Shallow End

by Brenda Chapman

  “What about moving him sideways into another division?”

  “All options are on the table.”

  They finished eating and Rouleau stood to pour one last cup of coffee. “What are your plans today, Dad?”

  “I’m going to watch the afternoon World Series game, and if the weather clears, I’ll take a walk down to the water. Might get in a nap.”

  “I’m driving into work but will check in to see how the game’s going. Pork chops okay for supper?”

  “I’ll cook up some applesauce between innings.”

  “I’ll try to be home by six.”

  The team gathered in the meeting area when Rouleau arrived in the office at nine o’clock. They appeared listless, but it was the end of the first week with no real leads, the time when spirits tended to flag. Rouleau gave some inspirational words before launching into what they had so far and making the day’s assignments.

  “The bar-to-bar inquiries turned up nothing. If Devon Eton was drinking beer in a pub or restaurant, nobody remembers him. The door-to-door in the apartment building and houses across from Murney Point turned up nothing either.”

  “See no evil, hear no evil,” commented Bedouin. He looked at Tanya Morrison and back at Rouleau. “We’ve checked out a few of the calls from the hotline but nothing panned out.”

  Morrison nodded agreement. “And the calls are drying up. Will you be making another plea for information in the media?”

  Rouleau said, “Yes. Heath is waiting for us to give him something new to talk about but he’ll call a press conference by mid-week regardless. Anybody else?”

  When they remained silent, Rouleau continued, “I had a couple of officers tailing Jane Thompson last night after we interviewed her. She took the bus to the Iron Duke and had supper. An Asian fellow joined her for a bit, but the waitress confirmed that he was trying to pick Jane up and she rejected his advances. The waitress said that the guy was not a regular and didn’t know his name. He paid in cash.”

  “Any follow-up needed?” Gundersund asked.

  “We don’t have the resources to track him down based on the little information we have. The officers tailing Jane said he was unknown to her, so no red flags.”

  “Are they following her again today?”

  “Heath isn’t keen on using resources to keep tabs on her but said we could follow her during regular hours. No overtime.”

  Stonechild spoke for the first time. “So she’s on her own between four in the evening and seven in the morning.”

  Rouleau nodded. “Not ideal, but nothing links her to the murder yet. From what the officers are reporting, she doesn’t do much except go to work and then home and periodically out for groceries or a walk. She jogs in the morning. Nothing exciting so far.”

  “Should we start re-interviewing witnesses?” Stonechild asked.

  Rouleau nodded. “We have to figure out where Devon went after school and who he was with. Re-cover old ground and see if anyone has remembered anything. Maybe some of his classmates were away or held something back. It’s worth another attempt.”

  Gundersund stood. “Woodhouse and Bennett, we’d like you to go to Devon’s school tomorrow and re-interview his football team, classmates, and teachers. Read through the files and see if you can work out anything we missed. Cross-check the class lists because we didn’t interview some of the students who were away the day we were there. Bedouin and Morrison will be back at the neighbourhood next to Murney Point on a second canvass. Stonechild and I will be visiting the Etons, Hansons, and Jane Thompson’s family.”

  Rouleau said, “Remember to share anything new that you find out. Forensics should have its full report in tomorrow, so hopefully, they’ll have something concrete for us to work with, specifically the exact cause of death and the tox screen results. We should also be getting a report on the contents of Devon’s computer and iPad early this week. Thanks again for working another weekend. We’ll take a day off soon, especially those of you who were in yesterday as well as today.”

  The team broke up to spend the rest of the morning on the phone and combing through docu-

  ments. Rouleau retired to his office and sifted through the pile of paperwork that Vera had left for him. The bureaucratic end of his job was what would drive him into retirement, although that was still a few years off.

  Stonechild knocked on his door at two o’clock, waving a tray with sandwiches and coffee from a nearby deli. “Lunch is served,” she said, and accepted his offer to sit and keep him company while they ate.

  “Where are the others?” he asked, taking a bite of ham and cheese.

  “Knocking on doors. Woodhouse and Bennett offered to help Bedouin and Morrison canvass near Murney Point. Gundersund is running a few errands and plans to be back in half an hour.”

  “Good. I’ve been wondering what your take is on Jane Thompson.”

  “She’s hard to read. I’m not sure if she was always so closed off or if her years in prison made her that way. She strikes me as smart but extremely guarded … no pun intended.” She smiled. “What do you think?”

  “Much the same. The Whig reporter Marci Stokes waylaid me the other evening after work, and she’s questioning why Jane confessed after holding fast to her innocence throughout the trial and one year into her sentence.”

  “That struck me as odd, too. Jane’s answer to your question about why she suddenly confessed seemed evasive.”

  “Sometimes people who perpetrate sexual crimes on kids don’t believe they’ve done anything wrong. We’ve all heard about the underground network of pedophiles giving one another validation and mutual approbation. Often, they feel superior and above the rules.”

  “I could try to get close to Jane and get her to talk.”

  “Except that you sat in on her interview and she’s unlikely to let her guard down.” Rouleau thought for a moment. “I know she’s not our favourite reporter, but Marci Stokes managed to make a connection with Jane and even bought her a coffee.”

