Cut to the Bone

by Joan Boswell

  “When we watched earlier, Ginny Wuttenee decided the word was ‘help,’ and we agree. That’s one reason we wanted you here, to see if you knew her.”

  They played the remainder of the tapes as Hollis continued to name renters and any visitors she knew.

  “As I said, I’ve been on the job three months and I don’t collect the rent cheques — they go to the company that owns the building. If friendly tenants stop to talk, I meet them as well as those who’ve had problems with something going wrong in their apartments. I’m sorry I can’t be more useful.”

  When she returned to her apartment, the Uno game was over and the girls were watching TV.

  “So, how’d it go?” Willem said.

  “What?”

  “Whatever you had to do when you went out and whatever the detectives wanted to see you about?”

  “I looked at security camera videos and identified those I knew. How about a beer?”

  “I have to go but you’re very jittery. What’s bothering you?”

  Initially, after she’d seen Norman, she had planned to talk to Willem, but what would that achieve? He was already worried about her. Once the twenty-four hours passed she’d tell him. “Nothing much. A murder in the apartment building you run is enough to make anyone a little jittery.” She threw her arms around his comforting body. “Thank you for looking after the girls. When will I see you again?”

  Willem pulled her tight and kissed her. “I’d like to stay but I can’t. Please take care of yourself. I’m worried about you. Tomorrow I’ll be here as soon as I can get away.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “That woman is hiding something,” Rhona said to Ian as the door closed behind Hollis.

  “I agree.”

  “Having dealt with her on three previous cases, I know she makes assumptions about what is and isn’t important. And she goes off on her own investigating and interfering.” She shook her head. “Most annoying, but we can’t beat information out of her.”

  “It could have nothing to do with this case. Maybe she’s broken a law or taken an action she believes is illegal. It’s not an uncommon reaction. Remember that before they co-operated we had to reassure the women on the fifth floor that we only wanted information, not to bring them in or to charge them with a crime.”

  Rhona gave the technician the high sign to pack up and go.

  “Clearly, some didn’t want to deal with us. But that speech made them realize that whoever killed Sabrina could have marked one of them as the next victim,” Ian said as he collected his gear.

  “What now?” Rhona asked.

  “I’m heading back. The RCMP officer responsible for Red Pheasant reserve promised to call me before he left work. Seven-thirty here is five-thirty there, so I’d better step on it. He said if he didn’t have any information, he’d pass me on to a band member who might.”

  Rhona swung her bag over her shoulder and joined him at the door. “I’ll see if the fingerprints in the room where Sabrina slept matched any perps on the register. Because he didn’t rape her or touch anything except for the weapon, we don’t have any DNA, but they may have found fibre fragments on the bedding, if he leaned over and braced himself to slash her throat with such force. So far nothing, but I’ll keep checking.”

  They parked the unmarked in the vehicle pool and took the elevator upstairs. The homicide office never closed down completely, but tonight no other detectives were working at their desks.

  Ian put through his call to Red Pheasant reserve. A man answered.

  “I’m using a speakerphone so my colleague, Detective Rhona Simpson, can listen and add anything she thinks is relevant. As you know, we’re looking for background information about Ginny Wuttenee. She told us she completed high school in North Battleford, but that’s all we know about her.

  “Her mother, grandmother, and sister live on the reserve. I’ll tell you what I have and give you their numbers. You can talk to them yourself, although you won’t be able to talk to her grandmother.”

  “Why is that?” Ian said.

  “Her grandmother …” The man paused.

  Rhona suspected he’d been about to make a politically incorrect remark and had thought better of it.

  “Her grandmother is mentally incapacitated, but even before she took sick, she refused to talk to white men and particularly hated ministers.”

  “Because of residential school,” Rhona said.

  “Everything goes back to the residential schools. They blame everything, everything on that.”

  Rhona felt her Cree grandmother urging her to intervene. “It’s Rhona Simpson here. Everything does hinge on those schools. They poisoned generations.” She wanted to bang her fist on her desk and shout at the officer, one of thousands over the years who had refused to see.

  “Look, I don’t want to argue with you, but kids from all over the British Empire got sent home to boarding school in England, and you don’t hear them demanding an apology, demanding a royal commission.” He spoke as if this was the definitive answer.

  “Are you crazy?” Rhona demanded.

  Ian’s face registered surprise and shock.

  “I beg your pardon,” the man said huffily.

  “Let me spell it out. Those children from the Empire came to England to be educated in their culture. To have the values of their culture inculcated in them. Some of them suffered severe physical punishments, some were sexually assaulted, but the difference was that they were not having their culture, the very essence of their beings, attacked, were not being told that they were worthless Indians, were not forbidden to speak their native languages, did not have their personal possessions ripped from their hands. I am appalled that a person like you, a person who deals with the Cree every day, would say something so asinine, so stupid.”

  Ian intervened. “My colleague feels very strongly about this subject.”

  “No kidding.”

  “We do want to know more about Ginny Wuttenee,” Ian said.

