by Zac Funstein
“In preparing to write or speak upon a subject of which the nuances have been mastered, I gather, after some inquiry, that the usual method among persons who have the gift of fluency is to consider cursorily topics connected with it,” the roaming reporter muttered. “Which is why you see the various supporting works.”
Nearby piled high were scholarly texts on cathedrals next to an old fountain pen that had left a blotch on a blotter. There were line drawings of ecclesiastical buildings piled on top of scrawled sheets with numerous corrections.
By any modern military standards, the compiler was impregnable. It was not simply that Floyd J. Sheridan could not put up with criticism, it was impossible for him even to recognize it as such. Floyd was a superman, a scientific superman at that; the curiosity of the world to see him had become well-nigh unbearable.
“What do these add up to?” it was asked diplomatically casually going through these.
“An article I am writing on going to more remote destinations, be sure you know the visa requirements for each country where you will change planes. Some travel itineraries require changing from an international to domestic airport.”
The French newspaper nearby was open to an article on autrefois acquit -the procedural defence that forbids a defendant from being tried again on the same (or similar) charges following a legitimate acquittal or conviction.
Sheridan who noticed this interest mumbled:
“I see that you are interested in the Élodie Gareau debacle. This may seem like it has the knottiness, subterfuge of a good spy thriller, but it fails as a drama in my estimation because every climax is a false climax. They didn't stop to ask Élodie how come her good self plus one of her close intimates had come to be lying under oath about it, though, which seems like journalistic sloppiness. ”
“You follow the law quite closely I can tell Sheridan.”
“When you travel you have to be very much up on local differences. Without being unkind some countries do not have such a wide legal net as our own-to know the discrepancies is very wise-yes you could put it like that. In the French legal system, you are presumed guilty until proven innocent. It's written in the Napoleonic Code. One might end up incarcerated without a good lawyer.”
“Élodie Gareau has interested you especially.”
“There were nuances that were not explored by those involved. I believe a lot of hidden prejudices that were held threatened to come to the surface but were suppressed. Lawyers appear to have a paradoxical effect of either increasing or decreasing the stress response regardless. Common experience suggests that when we are confronted with some potential knotty court problem such as Gareau we must be on our guard there are such pitfalls when the legal system is not as our own.”
A serious air was adopted, as if how to answer all these intractable questions avoided her, then it was exclaimed.
“This is perhaps why I believe that it is better to stay here in Canada rather than go overseas.
The French, like to believe themselves included outsiders like myself, so I believe that I will possibly explore Quebec or Montreal.”
“You know what is unusual about that- as the lifespan of the average person grows, conversely the age at which people are retiring is falling. There seems to be a demographic move to French-speaking Canada at the moment.”
Floyd had succeeded in extracting from the sources a generalness that seemed to him clear/ simple.
“I haven’t totally decided where to go yet-but it’s high up there. I wonder why there is so popular.”
“Théodore Robillard, a retired professor from nearby Syracuse University, has studied this. Théodore believes it is Montreal's laissez-faire policies that are the puller.”
“I believe I’ve worked with the generation you’re referencing, and the preoccupation with laissez-faireism is easy to recognise,” boldly stated the new-adult who had recognised this in the OAP’s encountered in her p/t role as a care asst in retirement villa. “Some dislike the free market going to their grave unrepentant, but overlooks probably the single most important aspect of this system: freedom.”
“Some vigorous alternative is needed, though it cannot be a form of collectivism for that seems to go with the former. No matter you will find many nice people in Montreal if you decide to go there. It is next to impossible in today’s society to impose censorship anymore.”
This guy was not only funny but hot in getting the journalistic ‘goods’ on the ‘bad guys’it was decided.
B
The remote stretch of highway between Prince George / Prince Rupert in British Columbia seemed an unusual choice in retrospect. Not only was it cold but had a reputation for disappearing young teenagers of a certain generation. So much so that a sign had been erected asking them to stay away with an indication underneath of those recently taken from their ranks. It was gruesome to picture this as someones responsibility:-they had to get up there cross the previous toll then put the new one up every time someone went missing. It made for sobering perusal in driving past. It would be an interesting person to ask just who they believed was the cause of all this. Was it when gas went up or visceral entertainment put on certain rental channels like Netflix no one knew.
Mexico had almost been chosen for its geographical curiosity, how identical in shape/ size with the protuberance of Africa just opposite, how the protuberance of the Venezuelan/ Brazilian coast fits in with the in-curve of Africa: so that it seemed obvious -- quite obvious -- that they once were one. However Google Earth aside this stretch of BC won out despite the very terrible toll. Everyone had to agree that they did not know what the attraction was of this moral Armageddon. Why one piece of tarmac should be so dangerous to the exclusion of all else was a total enigma, but there it was the mystique had built up now nothing would change that. In one instance Kristen M. Ferguson was driving way too fast in her mustang when a truck flew past her. The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror, then slammed on her brakes. It was like ‘Duel’ where the middle-aged Los Angeles electronics salesman Mann driving his Plymouth Valiant sedan on a professional- trip on a highway in the California desert encounters a grimy/ rusty Peterbilt tanker truck, travelling slower than the speed limit expelling thick plumes of sooty diesel exhaust. Mann passes the unsightly truck, which promptly roars past him then slows down again. Mann is unmoved, passing the truck for a repeat encounter. In Ferguson’s instance the vehicle slowed down, turned around pulled up behind her SUV then emitted a similar blast, but as Kristen got out the driver drove off just as a patrol-car went past. Who knows what unwitting disaster they had adverted.
