by Lou Allin
A man’s voice said, “We’re trying to reach Bonnie Martin. This is Rob Dales from the Black Ball Ferry Office. We have something she left on board. Maybe quite some time ago. Can you please call us at …”
Holly gasped and sat down heavily on the breakfast bar stool, her feet dangling like a kid’s. “What the hell?” she said. When she tried to call the number, the hours of operation were over.
“‘Some time ago?’ Is this a horrible joke?” Norman stood rigidly, his face draining of colour and his hand shaking.
Holly went down the stairs and put her arms around his tall, lean frame. Just a hint of a stoop beginning to remind her that he was beginning his sixties. As a rule, they weren’t very demonstrative. Sometimes she missed her mother’s hugs.
“Too late for tonight. I’ll go down first thing in the morning. It must have her ID. She never carried a purse, just that tote bag.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Unwilling to wait UNTIL after work, Holly broke personal speed records, arriving in Victoria the next morning the moment the Black Ball Ferry office opened at eight. The Inner Harbour was the crown jewel of the city, with the dowager Empress Hotel on one side, the parliament buildings on the other along with the pink granite Hotel Grand Pacific. A horse carriage clopped its lazy way down the streets to pick up breakfast fares. She was lucky to find a parking spot in front of the newly refurbished CPR coliseum next door. Cars had already started to pull into line for the nine o’clock sailing. The old M.V. Coho had been commissioned before Holly was born, unlike the splashy new B.C. fleet, and she remembered bygone days when her parents took her to the States for the weekend on the same boat. If only she could turn back time.
Inside the office, she was directed to the lost and found, where a middle-aged woman greeted her, plopping onto the counter something she thought never to see again. A sturdy open canvas bag embroidered with a German shepherd. Seventeen-year-old Holly had ordered it from the L.L.Bean catalogue for her mother’s birthday. Their old shep had passed on the year before to tears from everyone, but with Holly off to college soon, her mother’s travelling, and her father’s job, it was no time to get another dog.
Too informal for a brief case or an attaché, Bonnie loved the tote because she could toss everything into it, including the jerky and apples she preferred for an on-the-run lunch. She kept papers in it along with her wallet, comb and brush, tissues, and the “kitchen sink,” as Norman joked.
Holly ran her fingers over it in reverence. But it had no secrets to whisper. It was empty. She looked in question at the woman, a pleasant faced grandmother with her family in a picture on the desk nearby. “I don’t understand. How did you know where to call? How long has this been here? It’s my mother’s, you see, and she’s been missing for a very long time.”
Em, as her nametag read, blinked at the news as her reading glasses bobbed on a chain around her neck. “Oh my dear. I’m so sorry,” she said, as she reached under a fold in the bottom of the bag. “The bag was found fallen behind a shelf when we did a major renovation here last week. It could have been there for years. We don’t keep records. People usually claim their belongings soon after they figure out that it was left on the ferry. We’ve mailed things all over the country. Even to Europe and Asia.”
“Yes, but …”
Em gave a proud smile. “I just started working here last month. I’m guessing that it seemed empty at first. But when I lifted this fold on the bottom, I found an address.” She showed Holly the small paper label for envelopes. It had her mother’s name along with her address. They had tried four Martins in Sooke before leaving the message.
Holly showed her RCMP ID to claim the bag and signed off on a waiver. “And there’s no one here who could say when it came in? No log or anything?”
Em seemed embarrassed. “Oh my. Let’s see. You could try old Bob Filman. He retired last year after forty years on the job. He lives over in Port Angeles.” The Black Ball was an American company, so that stood to reason. The line had been started when clipper ships crossed the oceans.
Holly left a message on her father’s answering machine at the office. He had told her to call immediately upon collecting the bag. She pulled into traffic and began the long haul west. At least she was travelling against the rush-hour flow. She took Government Street and veered up at Hillside to Douglas. The bag sat beside her, mute and faithful. Holly reached over and touched it as if it were a live thing. Bonnie was never without it. If she’d lost it before she’d disappeared, they would have heard. But what the hell was it doing en route to Washington State? Did the ferry keep records of cars? If she’d boarded on foot, Bonnie had vanished just before passports became mandatory to enter the U.S.