  Rhona put her head in her hands. Good thing she hadn’t faced this racist officer. She would have liked to kick him in the groin, or worse. Pretty bad attitude toward a fellow cop.

  “Like I said, her grandmother did and does not like white men. Her mother, who works as a Cree teacher in the community centre, isn’t much better. But it was her grandmother who insisted the girls, Ginny and her sister, finish high school. She believed Indian kids needed a really good education to succeed competing with white men and women.”

  “When Ms. Wuttenee finished high school, what happened to her?” Ian said.

  “She got into trouble, but what can you expect from women like her?”

  Rhona raised her head and said quietly. “Please tell us what happened. Don’t editorialize, just tell us.” She expected a story of an early unplanned pregnancy or a descent into alcoholism or drug dependency.

  “She stole her boyfriend’s truck and money he’d saved and disappeared.”

  “Did anyone in her family or anyone on the reserve know why she did this? Do they know where she is? Has she contacted her family?” Ian asked.

  “She’d committed a crime and it was our business to track her down. When I asked her mother and her brother why she’d done it and where she might be, they shrugged and said she must have had her reasons. They wouldn’t give me a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ to any other questions.”

  “Did you follow up? What about the boyfriend?”

  “His family swore they’d teach the girl a lesson, but when they say things like that, it’s usually all talk. I reminded them that this was a police matter, but I wasn’t too worried about them actually doing anything. Often they get upset and then throw a party or drink themselves into oblivion and forget about it. Like last year. Remember those two babies who froze to death. Alcohol does it every time.”

  “How long have you been in Saskatchewan?” Rhona asked.

  “Seven years.”

  “Isn’t that a long time for a posting? I thought it was usua
lly three?”

  Ian stared at her.

  Rhona knew she appeared tense, appeared to have activated every muscle, to be poised to spring.

  “That really isn’t our business,” Ian intervened.

  Oh, yes it is, Rhona wanted to scream but kept her voice level. “It’s time we made it our business to expose men like this as the Indian haters they are and demand that they be moved somewhere else.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this. I’ve told you what I know,” the officer said and hung up.

  “My God, Rhona have you lost it or what?” Ian said. “Good thing Frank didn’t hear you or you’d be in deep trouble. We’re supposed to maintain civil relations with other police forces, not attack their officers.”

  “I heard every word.” Frank Braithwaite, who’d been standing behind them in the doorway to his office, beckoned to Rhona. “Come into my office.”

  Rhona, still rigid and gripping her hands together as if to stop herself from doing something she’d regret, stood and followed Frank into his office.

  “How do you explain that unwarranted attack?” he demanded.

  Rhona interlocked her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

  “To put it mildly. Whatever possessed you? I thought you prided yourself on your professionalism, your calmness under fire.”

  “I do.”

  “I’d like an explanation,” Frank said.

  Rhona heard curiosity rather than anger in his voice. Should she explain? Would he understand her conflicted emotions? She had hardly sorted them out herself. Was it worth it to try to make him see how someone with Aboriginal ancestors felt? It was. Where to begin?

  “Remember the report on missing and murdered Aboriginal women written by the Sisters in Spirit? The one you asked me to read because I’m part Cree. Then you sent us off to check to see if there were Toronto cases that had fallen through the cracks?”

  “Of course. What does that have to do with what you just did?”

  Rhona took a deep breath. “That report affected me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.”

  “How so?”

  “Although it probably wasn’t impartial, the women who drafted it felt strongly and their emotions came through. They reported on the hundreds of Aboriginal women, lost souls, individuals society didn’t care about, didn’t search for when they went missing, and didn’t insist that the police find the killers when the women were murdered. I don’t need to tell you about Robert Pickton, the highway of tears, the missing women in Edmonton. The effects are ongoing and widespread. Those women had families, and even more important, they often had children.”

  Elbows on his desk, Frank tapped his fingertips together and listened.

  “You’re probably thinking that this isn’t news, and it isn’t. Nor is the poverty and degradation on some reserves. What is news is the long-term impact of the residential schools. We have the reconciliation commission, the government, and church apologies. That’s all very well, but I don’t think we can imagine what it must have been like for those children. If the adults running your life treat you as a worthless piece of shit and tell you that everything distinctive about your family and their life is bad, you’ll have no self-esteem. You’ll live your adult life feeling like that, looking for escape from the pain, the sense of worthlessness. Your children will inherit these feelings. It goes on and on and on. That’s the problem.”

  “I understand all that, but why are you so upset? Why did you launch into the officer like you did?”

  “Why? The western Indians signed treaties in the 1870s because the buffalo had disappeared and they were starving. The government undertook to change them from hunters and gatherers to farmers, to make them into mock whites. It didn’t work then and it’s not working now, and no one is willing to say that we took the wrong course. No government proposes the kind of changes that will make a difference.”

  Frank sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Strong generalizations. Maybe true, maybe not, but I don’t see why you’re so worked up.”

  “Because those were, those are my people, and I feel guilty as hell. I’ve never volunteered in the community, never offered to help, never acknowledged that as an educated, privileged woman I should act, should speak out, shouldn’t allow others to make racial slurs in my presence. I haven’t done it, haven’t wanted to draw attention to my Native heritage.”