The most recent case was Adorlee Royer (known sometimes as Lorde or Royals after the aforementioned New Zealand singers song) a French Canadian from Quebec who vanished near the infamous road after attending a coming out party for her friend Marphisa St-Jacques from St Albert. Police located her mountain climbers tent/ Toyota Tundra truck, but the young woman remains steadfastly non gratis despite an extensive search of the nearby territory. On the anniversary of Adorlee’s disappearance her parents were still struggling to put Lorde’s disappearance into perspective- offering a small fortune for any information leading to an arrest. They were-needless to say-utterly distraught. There seemed no motive or reason why anyone could possibly want to be unkind to their daughter. There was a website dedicated to gathering anything that might give a clue to what had happened. Adorlee had never wanted a relationship, had never wanted to depend on someone, to love someone, open herself up to anyone but had disappeared completely.
Despite an ongoing in depth RCMP [Royal Canadian Mounted Police] investigation, in addition to the ongoing searches, awareness campaigns plus pleas from Royals’ family for her safe return, there has been no real evidence of just what happened. ‘It is as if Lorde was plucked from the sky,’ her brother Alexi is claimed to have uttered.
Observers have said that some of the disappearances in particular appear to have been similar, indeed may be the work of one individual
, although if there exists a BCP (British Columbia Psycho) as some posited remained to be seen. Some believed that this was several separate events around which a mystique had built up. Like much folk-legend-or urban legend if you prefer- the fact was hard to separate from the fiction. In this respect it most resembled those like the Ready-mix saga where the driver suspected his wife of infidelity. One day, making sure that the unfaithful-spouse with her partner were going to be miles away, the concrete-man then drove past his own address. Sure enough, the bedroom curtains were drawn, outside stood a brand-new Triumph convertible (this is quite an old tale). Sickened at this display of opulence the driver had a brilliant suggestion on the spur of the moment — so drove round the block then prepared usual load of cement. The driver then returned, positioned his lorry, extended the chute, reverse the barrel filling the Triumph convertible with Ready-mix. In various versions the husband does not always see his wife talking to a stranger or suspect her. In some accounts the husband suspects her of infidelity based solely on the strange car parked outside the house at midday. In some cases the wife actually is having an affair, but the expensive car does not belong to her lover. Sometimes the car is an Acura CL, sometimes a Citroen Xsara or even (more rarely) a Citroen XM. These vehicles seem arbitrary however not being connected to any particular story.
The sole breakthrough in the mysterious case came when police released an identikit of a teenager who attempted to kidnap a tourist nearby - unfortunately this individual has not been found. The poor female-camper struggled when pulled from her parked SUV only being saved when a passing motorist stopped to see what was going on. Recently circulated was a composite drawing of a similar man— who attempted to kidnap teenager Amedee Beaulieu on a similar road in Ontario. This was a Nordic seeming man of indeterminate age of well honed build in a chequered shirt suggesting a physical occupation rather than desk-job was his. More than this was not known so that a host of associations must have been added gratuitously. Having flagged her down in a Dodge pickup truck in emergency mode, when Amedee got close to him, this figure in a balaclava tried to force her into the truck, but fortunately Amedee escaped then called the authorities on her mobile. Many of the casualties who had gone missing along the highway lived in aboriginal communities used hitchhiking (despite repeated warnings) because it was relatively cheap-indeed until recently a relatively safe mode of transport, which community leaders said could have made them easy targets. Local women have been urged to avoid holding up cardboard signs with a destination on- though many from poorer communities couldn’t afford an alternative method of travelling so were forced to be easy pickings. ‘It could just be that some psycho out there realizes that aboriginal women hitchhiking alone are an easy target,’ said Oriel Guérette from Pittsburg, a spokesperson for the British Columbia government-funded Missing Native-American Commission of Inquiry, which has been holding informal hearings about the disappearances. These have been going on for such a while if its the same man they must be very old. Towns are far apart- there are interminable stretches of highway. Sometimes the CB radio fades out for lack of booster stations where there is no smartphone service-though a move is in operation to make this ubiquitous. All buses have wi-fi now. These are a very vulnerable group of travellers. There are roads off every highway which are little more than dirt tracks. If someone has unholy intentions, they will find a subject if they patrol this stretch diligently enough; dragging them down one of these natural twitterns is relatively easy. Someone can throw a victim into a ravine where they will never be found.
