A Green Place for Dying

by R. J. Harlick

  “I know he was looking into something related to these cases. He asked me for some information, which I provided. But I didn’t know what line he was following. He never discussed it.”

  “Given your knowledge of the cases, including the four murder victims, do you think it’s possible that a serial killer is involved?”

  “Hmm, as far as I know, no one’s raised that supposition. And I doubt they would. The method of killing was different, unlike what you’d find if the same perp murdered all four. We find a killer generally sticks to the same method, be it a gun or knife, even strangulation. That’s certainly the case with organized crime hit men, and of course with serial killers.”

  “But don’t these guys sometimes leave their victims in similar locations? I seem to remember that the Mohawk woman killed last year was also found in a wooded area in West Quebec, near Highway 5, I think. Do you know where the other woman was killed?”

  “Yeah, you have a point. The case you’re talking about happened about ten or so kilometres from where Becky’s body was found. And the other woman who was killed three years ago was also found on the Quebec side of the Ottawa River.”

  “But surely the fact that four young aboriginal women were killed in West Quebec should’ve raised red flags with the Sûrèté. Isn’t there some kind of a police computer system that looks for these types of similarities?”

  “Yeah, it’s called ViCLAS. A Canada-wide system run by the Mounties. I can check to see if these deaths were entered. Not all crimes are. Only violent ones.”

  “You can’t get more violent than murder.”

  “You like to think so, but some cops figure murder ain’t good enough for us.” He sighed. “Don’t mind me, Meg. I’m still fighting mad over the way the SQ treated Becky’s crime scene. Besides, entering the info takes a lot of time, so not every cop does it.”

  “Do they have any suspects yet in Becky’s murder?”

  “Not that I know of. Mind you, they aren’t exactly keeping me in the loop. But thanks for reminding me. I’ll give them another call.” He covered his phone as if speaking to somebody then came back on after a few long seconds.

  “Meg, you still there? Sorry about that. You’re asking some good questions. Ever think of becoming a cop?”

  I laughed. “Not on your life. I hate guns. Besides, I’m not very good with authority, so I’d probably find myself constantly fighting with my superiors. What about Eric? Any word yet?”

  “You don’t happen to know where Teht’aa is, do you?” The warmth had suddenly vanished from his voice. “I’ve been trying to reach her this morning.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s dead?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you, but the Ottawa cops have found some luggage. They’re pretty sure the suitcase belongs to Eric, but I just need Teht’aa’s say-so.”

  “Oh, shit. Where did they find it?”

  “I gather some beat cop came across a homeless guy trying to break into it in the ByWard Market. He recognized the name on the tag from the APB that’s been sent out about Eric. At least we got one cop who was on the ball.”

  My stomach clenched. “Does this mean he’s dead?”

  “It could mean a lot of things. He lost it. It was stolen. He could’ve even tossed it away and bought a new one.”

  “Not if his clothes were still in it?”

  “Now, Meg, I don’t want you to get all worried. I’m sure Eric’s fine. He’s pretty good at getting himself out of tricky situations. I’d better go. Got a lot of things on my plate.”

  I noticed he didn’t say the suitcase was empty, nor did he give me a chance to question him on the meaning of a “tricky situation.” With barely a perfunctory goodbye, he hung up, leaving me with sweaty palms and a pounding heart.

  Chapter

  Thirty—Two

  I could tell by the tears trickling down Teht’aa’s cheeks that the police chief had told her about the suitcase. She hadn’t answered when I’d called through the open side door of Eric’s bungalow. I figured she was in her bedroom changing, so I went inside to wait in the kitchen. Instead I found her crumpled up on the leather sofa in the living room, still wearing her got-the-job suit, although the jacket was now draped over the back of a chair. Sergei, lying on the sofa beside her, rested his head in her lap as if trying to comfort her.

  It had been many months since I’d been inside Eric’s home. I’d avoided it. Instead, whenever Teht’aa and I had gotten together, I’d asked her if she wouldn’t mind coming to Three Deer Point. I was afraid his house would speak too much of his presence, and it did. It damn well shouted it.

