environment department guys were just giving us a heads-up that our group shouldn’t hold any public meetings that might be seen as... controversial. Just bureaucratic bullshit, really.”
Anderson took his cellphone from his pocket. “Good thing you mentioned that. Reminded me that I should contact Marjorie about looking at those photos from the lake tomorrow morning.”
The sergeant raised his eyebrows: “Photos?”
Anderson walked out to phone Marjorie while Arnold explained that Anderson and Ms. Webster had been out on the lake on Saturday and taken a bunch of photos over by the Robertson Mines property they wanted to look at together.
“Frank, which way does the current flow along the shore of the lake east of the village?” the sergeant asked Anderson when he returned from making his call.
“There isn’t much current at all, really, but such as there is – east to west because the river flows downstream from where it leaves the lake west of the village.”
“Arnold tells me you were out taking photos along the shore by the Robertson site. Could I take a look?”
“Of course... Marjorie’s coming in to my place with her laptop and photo software in the morning. I’ll put the coffee on – maybe around 10:00?”
“I can do that. And don’t worry, yes I’ll bring more damn donuts. That’s all us cops are good for anyway, I’m told!”
“John, you don’t think there could be a connection between that location and Floating Sam, do you? All we had thought about was that the Robertson bunch may be unhappy with our PSP group, and kinda wondering what they had up their sleeve over there.”
The sergeant looked hard at Anderson, then across at Arnold: “That’s why I asked about direction of the current flow... could a water-logged body have moved along the shore from away up there to where we found Sam. I do know that there are some trailers and shacks up there where mine and refinery workers have been staying – unofficially – for years. You catch my drift, so to speak?”
“Yeah. (And yes, that was a lousy pun, too.) Can you join us in the morning Arnold?”
“I’ll try to get away – depends on what work-orders are waiting for me at the garage. I might have to take a rain check.”
Arnold pushed back his chair and stood up: “I used to think Marion had a corner on a big imagination mixed with being somewhat paranoid, but she can’t hold a candle to you two,” he laughed. “Anyway, I’d really like to get home before supper... I texted Marion and told her I’d be there. That okay with you guys?”
It was the sergeant’s turn to laugh: “Comes with the territory! Thanks for coming in, both of you... I’ll see you in the morning.”
07:30 JULY 18
Morning came soon enough, and Anderson pulled himself out of bed a full half hour after he shut the alarm off. Yesterday had been a long one. Marion had asked him to stay for supper, but he politely declined, and after Arnold had dropped him off in front of his shop he had gone down to the dock and checked the launch and its mooring lines before going home.
***
His body had been feeling Sunday night’s more-than-enough beer and Monday’s more-than-enough flood of troublesome information. He wouldn’t have admitted to anyone else, but he was feeling worn out, so there was no cooking supper. He had grabbed a bottle of peanut butter from the cupboard and some raspberry jam from the fridge and made a sandwich, which he took to his computer desk along with a double shot of dark rum, neat.
Time to learn some stuff, he had thought. Who controls Robertson Mines? Where is their head office? Who is their CEO? What is their track record? And, I wonder if Wendy Webster and her public relations firm show up on Google? At nine-thirty he had shut down the computer and the lights, taken a short (for him) shower and rolled himself into bed.
***
After frying a couple of strips of bacon and a pair of breakfast eggs, he fussed about the house tidying up. He washed the couple of days’ accumulation of coffee cups, mugs and plates and removed a grey fuzzy thing that may have once been a tomato from the fridge, adding it to the week-old bag of garbage that he then put outside into the garbage pail, making a mental note that he needed to take that and some other stuff from the workshop and the boat to the landfill. Because he was a registered contractor and often collected garbage from island cottagers, the village gave him a landfill key – and a clipboard to keep a record of his comings and goings – so he didn’t have to keep to the once-a-week schedule. The village’s invoice, however, did come on schedule... once each month.
At 9:30 he started a new pot of coffee, took the notes he had made from last night’s internet studies, and sat down at the newly-clean table to wait. He didn’t have long.
He had heard what he thought was a boat motor in the harbour and looked out the door but couldn’t see the marina docks. Ten minutes later, there was a tap on the door, which Marjorie then tentatively opened, stepped inside and said, “Good morning, Mister Anderson!”