  Stonechild met his gaze. “I’m not holding a grudge against Marci for writing a story about me, even if I wish she hadn’t. Everything she wrote was true.” She shrugged. “If you like, I can track her down and see if she’ll try again with Jane.”

  “At this point, it couldn’t hurt. Meet with Marci and see if she’ll give us a hand.”

  “I’ll call her when I get back to my desk.”

  Marci Stokes agreed to meet Kala at five o’clock at a café at the corner of Ontario Street and William, a stone’s throw from Lake Ontario. Kala drove toward the waterfront and parked her truck on a side street a few blocks away. The short walk was invigorating. It felt good to be in the fresh air after sitting at her desk all day. The rain had stopped early afternoon, and while the air felt damp, the breeze was lighter than when Kala had stepped outside her house in the morning and surprisingly warm.

  The Common Market sign, bolted into the limestone wall above red awnings, was a painting of shipbuilders and sailboats with gold lettering inside a navy border. Kala had driven by on occasion but never entered the building and was charmed by the brick fireplace, limestone walls, and warm woodwork. The tables and chairs were mismatched but the decor worked, especially when she smelled the rich scent of coffee and fresh baking — breads and croissants, chocolate and cinnamon. Kala searched the tables of customers but Marci hadn’t yet arrived, so she walked to the counter and ordered a caffè latte and lemon square. The girls at the table next to the fireplace got up to leave and Kala grabbed their spot. She settled in and took a moment to savour the lemon pastry and milky coffee.

  The front door opened as Kala took the last bite of the tart and Marci rushed into the café. She spotted Kala and signalled a greeting before heading straight to the counter. She arrived at the table with a scone and coffee and shrugged out of her trench coat as she sat down. “Sorry I’m late. I had to fini
sh a story before I left the office.”

  “Thanks for meeting me on short notice.”

  “Yeah, well, I was glad you called because I’ve been wanting to apologize for that article about your homeless stint. If it means anything, I had second thoughts after I wrote it, but my editor printed the story without my knowledge. The worst part was that he edited out the paragraph where I expressed my admiration for the way you turned your life around. I hope the story didn’t cause any problems. Rouleau reprimanded me with a rather terse email.”

  “Forget it. I have. I actually wanted to meet with you about Jane Thompson. I understand you had coffee with her.”

  Marci looked at Kala while biting into her scone, her eyes searching Kala’s face. “So no make-up sex,” she said, smiling. “I guess I can’t blame you or Rouleau if you were pissed at me.” She slumped back in the chair. “Yeah, I had coffee with Jane. Understandably, she’s not doing well. Her former colleagues and neighbours painted a picture of this dreamy, smart woman. Good with kids, family-focused. Principled and seemingly above the tawdry. I’d say she lost all that mattered to her when she slept with her student. Now, she’s alone, suspicious, and haunted.”

  “Did you make a connection with her?”

  “Hard to know.” Marci reached into her bag and pulled out her tape recorder. “I recorded our conversation without her knowing. And before you think I’m a total miscreant, I had no plans to use it.” She clicked play and Kala leaned closer to listen.

  The tape finished and Kala straightened. “A bit muffled but clear enough. She doesn’t give anything away, does she?”

  “No. She wouldn’t even deny killing Devon when I gave her the chance. I thought she might have. The part I find interesting is when she says that after all she did, her husband is keeping the kids from her. That doesn’t fit in anywhere unless she killed Devon as a way to show her husband she was atoning?”

  Kala replayed Jane’s words in her mind. “You’re right. Something is off. Would you be willing to make contact with her again and try to gain her confidence?”

  “I’m guessing off the record.”

  “We can discuss releasing the information after you meet with her and we see what she reveals.”

  Marci tore off a piece of scone and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes again studied Kala’s face while she decided whether to play along. “You and I are a lot alike, you know. We both work in male-dominated professions and have to toil twice as hard to get half as far. Where do you plan to take your career, Kala Stonechild? Where do you see yourself in five, ten years?”

  Kala had no idea how to respond. Where did she even see herself next week? “I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “Let me give you an important bit of advice. Have a plan and stick to it. Don’t let anyone or anything distract you along the way. I knew where I wanted to go — editor-in-chief of a major newspaper — and I let myself get sidetracked by a man, who now wants nothing more than to destroy me. I’ve been reduced to compromising my integrity to stay in the game.”

  “You’re a good reporter. I started following your work after you wrote that piece about me.”

  “I’m a damn good reporter, and I would have made a damn good editor-in-chief. Now, I’m reduced to making deals with the police to get a story ahead of the CBC. Yeah, I’ll have another go at Jane Thompson, but only because I smell a story and I owe you one.”

  “You could record her again, and I’ll stay in the background.”

  “We aren’t forgetting that this is a woman who stuck by her claims of innocence for a year after she went to prison. She’s not going to get tripped up at this point for murder.”

  “No, but she might give us something to follow up on. If she gets comfortable with you, she might make a slip.”

  “I wouldn’t bet the farm on it.”