  His red and black logger’s shirt hanging beside the door smelled as only Eric could smell. The spice bottles on the kitchen counter were lined up as if he were about to cook one of his favourite meals. Even the pile of dirty dishes next to the sink could’ve been left by him, and his favourite sagging La-Z-Boy chair, complete with peeling duct tape, seemed to rock as if he’d just risen from it. Beside it on a table lay his much-thumbed copy of Kiss of the Fur Queen. It was almost too much for me. I would’ve turned tail and run if Teht’aa hadn’t needed me.

  In an attempt to convince both of us, I said, “The abandoned suitcase doesn’t necessarily mean something terrible has happened to your dad.”

  “Of course it does. Especially with his clothes still inside,” she shot back.

  “Will confirmed they were?”

  “Yeah, he recognized Dad’s ceremonial deerskin jacket from the description,” she sputtered.

  Unfortunately, it was catching. I slumped onto the couch, hid my face in the dog’s curly fur and let loose my own share of tears. Teht’aa reached across the dog and clasped my hands. I don’t know how long we both sobbed out our fears and anguish.

  I finally reached a point where I felt drained of emotion. I sat up and brushed away the last of the tears.

  Feeling one of us had to remain strong, I said, “Okay, we’ve both had a good cry. But we just can’t sit here waiting in terror of another phone call from Will. It’s not going to help us or Eric.”

  Teht’aa raised her head. Her face, no doubt mirroring mine, was puffy-eyed and blotchy. Sergei started licking her tears away.

  I continued, “Other than this suitcase, there is nothing to say Eric is dead. We have to continue to believe he is alive. So where are those papers you were talking about? Let’s go through them now.”

  Teht’aa firmed her lips as she straightened up. She brushed away the hair plastered to her cheek. “You’re right. The stuff’s over there.” She pointed to the dining room table. “You start while I change.”

  It looked as if Eric no longer bothered to have people in for one of his signature meals. Instead, the large maple table where we’d had many a memorable feast was stacked with papers and books. A couple of electrical cords snaked across the table to where he probably worked on his laptop. The brand new ergonomically designed office chair replacing a dining chair was a sure sign that his back was bothering him again. Little wonder, when he refused to stop using the sagging La-Z-Boy that had long since given up all pretense of providing good back support.

  I sank into the chair and began sifting through the first stack of papers, but they appeared to be mostly GCFN-related and nothing to do with missing women. The next stack was about a business venture another reserve was considering. Eric appeared to be offering them advice.

  I’d just uncovered files on five of the missing women when Teht’aa returned dressed in her usual garb of skintight blue jeans and equally tight T-shirt. I slid the files over as she pulled up a chair.

  “I’m not sure what we should be looking for,” I said, “but I guess anything that might have gotten your father into trouble, whatever that might be.”

  While she started going through the five files, I found files for six other missing women and the ones for three murdered women. I noted with surprise that there wasn’t a file for Fleur until I realized he’d probably disappeared before sh
e was declared officially missing. Nor was there one for Becky, no doubt for the same reason.

  I searched through the murdered victims’ files first. They contained mostly notes in Eric’s handwriting about inquiries he’d made with the Ottawa police, Will, and one or two family members, plus some printouts, mostly news articles, from Internet searches. Each also contained an official-looking case summary, which had probably come from Will.

  There was no mention of how the girls had been killed, nor was there any indication either officially or as part of Eric’s musings that a serial killer was being considered. But I did notice that he had circled the West Quebec crime scene location for each girl in red. He’d also red-circled another location related to two of the young women.

  “Teht’aa, it looks as if another common thread is the ByWard Market. One of the murdered victims was last seen at a bar in the Market and another lived in a rooming house on the edge. Have you seen any mention of it in your files?”

  “Yeah, this girl, Kelly, an Ojibwa from northern Ontario. She disappeared four years ago. Apparently she did some hooking on the side, and her usual place was in the Market.”