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Webster,” Anderson laughed as he went
across and took her backpack and briefcase. “Just so you know, I’m now a world traveller who just returned from Ottawa and points beyond, like Gatineau Québec!”
“Woo hoo... no stopping you, is there! Glad to see you back, but mostly I just want a cup of that delicious coffee you make. And, you left me with a very short hug three days ago and I want another one.”
Anderson could feel himself blush, but without hesitation – hell, with enthusiasm – he took a couple of steps across the room and gave her a warm squeeze. “I’m really glad to see you again, Marjorie,” he said, “but I have bad news. You’re gonna have to share me with the Ontario Police Service this morning.”
“Really. So just exactly what did you and your sidekick Arnold get up to in the famed metropolis of Ottawa Sunday night? Or Monday morning for that matter?”
“Well, you can chuckle all you want, but we actually learned a bunch of stuff and stayed out of trouble. But... Sergeant John is joining us to look at those dirty pictures you took on Saturday. He should be here any minute...”
He was interrupted by the crunch of gravel outside as the police cruiser pulled into the driveway. “And here he is, right on time! Good morning John, come on in!”
Marjorie grinned at him: “It’s true, it’s true! Third time I’ve ever talked to a policeman and twice now he’s showed up with donuts! And here I thought people were just joking about cops hanging around in donut shops!”
“We are legend. And this time they’re fresh, too,” said the sergeant, putting the box on the table.
“And I’ll have to find out sometime about the third occasion you talked to the police,” Anderson chuckled.
“I was younger then.”
“Ah, of course that explains all! Coffee coming up... I’ll get the mugs. John, Marjorie only just got here, so perhaps you could fill her in on what we have all discovered over the past couple of days so she’ll understand why her photographs may be of such interest all of a sudden.”
“Certainly. And I’m sorry to barge in on you guys like this but, as Frank implies, there are things going on that have created away more questions than we have answers.”
Once they were comfortably settled at the table and Anderson had brought the coffee and a handful of paper towels to deal with the fresh donuts, the sergeant began by telling Marjorie that the body (“Floating Sam as Frank calls him”) did not turn out to be who they thought it was, how the man had died, and the resulting homicide investigation. “So you see what I meant when I said we have more questions than answers. And, for what it’s worth, he was more likely fifty than seventy, certainly not just an old guy like we thought. And – I forgot to tell Frank and Arnold yesterday – it was not just old raggedy clothes he was wearing, they just looked that way from sitting in the water so long. He was actually wearing fairly new Helly Hansen coveralls and boots – best in the business.”
“And so you see...” Anderson said to Marjorie.
“I certainly do. Wow, that all changes things.” She replied. “I suppose there’s more?”
“I think there’s a great deal more. I asked Frank about currents in the lake, and from the timeline, and our discussions, it is not unlikely that the new and improved Sam may have been carried by the current – albeit slowly – from further up the east side of the lake than we had been thinking before. After all, when we were thinking about the old guy, we were distracted by the fact that a missing older gentleman’s car had been found relatively close to the village. But in fact, this guy could have been – and probably was – carried much farther. And that, folks, is why your photos may be even more useful than you thought.”
“Well, I’m really a rather amateur photographer and I had no clue what we might be looking for but I guess it’s time to take a look, don’t you think, Frank?” She proceeded to uncork her laptop, put it on the table where all three could see, and asked for an extension cord to plug it in. Anderson pointed to a little brass screw-in cover plate on the floor under the table and said “I’ll plug it in down there” while he went to a kitchen cupboard and retrieved the memory card she had given him Saturday. The sergeant watched with curiosity while he handed the card to Marjorie, then ducked under the table to plug the laptop into the flush-mount receptacle.
The system opened up over a hundred photograph files and Marjorie started to open them up individually. “You’ll have to bear with me; not all of these are of the east shore. There are some of Frank’s boat and some of Frank and I even tried a couple of timed selfies which hopefully didn’t work. Ah ha... here we go with mostly shoreline shots. She opened each up full- screen and paused after each so all three of them had a chance to look them over thoroughly. About thirty photos in, Anderson asked her to zoom in as close as she could, and sure enough, there was what looked like a large orange bottle or jug just off the shore. “Can you re-name these or bookmark them somehow so we can pull them up later?”