  Jane sat in her sister’s kitchen and tried to imagine herself somewhere else, a trick she’d mastered in the prison cell. Sandra had been bustling around since her arrival, putting a roast chicken into the oven, peeling potatoes, and whipping up a dessert of cream puffs and chocolate sauce. She’d refused Jane’s offer of help and sat her at the dining room table with the bottle of Merlot that Jane had brought and was now steadily making her way through. At last, no more work was to be done and Sandra couldn’t avoid sitting with her any longer. Jane pulled herself out of a daydream and offered to share her wine.

  “I’ll get a glass.” Sandra was up and flitting around the kitchen again, her long, braided hair swishing back and forth as she moved. Jane watched her and tried to decide if this activity was more fren-

  etic than usual. She concluded that it was.

  “What’s got you upset?” Jane asked when Sandra had settled back across from her. Jane filled her glass almost to the brim and topped up her own. The bottle was empty and she hoped her sister had another on hand for their meal.

  Sandra stared at her. “You mean besides the fact that my sister just served three years for having sex with a student who happened to get himself murdered a month after she gets out of prison?”

  “I’ve got it under control.”

  “That’s the same thing you said after they arrested you.”

  “I won’t make the same mistakes.”

  Sandra’s lip lifted in a half-smile. “You’ve changed then, because you never planned ahead. Up until you were charged, you drifted through life and always stepped over the bad stuff without getting your shoes dirty. Speaking of which, have you been to see our mother since your release?”

  “No. From what you said, she won’t recognize me, anyway.”

  “Some days are more lucid than others. She might pull herself together enough to give you one final raking over.” Sandra laughed and her large chest lifted and fell under her flowered smock top.

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. She must have been in pig heaven knowing that every bad thing she

  envisioned for me came true.”

  “Man, the harder she came down on you, the harder you were to pin down. You drove her absolutely crazy, you know. She couldn’t figure out how to make you hurt enough to repent.”

  But she had, over and over again. Jane was good at pretending, but only because she couldn’t face the reality. She became a dreamer and compliant to survive. Even now, she cringed at the thought of seeing her mother’s face again. At the end of her life together with Adam, her mother had been like an ugly black cloud following her around. Jane had believed that Adam and the kids and a teaching job would make her mother happy, but they’d only revved up her religious zeal. “Your perfect husband married you for sex and how long will that last? He’s bound to find out how wicked and vain you are. I fear for your children if he doesn’t. God sees all and knows all and if you don’t repent your sins …” (Her mother always moaned at this point as if in unspeakable agony.) “Well, all I can say is that there’ll be a day of reckoning for you, my girl. My only hope is that I’m around to see you brought down off your high horse. Why I didn’t stop at one daughter, I’ll never know.”

  Adam had used his charm to win her mother over — as far as her mother could be won over — but he avoided her as years went on, passing pleasantries with her on the phone before handing it over to Jane. “I don’t know why you don’t make a break from her,” he’d say afterward, and she couldn’t explain why she kept on taking the calls. Perhaps it came down to the belief that her mother was right. She didn’t deserve her life. She was shallow and evil inside where nobody could see and her mother was her penance.

  Sandra raised her wine glass and clinked Jane’s. “To never letting our mother’s fire and brimstone justice bring us down again.”

  Jane met her sister’s eyes. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They swallowed gulps of wine.

  Sandra got up to take the chicken out of the oven to let it rest before cutting. She put potatoes and st
uffing into bowls and set them back into the oven to keep warm. “I used to be so jealous of you,” she said, returning with a salad and plates. “You were such a beautiful little kid, like a blond angel with eyes that could charm the devil. I think Mother was jealous too, if it comes down to it. Dad tried to get custody of you after he took off with Judy, did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he did. Just you, though. He was quite willing to leave me with her.”

  The bitterness in Sandra’s voice was raw pain and Jane reached out her hand to cover her sister’s larger one. She felt the familiar anxiety fluttering in her chest trying to escape. “I’m sorry, Sandra,” she said. “I wouldn’t have left without you.” Why hadn’t she known her father had wanted her with him? Her mother had told her so many times that she and Sandra were the reason he ran away that this version of the truth was part of her DNA. “He didn’t want to be saddled with you kids.” This realignment of the truth shook her to her core, but now was not the time to say so.

  Sandra took the foil off the chicken and cut off pieces with a long, sharp knife. She filled the platter and brought it to the table, returning for the potatoes and stuffing. Mercifully, she made one more trip to the wine rack for a bottle of pinot noir.

  “You’ll stay tonight,” Sandra invited. “I don’t like to think of you alone on the bus half corked.”

  “I’d like to stay, thanks.” The surprise was that Jane meant it. She looked at her sister’s bowed head as she cut into a piece of chicken and thought about all the misunderstanding over the years. They’d competed for crumbs of affection and become competitors until Jane moved out and married Adam, her saviour, or so she’d believed. She’d shut Sandra and her mother out of her married life except for the odd phone call, wanting to be free of them both. Now, the only one to stand by her was her sister. “Thanks for all your visits while I was inside. I never had a chance to thank you. They meant a lot.”