  “Does it say where?”

  “Yeah, Cumberland and Murray.”

  Monique’s corner, where I’d stood two nights ago.

  “And Dad circled this reference too,” Teht’aa added.

  “Any mention in the other files?”

  “Not in the other one I’ve finished, but I’ll check the last three.”

  By the time we finished going through all the files, we’d found five more with a ByWard Market connection, another prostitute who favoured a different corner, two residents, and two who worked there, one at O’Flaherty’s and the other at the Dreamcatcher Bistro.

  “That makes eight out of fourteen women with this connection,” I said. “I’d say a rather high percentage can be dismissed as coincidental. I’m absolutely amazed that the Ottawa police didn’t pick up on this.”

  Teht’aa merely shrugged, confirming her already low opinion of the Ottawa police. “I noticed Dad circled another common factor, although I only saw it in two of the files I was looking at. Maybe you saw it in yours. Les Diables Noirs. Didn’t you say the guy Fleur was seen with was a member of that gang?”

  I sat up. “I did, plus they were seen at O’Flaherty’s. Monique also mentioned Becky had a biker boyfriend. I also saw a mention of the Black Devils in two of these files.”

  “Makes you wonder if the gang is somehow involved, doesn’t it?”

  “It does, doesn’t it? Maybe if your father was trying to check into a possible connection, he might’ve asked one question too many.” I didn’t bother to finish the rest. Teht’aa’s imagination was as good as mine. “Curiously enough, Marie-Claude’s brother happens to be a member of this gang. I suggest we talk to him.”

  “But won’t it be dangerous?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe he’s genuinely worried and upset at his niece’s disappearance. In fact, he was going to check with some of his biker buddies to see if they knew anything about it.” I paused. “I’m beginning to wonder if he doesn’t either know or suspect that members of his gang might’ve had a hand in their disappearance.”

  “Are you suggesting they kidnapped them? For what purpose?”

  “Why do men usually kidnap women? For sex, what else. It certainly wouldn’t be for money. These women wouldn’t have any.”

  “So you’re saying these women may be stashed away in a Black Devils clubhouse?” Teht’aa leaned back into her chair as she shoved the files away from her.

  “I suppose so, for their own use or maybe as prostitutes. I could see a biker gang being involved in prostitution. They’re not exactly known as upstanding citizens.”

  “But one of these girls has been missing for over five years.” Teht’aa flipped open one of the files to show me a photo of a young woman, barely out of her teens, laughing at the camera. “Can you imagine the kind of shape she must be in now?”

  I didn’t want to think about it, and I certainly didn’t want to envision the impact this kind of life could have on an innocent like Fleur.

  “On the plus side, if one could say there is one, if bikers are involved, I think we can probably rule out a psycho serial killer,” I hazarded.

  “Maybe they’re not serial killers, but they sure don’t hesitate to kill. Look at all the headlines involving biker gang shootings.”

  “True, but I think they’re more likely to kill rivals than non-threatening people like these women. So I think it’s likely they, including Fleur, are still alive.”

  “Yes, but we know four of these women, including Becky, were murdered.”

  “Maybe something went wrong or their killings had nothing to do with the Black Devils.”

  “But what about Dad? Do you think he could still be alive, if the Black Devils do have him?”

  “The only way we’re going to find out is by asking Fleur’s uncle.”

  Chapter

  Thirty—Three

  With Sergei crowding the bench seat between us, Teht’aa and I headed back in my truck to Three Deer Point to retrieve the cell number Fleur’s uncle had given me. But the drive proved considerably slower than normal. Word had spread about the missing band chief, so we were constantly flagged down by worried passersby wanting to commiserate with Teht’aa. It did nothing to bolster Teht’aa’s frame of mind, so by the time our footsteps were echoing along the hall of Three Deer Point, her tears were flowing once again. It was all I could do not to join her.