“Good idea,” said the sergeant. “One photo may mean nothing much, but a bunch of them might prove interesting.” Marjorie repeated the process with every shoreline photo until they got to where Anderson had turned the launch west and headed to the middle of the lake. There turned out to be about twenty-five shots she re-named and placed in a separate folder before they took a short break to clear their eyes.
“I’m taking my coffee out into the sunshine and having a smoke,” Anderson said.
“I’m in. I’m not good at staring for long periods at that little screen on the laptop.”
“Bad boys and girls,” said the sergeant. “but going outside on a nice days works for me!”
Once they were perched on lawn chairs on the porch, Anderson took a slurp of coffee and said, “most of those shots showed orange markers – buoys of some sort – anchored offshore – I can only guess because the telephoto lens distorts the distances, but it seems they are perhaps a hundred yards or so from shore and it appears they are widely spaced. But, I thought a few of the shots also showed buildings or vehicles in the background – back from the shore in the bush. And I’m not counting the two or three shots of the main refinery buildings. John, could they maybe be the shacks and trailers you talked about yesterday?”
“Makes sense to me, but I have to confess that – Sergeant or not – I have never been out that road. I guess that’s now next on my ‘to-do’ list!”
“I saved out all the shots of the big buildings, and I noticed one photo showed what looked like a garage back from the shore. I didn’t see a ramp but it could have been a boathouse. When we go back in we may want to look at that one a little closer.”
“Not that there’s anything suspicious about having a boathouse, but yes, I’d like to see it.” The sergeant paused, then: “Could I ask to have copies of three or four of those shots on a flash drive? I can make out a receipt or a requisition slip if you would prefer.”
Marjorie looked at Anderson, who shrugged: “That’s entirely up to the photographer, I believe. Marjorie, you okay with that?”
“ No problem here. I expect your people would like to have a record of who/what/when,” Marjorie said to the sergeant. “As a sometime artist I am used to that sort of stuff, so I can make up a receipt with the photo identification stuff for each one, if that helps?”
“That’d be perfect. Let’s go take another look.”
***
“Now what, I wonder,” Anderson mused aloud to Marjorie. After reviewing a number of the photos a second time, Marjorie had labelled nine of them and saved them on a second flash drive for the sergeant, who signed the receipt that Anderson had drawn up and printed, then taken his leave and driven off to continue his day, which he had admitted looked like it would be a long one.
“Now what, indeed. Frank, there is some stuff we need to talk about. I didn’t want to get into discussions about conspiracy theories with Sergeant John, at least not until I had a chance to discuss some things with you.”
“Yeah, me too. And I have a confession to make, a confession that goes al
ong with a question.” He refilled their coffee cups, offered her another smoke which she declined, lit his own and they settled back on the porch in the sunshine. Looking across the little harbour, the morning fog on the lake had cleared and it was a beautiful sunshiny day.
“My confession is embarrassing, really. I spent some time on the internet last night, and among other things, I found an outfit called Webster and Webster Public Relations. Wendy’s name was prominent as the principal, but I have to ask: are you the other Webster?”
Marjorie laughed: “I never even thought about mentioning the name of sis’ company... I guess I should’ve done that! The ‘other’ Webster was our dad, Walter. He had been a journalist for about twenty years but was laid off when Conrad Black shut down a bunch of newspapers back in the nineteen nineties and he decided to find a better way to make a buck in the PR business. Ten years ago Wendy joined him and they incorporated that name. Dad died three years ago, but Wendy carried on with the company and kept everything the same. Writing and marketing were never my thing, and as close as Wendy and I have been over the years I never got involved.” She paused. “Actually, Wendy does give me pointers on how I should promote my artistic endeavours, but to her disappointment I am sure, I never follow through. Given the size of my savings account, maybe I should have!”
“Good to know, and thank you for clarifying that. It was none of my business, and really I shouldn’t have been poking around your life without asking. I’m just trying to get my head around all these things that are happening and Wendy’s odd responses at the meeting last week had me kinda curious.”
“Well, funny you should mention that. I, too, have been wondering about my sister and the questions she’s been asking about the village, the body search stuff, and – frankly – you (pun not intended). I think there is more to it than sisterly love worrying about who I might or might not be dating, and in fact she seems somewhat pushy about her questions. Something is worrying her, and at the same time she is being sort of cagey about all the emails and calls she is getting. She stops short of telling me they’re none of my business, but it’s like she feels that way.”
Sunset at [20 47] Page 10