Assuming again. It made no sense at all that her mother had left it two hundred miles south of her last known call from Campbell River way up island. And yet the bag asserted a palpability impossible to ignore.
A canvas witness to her past had driven the thoughts of Lindsay out of her mind. A gravel truck gave her the horn when a light turned green and she didn’t move. Holly snapped back to the present. With communication so instant, soon the murder would hit the headlines from Victoria to Vancouver to Toronto, and the public pressure would be in full force. This was no drug deal gone wrong, a fatal beating outside a nightclub, the fringes of a minor gang war. Not since the beating and drowning death of a Victoria teenager by a vicious mob from her high school had the climate been so incendiary. Years later, the unrepentant female ringleader remained in jail.
At the office by nine, Holly read some online editorials on the Times Colonist website: “Paradise Lost for Island Women?” Angry citizens attacked the police for their lack of quick results. Had they no idea what rainforest meant at a crime scene? “Not even one person of interest?” a mother asked. One suggested that the RCMP was losing its effectiveness as a policing unit, that it belonged to a frontier era long gone and buried. The magical island was in deep trouble, despite the smug satisfaction that separated it from the rest of the country. From a national treasure to a national disgrace.
“Listen to this,” she said to Ann, feeling the heat across her face as she read. “How long must we wait for justice? All over the world we are known for our natural beauties and our peaceful and progressive lifestyle. Every possible resource should be marshalled and no expense spared until women can feel safe outdoors again.”
“Radio, TV, all the sources have picked up the story. The panic is spreading beyond the parks now that the scenes are linked. At UVic and Camosun, campus safewalk programs are being pushed to their limits. Other groups plan to picket at the legislature. The outdoor stores are stocking pepper spray.” Ann pulled out a tissue and polished her reading glasses as the errant sun peeked through the window.
“That’s a mess waiting to happen. It’s almost impossible to control where that stuff goes. Remember that photographer airlifted to bear country who started spraying himself while he was in a helicopter?” A can of OC, pepper spray, rode on her belt, but she’d never had occasion to use it. Studies showed that a “velcro effect” operated with OC in that the mere threat was enough to dissuade a subject, at least a rational one.
“One bright spot. They’ve made an arrest in Langford for those assaults,” Ann said. “The radio said that they took a confession from an eighteen-year-old yesterday. Two of the women have ID’d him.”
“Can’t be the same guy at all. Not the same targets. Not the same method. Plus one was a robbery.”
“My neighbour down the hall said that he was thinking of nipping over the border to buy his daughter a ‘lady-gun’ special for when she works the night shift at the Village Market. I told him he would be in big trouble if he got caught at customs. Lady gun. Can you imagine?” She took a two-handed stance with the imaginary weapon turned at ninety degrees, a preposterous pose that usually made them smile. Like most Canadians, Ann and Holly didn’t believe that carrying a firearm made anyone safer; it just upped the odds of an innocent
getting shot in the crossfire. Canada had a very controversial registry too tight for conservatives and too loose for liberals. Though varmint guns, hunting rifles, and shotguns were sold, hand guns and automatic weapons were off the menu.
“What nonsense. Many rapes and attacks are committed in daylight. There’s another false sense of security. And watch for the gun nuts to claim that everyone should be armed, even grade schoolers,” Holly added.
“What frosts me is that it’s the young, educated white women who make the news. Others are considered collateral damage as if they wanted to live in dangerous areas. What have you heard from Ed? My contacts downtown won’t even take my calls.”
“There’s a media blackout. Ed sent that paper scrap to forensics, but I’m not holding my breath. Another of those too-good-to-be true moments. It isn’t called a scrap for no reason.”