  Frank stared at her.

  “I know. Because I’m a police officer I shouldn’t be emotional, and usually I’m not, but he really set me off with his remarks. He was so smug, such a know-it-all, that I lost it. I’m sorry and it won’t happen again, but that’s why I went off the deep end. It was guilt, my guilt.”

  “Okay. I admire the fact that you’ve owned up to the reason you reacted like you did. It wasn’t acceptable, but I understand. I could initiate disciplinary action but I won’t. We’ll forget about it. No report. It’s a good thing that only your partner heard that exchange, or I would have had to do something.”

  Even if he didn’t plan to take action, Rhona had blotted her copy book, but she couldn’t feel bad, because she’d finally articulated the feelings that had swirled around in her head for months. When she emerged from Frank’s office, Ian raised his eyebrows. She considered giving a thumbs-up but thought better of it.

  “Sorry he hung up because of my rant. We still need to know the boyfriend’s name, and if he lives on the Red Pheasant reserve. I could phone ….” she paused.

  “Of course you can’t. I’ll do it and apologize for you.”

  “Just don’t say it was a female thing,” Rhona said.

  “Why? That would get you off the hook. Hormones can be blamed for many things.”

  “You know how often misogynists use hormones to justify not having women in the police force. Don’t you use that. Say something innocuous like ‘she was up all night on a case.’ Or, better still, don’t offer an explanation.”

  “Do you want me to use the speakerphone?”

  “No. he’ll only enrage me again. Let’s find out who the boyfriend is and where to find him.”

  After Ian finished the brief conversation, he said, “The boyfriend’s name is Larry Baptiste. He left the reserve after Ginny stole his worldly goods. The family told the police they don’t know where he went. Maybe you’ll have better luck talking to them. I’ll give you his father’s phone number if you want to call.”

  Rhona recognized a peace offering, an acknowledgment that her outburst, while unprofessional, had not offended her partner. She reached for the paper on which Ian had scribbled the name and number. “Speakerphone?” she said.

  “Why not.”

  Should she introduce herself as a detective? She could expect one of two reactions if she did. Whoever took the call would fear that either a terrible accident had befallen a family member or that the person had committed a crime. Rarely did the police phone anyone, Aboriginal or otherwise, with good news. She remembered reading that during the Second World War, bad news came in yellow telegrams hand-delivered by the telegraph company. To open the door and see a man standing on the doorstep holding the yellow telegram almost always meant bad news. Today, when a member of the Aboriginal community received a call from the police, they must feel much the same way. She’d introduce herself without any rank and ask to speak to the son, which would tell whoever replied that she wasn’t calling to say he was dead.

  “This is Rhona Simpson. May I speak to Larry Baptiste?”

  “He doesn’t live here,” a gruff voice responded. “What’s this about?”

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  “John Baptiste. Larry’s father.”

  “Officer Rhona Simpson, Toronto Police. Do you know where we can find your son?”

  “What is this about?”

  No point in dragging Ginny Wuttenee into the picture. Any reference to her would likely anger Larry’s father. “My business is with your son, who’s not in trouble. I want to ask him some que
stions.”

  “It’s about that bloody woman, isn’t it? That bitch was the worst thing that ever happened to him.”

  Rhona neither confirmed nor denied, she just repeated her request.

  “Right after she hightailed it out of here with his stuff, he up and left his job in North Battleford. Didn’t give notice or anything, just left. That sure does a lot for our reputation for reliability. Didn’t tell us, not even his mother, that he was going. Broke her heart. He was her hope for the future.”

  “What kind of work does he do?”

  “He’s a mechanic, a damn good one too.”

  “Wherever he’s gone, that’s what he’s likely to be doing?”

  “Who knows?”

  “If you hear from him, will you call me?”

  “You still haven’t told me why. I can’t see turning him over to you without knowing what you want,” the man said in a voice dripping with suspicion.

  Time to admit the real reason they wanted to talk to Larry Baptiste. “You were right. It’s about Ginny Wuttenee,” Rhona said.

  “That bitch can only bring him bad luck. If I hear from him, I won’t call you. Find him yourself,” the man said and hung up.

  Rhona looked at Ian. “Is this going to be a needle in a haystack situation?”

  Ian raised an eyebrow and pushed the lock of unruly black hair out of his eyes. “Assuming he figured out she’d gone to Toronto, followed her, used his own name, and signed up for a landline tapping into Canada 411, we’d locate him. Lot of ifs, but if he’s here we can find him. However, I’m wondering if we should bother, since no one has attacked Ginny. Shouldn’t we focus on Sabrina’s contacts?”

  Rhona leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands behind her head. “I still suspect the perp killed the wrong girl. If he intended to murder Ginny, a client could have a motive, but a man she ‘wronged’ is more likely.”

  “We won’t find him tonight. Time to pack it in. You want to get some food?”

  Rhona didn’t allow her hopes to rise. Not exactly an overture for a heavy date with flowers and soft music. “Sure, gotta eat.”