by Lou Allin
Just before she left, Holly told Chipper about the incident Saturday night. “No kidding,” he said, his tilde brows rising over eyes of velvet brown. “Wish I could have been there.”
“I know you mean that in the right way. You’re not suggesting that a big strong man was needed, are you?”
He tipped back his chin with a slight narrowing of the eyes. Was that a blush she saw?
“Never. A woman’s touch comes in handy dealing with other females. But you say you have a lead? That’s a bit of luck.”
“Good police work makes its own luck.” Another nugget from her mentor, Ben.
Chipper thought for a moment. Then he said, “Get this, then. Does this sound like a coincidence or what? Milt Carroll from West Shore stopped in at Dad’s store last week and told me about someone they’re having trouble with in Langford. He rushes out of nowhere to assault women walking alone after dark. Then just plain vanishes. Do you think it’s the same person?”
This was a perfect example of why communication between detachments was critical. She pooched out a lower lip in thought. “Langford’s twenty kilometres away. But this guy sounds pretty bold if he’s struck several times. What are the women like?”
Chipper ticked off points on his long, slender fingers. “The ages range from twelve to seventeen, all on the short side. Five two or less.”
Holly headed for the Mr. Coffee for a fresh cup. “Maddie Mattoon was taller than I am and very athletic. This M.O. is different, too. Middle of the city versus a quiet campground. Our guy has only hit once, but in my mind he’s much more dangerous. What kind of assault are we talking about in Langford? How far has it gone?”
“All he’s done so far is grab a quick feel, then run. He isn’t hanging around to strangle them.”
“Sound like a different animal to me. For one thing, he’d need a vehicle out at French Beach,” Holly said. “But keep track of this for us. We want to keep the avenues of information open.”
Ann said, “It’s not impossible for a clever felon to change his M.O. just to throw things off. They know how much we depend on force of habit. Look what happened with that Beltway Shooter. Two African-Americans. Totally out of profile for snipers.”
“True. When the criminal goes upstream against all the educated guesses …” Holly gave a disgusted shrug. “I love our park system. But it’s tough for us to spread out along sixty kilometres of beaches. Some spots don’t even have car access. They’re hike-in only. No opportunity to stake out the place or set up a decoy. And the Park-Watch people from the summer are gone now.” Sitting all day handing out brochures about avoiding car theft wasn’t Holly’s idea of a good time, but it appealed to a pensioner looking for a few seasonal bucks.
Chipper crossed his long legs. His shirts and pants bore razor creases thanks to Mom’s faithful ironing. “It could be a one-off. Or at least, let’s hope so.”
“The whole thing happening in the dark makes me nervous. I wonder if anything will turn up on the clothes she submitted. I haven’t gotten word back on that. Not that I even will unless I make a request. It’s their case.” She shivered. “But that wire. Talk about nightmares.”
Ann spoke up. “Don’t count on hearing anything soon. A friend of mine in Major Crimes says forensics are backed up to the Stone Age in anything less than a homicide.”
“Botched job or not, the premeditation bothers me. Who walks around like an all-purpose handyman carrying wire for strangling? He may be practising for something much worse.”
“So not a trace of him? No tire tracks?” Ann put in, arching her back in a routine stretch. Tuned to CSI, the public expected a crack unit in white and sometimes even black suits and booties combing every site with the latest in diagnostic tools.
“In a public park with wind, dust, and leaves blowing around? The inner grounds were locked to traffic. If he had a car, bicycle, or motorcycle back at the road, how would we know? It’s not like we have CC cameras operating like in some parts of big cities. I surveyed the campers. Unless three university lacrosse players are in league, forget it.” She paused and tugged on an earlobe. A slight flicker of her eyelids signalled hesitation.
“Yes?” In unison.
“When I went back after the inspector had left, I found something in the yurt.”
“The what?” Ann asked.
Holly drew a hut shape with her hands, adding after the description, “A tiny piece of what looked like tissue paper. I’m not sure what to do with it. Nobody wants to look like an idiot, but with nothing else …”
Ann and Chipper exchanged amused glances. “Let’s see this piece of evidence,” Ann said. “And don’t apologize for going the extra distance. No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.”