Holly looked at the calendar. It had been over a week since they’d seen or heard from their colleague. “I’m going to call Chipper,” she said to Ann, and picked up the office phone, on speaker function. “It’s a bad sign that he hasn’t contacted us. I’m thinking that he’s been told not to, but you’d think …”
A subdued but musical voice answered. Holly had met his parents only once, when Chipper had been hospitalized with minor burns from a brush fire. As an only child, he had a lot of pressure to succeed. “I am sorry, Corporal Holly, but he is working at West Shore.”
“When does he usually get off?”
“He used to be home right on time … before all this. Now it’s as if he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. At the table he is like a ghost. And he is out walking at all hours. Thinking he may see one of those men who have been preying on our women.” She choked back a sob.
“We hope’d he might call us.” She watched Ann’s face slump in the letdown.
“My apologies for my son. I know Chirakumar likes you and Corporal Ann so very much. He calls you his ladies. But he is not at all himself, my lovely boy. I think he has lost many pounds. I can hardly spoon a bite into him. Dessert he doesn’t even care to taste. And Diwali is coming. Our happiest time of the year. How can we celebrate when my son is in such trouble?”
Given her pride in her table, that must hurt. “I’m sorry to hear that. We think the world of … Chirakumar. He’s a friend as well as a colleague, and we’re sick about this.”
A sigh came over the speaker phone. “To be very honest, I think he is showing signs of depression. Not eating, not sleeping. A mother knows.”
“Did he say when he might get his official hearing?”
“The very formal part, you mean? He has already given testimony twice. I am thinking that this is killing him. Waiting, waiting, waiting. I have been making offerings to Ganesh ever since his happened. It may well take months, he tells me.” There was a pause and a sniff. “I am sorry. I must ring off now. Speaking about this distresses me so much, and my husband will be needing his tea. I have worries about him as well. He is not a young man anymore.”
Hanging up with her own sigh, Holly traded looks with Ann. The older woman had more faith in the force than Holly did.
A double line parted Ann’s eyebrows. “We need to give him a pep talk. Even if he’s not supposed to discuss the case. This doesn’t sound good. He’s way more sensitive than I thought. Men sometimes are, the poor babies.”
Minutes later, to their surprise, Boone checked in. “They’ve completed the autopsy,” he said, disappointment in his voice. “No semen, but lots of bruising. Poor kid had a rough time. She might have died during the rape because some of the tissue injuries are ante-mortem.”
“Jesus. No good news for us so far.”
“There is something. The fingernail scraping might provide some skin cells. That will take a bit longer even if they are rushing it. And of course they could be hers. When someone’s cutting off your air supply, your main concern is your own neck.”
Chipper would want to hear this. Maybe they should see what happened if they called West Shore. Trying his home in the evening might be the only choice, intrusive or not. A paranoid part of her wondered if his line was tapped. Surely not in Canada. She turned to Ann. “This day is dragging on forever. Ashley should be back from investigating that accident.”
A car screeched to a halt outside. Was there any other kind of entrance for the woman? Ashley hadn’t learned like Chipper to duck her head when entering the former cottage. Her hat came off, and she turned to grab it.
Ashley had done well at Sombrio. Were they back to square one? Ann folded her hands on her desk. Holly waited for the buzz bomb to land. Now she knew how Londoners felt during the Blitz. “What now?” asked Holly, aware that she was sounding like her own mother.
“I was coming back from investigating a fender bender the other side of Juan de Fuca Road. Went into the bushes for a pee, which was good that I did because …” Ashley was breathing hard, as if she’d run the last mile. More from excitement than exertion.
“We’re not interested in your bathroom habits. Are you saying someone saw you and reported you or something absurd like that?” Holly drummed her fingers on the desk.
“A woman at Sandcut Beach came out of the forest to the road and hailed me. Said she’d been raped. Choked with a wire. I took a brief statement, but it made more sense to …”
Both women stood up. “A wire?” they said in unison.