  It took me a few minutes to locate J.P.’s number in the papers scattered by the kitchen phone, but when I did, it was only to discover that his phone was no longer working. I called Marie-Claude and fortunately reached Neige instead. Not being too adept at lying, I would’ve found myself stumbling over the half-truths I’d be forced to tell the distraught mother to avoid revealing the dark implications of Eric’s findings. Thankfully, her daughter was able to provide me with her uncle’s home number. That number was no longer in service, which I found curious, though it probably just meant he had recently moved.

  Hoping that his cell was either switched off or he was temporarily out of range, I tried it every fifteen minutes or so. In the meantime we ate lunch, my usual standby of chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. My culinary skills might not come close to Eric’s, but I thought I made a rather tasty grilled cheese, bacon, and tomato sandwich. Even Teht’aa agreed, although true to form, she only ate half of it.

  Finally J.P.’s cell worked.

  He gave a hurried “Ouiais,” barely audible above the rumble of a motorcycle engine and the rushing sound of wind.

  Worried he wouldn’t hear me, I shouted out my name.

  “No problem. I hear you okay. Gotta an earphone,” he shouted. “Whaddya want?”

  “I’m wondering if you’ve made any headway in your search for Fleur.”

  “Can’t talk. Be in Ottawa soon. You come, eh?”

  “You mean to Ottawa, now?”

  “Ouiais. I tell you what I find out.”

  “Okay, but it’ll take me a couple of hours. Where should I meet you?”

  “Bar LaFayette in the Market.”

  “It’s two o’clock now, but I won’t be able to get there until after four thirty.”

  “I got to do something first. Six o’clock better for me, okay?”

  A half-hour later I found myself sitting in Eric’s Grand Cherokee heading down the road from Migiskan, with Teht’aa driving and Sergei sound asleep in the back seat. Since Jid was still away, I didn’t want to leave the dog alone in the house in case my return was later than anticipated.

  Teht’aa was coming because she’d noticed several references to three women at the Welcome Centre during her search through the missing women’s files and felt we should follow up on those. Two of them were unavailable, namely Claire and Paulette, who wouldn’t be back in her office for another couple of days. The third, Louise, agre
ed to talk to us if we got to the Centre by four thirty. She had to leave by five.

  We were using Eric’s car, not only because was it considerably faster than my turtle-speed truck, but Sergei could have the entire back seat to himself, leaving us to enjoy the spacious front seats.

  And speedy the trip was. Despite a slowdown due to highway construction as we neared Gatineau, we arrived at the front door of the Anishinabeg Welcome Centre with ten minutes to spare, though I will admit that I couldn’t prevent myself from shuddering as we drove past the fluttering police tape where Claire’s car had plunged over the bridge.

  Doris at the front desk gave us directions to Louise’s office. “Louise’s got that hair appointment of hers, so you’d better be quick.”

  We rushed up the stairs, along the hallway past Paulette’s closed door, and stopped in front of Claire’s old office door. “Louise LePage,” read the new piece of paper taped under the Nanabush Youth Program sign.

  A diminutive woman whose flyaway locks did suggest a new haircut was in order was talking intently into the phone. Without interrupting her conversation or even offering us a welcoming smile, she gestured at the chairs by her desk. The longer the exchange continued, the gloomier her expression became.

  Even though the office had only been vacated two days ago, Louise had already stamped it with her style. While Claire had tried to create a more intimate, less threatening setting for client consultations by shoving her desk against the wall and placing chairs in the open space, Louise wanted you to know that she was in charge. She’d moved the desk into the middle of the long, narrow room and had re-established the boundary between caseworker and client by positioning the chairs in front. The second desk she’d made into a work table, now covered with stacks of case files and a large box of chocolates.

  Finally she put down the phone. For several long moments she sat in silence, her eyes unseeing, her fingers fidgeting with a pair of wire-rim glasses lying on the desk in front of her. Clearly something was wrong. Teht’aa and I exchanged nervous glances, wondering if we should interrupt or leave quietly.