“That’s a great quote. I may use it someday. Oprah?”
“My grandmother, channelling Eleanor Roosevelt, one of her heroines.”
“Okay. But no laughing.” Holly went to her desk and collected the envelope. She removed the scrap with tweezers, and Ann applied her large magnifying glass as Chipper came over to peer over their shoulders.
“That is small all right. Paper, but it’s pretty degraded, whatever it was. It’s probably been wet and dry several times over,” Chipper said. Holly wondered if he was suppressing a smile, but his deadpan look was hard to read. “Not much to go on. It could have floated in from anywhere. It’s a micro-sample.”
“I asked HQ if I should send it to Vancouver and got laughed off the phone. We don’t have the resources, they told me in a nutshell.”
Ann asked, “What about that wire? I’m surprised that she wasn’t cut.”
“Maddie was too concerned with simply breathing. I would have been, too. Pitch black, and it all happened in seconds. Otherwise she might have passed out … or worse.”
“Seconds count when your air’s off. Lucky she didn’t end up brain damaged,” Chipper said with a dark look.
Holly went on. “Indulge me, gang. Let’s go back to what exactly he could have used to choke her.”
Ann adjusted her seat and stood to do a few back stretches. The others were accustomed to this once every hour. “Rope, for one. Polypropylene or old clothes line. Even something heavier. We live in a fishing village.”
Holly shook her head. “I saw her neck. Whatever was used was smooth. There were no abrasions, no discernible fibres.” She struggled to remember exactly how Maddie’s bruises looked. Pinching her fingers together, she added, “Thinner than this. Thicker than that.”
“Say the size of a coat hanger but supple,” Chipper added, running a finger around his collar in discomfort. “Lucky it wasn’t piano wire or that stuff to hang pictures. Poor kid.”
Holly gave a slow nod. “Very true. It would have cut into her skin. She was red and bruised from sticking her hands under it to try to breathe. Her fingers were marked but not cut. Her nails were short, so forget getting anything from beneath them, even if she’d had time to scratch the guy.” She demonstrated what she thought had happened.
Chipper raised a hand. “Hey, lawn trimmer line. That’s everywhere.” He made a pencil drawing about the same thinness. “I have to keep the weeds down around the back of the store where there’s a small lot. It’s very tough stuff. You can’t break it with your hands. Hard to cut, too. You need secateurs or tin snips. A perfect weapon. Well done, ladies. Now we’re thinking like a crim.”
“A crim. Don’t let us hear you talking about skels, or Holly’s Dad will give you one of his pop culture tests.” Ann chuckled to herself. “Anyway, getting inside a felon’s head is our job, Sonny Boy.”
“Everyone I know has a trimmer. Even I do,” Holly said. “Keeping blackberries at bay is a west-coast pastime.”
“Gas powered or those wimpy electric ones? You could be dangerous.” Chipper spread his hands to ward off a mock punch from Holly. “But in the meantime, what can we do? Put out the word?”
A line of exasperation creased Holly’s forehead. “The inspector deliber
ately told me to sit on this unless something else happens. I don’t feel right keeping silent.”
“We can’t put up signs in all the parks. What about a newspaper story?” Chipper asked.
Ann held up a warning finger. “It’s a very fine line between heightening awareness and starting a panic.”
“Panic, that’s what he said. It’s a sad day when a reliance on tourism covers up the truth and endangers people. If there were a cougar in the area, no problem. That’s part of our mystique.” She thought of the famous Jane Doe case in Toronto where a woman sued the police because they hadn’t notified the community that a rapist was operating in the area and that women needed to be on their guard.
She picked up the phone and dialled Pirjo at the Sooke News Mirror. “I have a leak for you. Write it up discreetly. And you have no idea where it came from.” In a few politic words, she put out an advisory. It was vague, but it would do the job. If she were strung up by her thumbs at the Evergreen Mall, Pirjo Raits would never give up her source. She was a nationally award-winning journalist who used her small-town stage for provincial improvement and dared her critics to try to stop her.