French, Sombrio, now Sandcut. All spots on the coast. Two was a coincidence. Three was a pattern. Holly’s spine felt cut off at the neck. But a rape, not a murder. Her mind did cartwheels for a long fraction of a second before she snapped back into the moment.
“Where is she? How badly was she injured?” Despite her concern for the girl, the double-edged thought hit her that they might at last have a witness. They hadn’t let out the information about the wire, only that the women had been strangled. Maddie Mattoon didn’t seem the type to talk about her attack. Inspector Crew would have warned her. But the five students with Lindsay.… Odds were good that they had mentioned it, even if cautioned. There was also the crazy possibility that it was a copycat crime. Some of the cleverest killers, if that was the right word, sandwiched their personal victim between or after two other hapless victims to misdirect the police.
“She’s not beaten up. I’m not that stupid. It seemed better to bring her here. I took the initiative. She begged for a few minutes to pull herself together, so I came in here first.” She shot them a defiant look. “I rolled with the flow. Sometimes you have to. That’s part of …”
Ann broke in. “We don’t need a protocol lesson. Get to the point.”
Ashley gulped back a breath and cast a look behind her through the window to where the Impala sat, dust motes still roiling in the air. She had probably driven like a demon. “She seems okay, considering what she’s been through. You know what it’s like down there, and I couldn’t get a connection. Stupid fucking radio system. One of these days, someone’s gonna really suffer.”
Holly traded glances with Ann. It was as if the criminal had found the weak underbelly of the force distribution. But something was a bit different. “The timing is getting closer. First it’s two weeks. Now it’s two days.”
Sandcut Beach, unlike the more established spots, was merely a slice in the forest where a person could walk to the ocean in minutes. It was part of the JDF Trail, but also a popular place for picnics. To the untutored eye of a driver, the unmarked entrance looked like a pull-off. But locals knew parking meant an attraction and kept information to themselves. A record-breaking Douglas fir, a fishing spot, a waterfall. Someone could be in and out in less than ten minutes. Any camping would be purely off the cuff. No sites. No registration. No drinking water. No toilets. Nature in the raw, like purists preferred.
“EMTs.” Ann picked up the phone. At least it wasn’t a matter of life and death.
Ashley gulped back a breath. “Um, I did crease the fender a little bit as I was leaving. A stump came out of nowhere and …”
“Never mind about the car. What did she say?” If Ashley had blown this one, conducted an impromptu interview that had upset the girl, she would be finding yet another secondment if not a new uniform as a security guard at Wal-Mart.
Ashley had her hands on her hips. Then she shifted and rubbed her neck with one hand. “She was pretty hysterical, but I calmed her down. Gave her some water. Told her to breathe. There are some marks on her neck. A sore shoulder. Nothing too serious.”
“What did the marks on the neck look like?” Holly asked, but remembered that Ashley had seen neither victim. They needed to get back out to the girl, but at this stage, any tiny detail might be critical.
“I didn’t look real carefully, but I didn’t see them at Sombrio, remember? It’s just so similar, though, don’t you think?” She scratched behind her ear absentmindedly. “Still …” Her voice trailed off.
Ann gave the contact information, hung up, and made a note. “If you think rape isn’t serious, try it sometime. I’m going to put on a fresh pot of tea. If she’s close to shock, she might take some honey in it. Have a little empathy for a change. We’re going to start thinking that you’re a sociopath.” She went into the lunchroom for the kettle. The sound of running water reached the room.
Ashley had opened her mouth, but closed it as Ann left. Then she flicked at a finger. Her purple designer nails had fresh stars and glitter, an indulgence hard to understand in an active profession. “But listen. You won’t believe it. She claims that she can give us identification. She saw the guy. It was daylight.”
Holly nearly gave her a hug, despite her patent dislike of the constable. “Saw him? All right! Maybe we have a break.” The fact that the attack was carried out in daylight didn’t mesh, but maybe the rapist had gotten careless. Cases like the Zodiac Killer rapist came to mind. The BTK murderer. Why was Ashley being so blasé? A posturing?