Many people have argued that the disappearances were not properly investigated until local celebrity artist folk story-teller Hortense Roub, went missing, prompting criticism from the families of existing victims. Roub’s popularity seemed to be a catalyst that initiated a major search-an attempt to put the terrible mystique of this stretch to rest once ‘n for all. ‘Many of them were aboriginal and some of the criticism was that people cared more about the non-aboriginal girls going missing,' Marcelle Doucet the half sister of Florence Beaudoin, who disappeared wrote on a site dedicated to the missing girls. 'Those families felt like they weren’t taken seriously. The bad weather had erased traces, evidence had been lost by the authorities. Emotions ran high in those initial consultations: anger at having to consult so many victims, at having their lives changed so radically by that which couldn’t be seen. Humans have a built-in tendency to ignore data that doesn't fit their preconceived models of how the universe is supposed to be. Because of the lack of answers that investigations have brought forward, some people have taking it upon themselves to try to solve the enigma themselves which is no good-we have to pull together with resources if we are to find out who was responsible-even if it is not just a single individual but many as some have suggested. Going it alone won’t help.
The site provides pictures of the victims describing where they were last seen as well as much supporting gumph’.
The Latin phrase Tabula rasa often translated as ‘blank slate’ originating from the Roman tabula or wax tablet often seemed to crop up in connection with this. They had a blank sheet here-the closer they tried to get the less they seemed to know.
‘When Luce Lazure went AWOL, it struck us very deeply,’ said Doucet. ‘I wanted to help families post about their children. All of the missing were very very special-they must not die in vain.
Also helping out was Quebec-based private investigator Noël Paré originally from Lynchburg, VA a former RCMP, who began investigating the disappearances because the ‘authorities weren’t doing much-they didn’t seem to care or have a very good rapport. I get along well with the aboriginal people since I know some of their dialects- I was sure a non-cop could work’. Paré spent an inordinate while chasing down leads which were given to the authorities, but they had ‘made it quite clear-in their usual enigmatic style- they didn’t want any help-that an amateurs dithering was no good-they were far on anyway in their assumptions’.
The biggest problem with the investigation, said Noël, is that the cases weren’t adequately investigated when they happened, and ‘it now makes it almost impossible because you now have a situation where (the aboriginal people) don’t trust outsiders. As if they didn’t distrust them enough before. It’s like saying ‘The only good Native-Canadian is a dead one’-they don’t realise they have families that care for them-that want to know how they are just like us’.
‘Don't trust’ means not only not asking outsiders for help thus keeping family secretiveness but above all whites-those not from the aboriginal community. Their ancestors had tricked us when they arrived they would do so again the older leaders warned even though they were told this was stirring up bad-emotions as such amounted to criminally-negligent. The soon to leave had just been to the theatre (what was put on was mostly farce; comedies, very often French, sentimental tear-jerkers vaudeville). It was odd because the inside of the car was so warm-more so than usual. Already frazzled from trying to keep her car on the slippery roads-it was anticipated that no trouble would be in the offing however frightened, G drove into their yard then was forced to slam down on her brakes to avoid running into the rear of a car parked directly in the middle of her driveway. Someone had called (a stranger parked in the driveway always denoted that). Residents in that neighborhood got nervous when unusual vehicles were parked on the street with foreign plates. Next to their mailbox, it was completely dark outside, not big-city dark either-but suburban-darkness-penetrating; the arriver couldn't make out anyone inside either. The cars that were typically parked usually ran along the lines of Toyota Ateva, Honda City, BMW plus Suzuki Covie this however was a Honda Pilot. A rare intruder. It was her Uncle Saber Gagnon who soon was in full flight as per always. Saber always seemed like someone on some kind of amphetamine although nothing stronger than caffeine tablets was ever evinced.
The youth could never see her Uncle Gagnon without being taken to a brief childhood happiness in Deloraine where Douglas found employment restoring on
e of the few stone bank vaults still in existence in western Canada. The house had been called Nygard Park which was rather dull since the park of the same title that hosted many flags from around the world was nearby. The park landscaped with a brick facade, paved walking paths, plus a commemorative plaque recognizing Peter Nygård’s contribution to the town was well liked. It must have made a profound impression on whoever built here.
They pulled up like now-there was Ellen’s Mazda Sentia parked in the circular driveway, but there was another car there too-a Oldsmobile Aurora. Ellen did not receive many guests-especially whilst Douglas was working on the bank. Uncle Saber Gagnon-who lived nearby- was the only visitor on a regular basis--but this didn’t count to Ellen because Saber plus his wife Vicky (who drove a rather chic TVR Sagaris were considered ‘family’)-their grandparents were considered off-limits however-why that was-was never fathomed-they just stayed away. Then as now the teenybopper went around the Oldsmobile peering inside saw faint pencilled writing on an envelope that someone had set on the dashboard, there was a freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. The standard telescoping steering wheel which allowed large drivers like Saber to get comfortable inside- though it was not a standard feature in the Aurora- was very much in evidence. Something didn’t add up though-somehow the model plus the contents did not quite seem Saber’s style despite the adjustments.
Nygard Park (the house not the park) was gated- the only way in was via gate code which only the cognoscenti knew or those inside. Since Ellen didn’t like what was called ‘hawkers or cold-callers’ the Oldsmobile couldn’t possibly belong to one of them. Who it was then that had insinuated without a code was not known.