“Let’s get onto that licence-plate lead.” She tapped Chipper on the shoulder. “I’ll sign for your seminar. You’ve earned it. Let Shogun out for a whiz if I’m not back in a few hours, Ann. And, constable, come along for back up.”
“I’ll drive,” Chipper said.
Minutes later, Chipper sped off down the road. That left the detachment shorthanded, but they wouldn’t be far away. It was embarrassing and awkward to have only one official car like some backwoods boonie when they were next door to the provincial capital. They didn’t even have their own FB decal on the back trunk for aerial surveillance, not that they had ever been part of any. As for office furniture and electronics, they got castoffs if they were lucky.
Holly scanned Bailey Bridge near where a homeless man had died late that summer, pleased to see that the rains had ended the problematical free camping. Cold was one thing. Wet was another. In combination, they were not only uncomfortable but deadly.
Ten minutes later they entered the village of Sooke. A stable population of a few thousand in the fifties had mushroomed when a huge housing development spelled the end of the quiet fishing enclave. As prices in Victoria skyrocketed, developers bought up the picture-postcard harbourfront for condos, townhouses, and even a splashy hotel with a conference centre and wine bar. Driving an extra half an hour could save a homeowner one hundred thousand dollars. They passed the first traffic light near two small stripmalls. Fast-food incursions had been limited to McDonalds and A&W. Not even the ubiquitous Tims had made it to Sooke, the locals preferring their Serious Coffee and The Stick in the Mud. The tipping point was approaching. To update Victor Hugo’s saying, “Nothing, not all the armies in the world, can stop development.”
The car crossed Sooke River on the old bridge, the serene harbour on one side and the emerald chain of hills on the left. A pair of swans swam below. Leaving the forested hills of Saseenos, Chipper made the first right turn at Gillespie, then onto East Sooke Road. Thanks to no commercial development except for Bill’s Food and Feed, time was standing still for the moment. Houses had more acreage, which gave privacy but raised security concerns.
Gradually rising into the hills, she made another turn at the fire station onto Coppermine. Hidden by the bigleaf maple and alder foliage amid the evergreens, few homes were visible from the road. Late fall mums and asters in glass jars and fresh eggs in coolers sat for $3.50 on the honour system at makeshift stalls. This wasn’t strolling territory. Anyone who would steal eggs or chrysanthemums didn’t deserve to live in paradise.
House 1233 was at the end of Coppermine, down a long winding private road with a Beware of Dog sign. The west-coast-style Craftsman house trimmed with cedar was only a few years old. A large cream and brown Afghan hound with a long-nosed head turned limpid eyes toward her and loped over in an innocent fashion. A man in his thirties came down a temporary ramp from the deck, a puzzled look on his smooth, round face. His raven hair was razor cut, and he carried a can of soda. Holly and Chipper got out.
“Officers, hello. What can I do for you? Is there a problem?” He wore chinos, low cut boots, and a denim workshirt with an Orca embroidered on the pocket. Around his waist was a tool belt with a hammer and screwdrivers. At one corner of the yard, a shed was in progress. The dog came closer and nosed her knee with its muzzle.
“Cloudy, go now. The lady does not care for your drool.” He tossed a stone, and the animal trotted off in pursuit. “Ten months only. A baby. Good for prowlers who judge only by size.”
Jetta with the license plate in question was parked in a carport. Holly took a deep breath and scanned the yard. This was getting all too easy. In age and height, the man fit the suspect’s profile.
Holly introduced herself and Chipper to Victor Grobbo, who stood with broad shoulders, the neck of a bull, and arms folded in a less-than-happy pose. Then she explained what had happened at French Beach, watching his face for a reaction and resting her palms on her hips, slightly grazing the top of her holster. Victor brushed his hand down one sleeve, releasing a scatter of sawdust. “My God. That’s the same age as my little sister. Was the girl all right? You’re not saying that … and why come out here?”
“She’s doing well,” Holly said, then pointed to the vehicle. “But someone reported seeing your car at French Beach Saturday night. Would you mind telling me where you were from dusk to around eleven?” Knowing that the longer time frame might worry him further, she gave him a neutral stare, watching for body language. Words lied easily, and so did vocal tones. Posture, movement, and general tension were something else. Few people wanted uninvited police arrive at their home, even if no neighbours could witness the arrival.
“Saturday? Why, my wife Karen and I …” Then as his sharp, emerald eyes crinkled in mirth, he laughed loudly. Turning, he beckoned to her to come to the house. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Perhaps they had better come outside.” Holly looked at Chipper, and he notched up his posture one crank while he scanned the yard.
Holly’s defences tweaked, but a glance at a nearby clothesline changed her mind. Underwear and T-shirts, ladies’ panties, a bra, shorts, and jeans. So he didn’t live alone. She trusted her instincts, pulling along Chipper with a nod. His eyes narrowed a fraction.
The side door opened into a spacious gourmet kitchen with cherry cabinets and dark granite counters. Behind was a great room. A couple at retirement age sat on the sofa with mugs of coffee at their side. He was reading the paper. She was knitting a long and elaborate scarf. A wheelchair was parked nearby. It was hard to tell whose.
“My parents,” Victor said, motioning for them to stay seated. “They are visiting from Comox. Took the train down.” He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, and she looked up at him adoringly. “I think you might want to talk to them.”
“The police? What’s the matter, Victor?” the mother asked in mild alarm. Her silver hair was pinned in an elegant chignon and she had taken the trouble to dress in an attractive peach pantsuit good enough for church. “Is it a neighbourhood break-in or a bear on the loose?”
“The officer tells me that someone saw the car at the beach Saturday night. I wondered where you two lovebirds had been,” He shook his finger in good natured fun and earned a blush from his mother.
The couple, introduced as Elsa and Frederick, looked one to the other. “We were down there admiring the moon like we used to do when we lived here,” Frederick said. “We had a place on Invermuir Road. An old friend next door invited us to dinner. Later we went to the beach. Why are you asking about this? What happened?”
The old woman finished a stitch and jabbed the needles into the ball of wool. “What’s all the fuss about? It was such a beautiful night. When we were young … and more daring … we used to build driftwood structures and camp on the sand. You could do that before th
e park went in. We like to watch the freighters go by at night. Then there are the little fishing boats, too. A few were still out. We had a boat ourselves for halibut and salmon.”
Holly explained what had happened at the park. Shaking heads and tsks were their response. But neither had seen anything. “It was pitch dark,” Frederick said. “But there’s an easy graded asphalt path from the lot to the beach area. Easy access is very important for us now.”
His wife gave him a bittersweet look. “You almost had a heart attack pushing me back up.”
“Sorry that you made a trip for nothing,” Victor said to the officers.
Though she felt chagrined, Holly shook hands before they left, thanking them. “Don’t believe what you see on television. We might come to a hundred dead ends before an arrest. Hopefully there will be a final turn that takes us where we need to go.”
“I was a car salesman,” the old man confessed. “The last answer before yes is always no.”
Chipper offered her the wheel in fair turnabout, but she declined. “Too good to be true after all,” she said, watching the elegant Afghan caper like a ballerina. A nightmare of grooming. “And forget any cracks about making my own luck.”
“No way, Guv!” But a ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth before he turned the key and hit The Ocean 98.5, a soft rock radio station. K-os was singing about crabs in a bucket.
Driving back to Fossil Bay, Chipper braked for a buck that jumped across the road. Savvy residents had a habit of scanning the perimeters. This time the animal got away, and they sighed with relief.
They couldn’t do the same for the case. The odds of solving this assault were slim to none. Endless beaches surrounded by wilderness was big territory for three people and a communication system on a par with smoke signals. Unless, as Maddie had suggested in an unfortunate truth, he struck again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Around four o’clock that day, Holly faxed in her report on Maddie’s attack. The young girl had seemed in good spirits when Holly made a follow-up call. “This isn’t going to stop me,” she told Holly from her cell phone. “My roomie, her brother, and I are going up to Cathedral Grove.”