“We need to know who was here,” said Ashton, her voice hard.
Sophie turned back to her. Her cheeks were wet with tears. “I can’t tell you,” she said. “But it had nothing to do with this.”
“You need to tell us,” said Flanagan. “If it had nothing to do with what happened to Ed, then we won’t do anything about it. But we need to know.”
“He’s married,” said Sophie, and looked pleadingly at the two of them, seeking understanding.
“So?” said Ashton. “We don’t care about that.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, no matter what.”
Ashton was stern. “Sophie, this is not good. We don’t want to have to go up to the Hill, and start interviewing your colleagues and friends, asking them who you’re fucking. I bet you don’t want us to do that, do you?”
“Oh God,” said Sophie. “Let me talk to him. Give me the day. Let me tell him that I’m going to tell you, give him a chance to tell his wife.”
Jack had breakfast with his Aunt Peggy and Uncle Vern in their mobile home on the outskirts of Fort McMurray.
Vern was a pipefitter who spent twenty-five years working at the pulp mill in Grand Falls, until they shut the damned thing down. The severance and pension weren’t enough to live on, and there were suddenly two thousand other people looking for jobs there, so he went to a recruitment session put on by Syncrude, where they told them about Fort McMurray’s rinks and churches and a bunch of stuff Vern didn’t care about. Afterwards, in a one-on-one session, they told him they’d give him $125,000 for a one-year contract, plus four flights home. He signed the next day and flew out and started fitting pipes on a massive new project Syncrude was building, digging up millions of tonnes of bitumen-impregnated sand, and processing it in a massive upgrader.
Vern found the work more interesting than maintaining the old pulp machines in Grand Falls, but he missed Peggy and didn’t like spending his nights in a work camp with a bunch of other fellows, some of whom he didn’t like or trust. So he hitched a ride to Edmonton and bought the motor home and asked the human resources department if he could use one of his tickets home to fly Peggy out. She got a job quick enough, at a coffee shop downtown, and they found a tidy trailer park, full of other couples like themselves.
They told Jack about this as they had breakfast, and told him he was welcome to stay as long as he liked.
“B’y, you wouldn’t be the first fellow from home to camp out on that couch,” said Vern. “Some mornings I don’t know who I’m gonna find out here, ’cept he’s a bayman with a job but no place to stay. Seems like half the young fellas from home are here, with a pocket full of money and no place to lay their heads. And the ones that aren’t here are in Red Deer, or Grand Prairie.”
“Fort McNewfie,” said Peggy.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Jack. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, really, but I hope it will only take me a few days to do my research.”
“What’s it about, b’y?” asked Vern.
Jack had thought about what he would say. “I’m working on a story that might be connected to federal politics, but I don’t know if it is or not. A girl, a prostitute named Rena Redcloud, was murdered here two years ago. I’m going to poke around, see what I find.”
“Redcloud,” said Vern. “There’s a Redcloud works on the project with me. Mike. Nice fellow. Cree, is he? No. Dene. From Fort McKay. Young fellow. Always on time and that. Always ready to work.”
“Sure, he must be related to the girl,” said Peggy.
“I imagine I should talk to him,” said Jack. “But do me a favour, Uncle Vern. Don’t mention my project to him until I do a bit of research.”
“What project?” said Vern.
They all got in Vern’s company truck – a white extended-cab Dodge with a buggy whip antennae sticking up from the cab, with an orange flag on top. As they drove to town, they joined a stream of similar vehicles.
“Why do all the trucks have the antennas?” asked Jack.
“That’s so the big Jesus trucks can see them,” said Vern. “The sand trucks are so big they can crush a pickup like this and the driver won’t even notice.”
They dropped him off at the town library, and he sat down to go through the electronic archives of Fort McMurray Today.
The first mention of Rena Redcloud was a picture of her – published July 18, 2002 – dancing in a powwow in Fort McKay, a Dene community north of Fort McMurray. She was fourteen then, one of a group of teenage girls in buckskin dancing in front of a group of men beating a big drum with sticks. One of the drummers was Dennis Redcloud, who Jack guessed was her father.
The next item was the death notice for her mother, Sara Redcloud (nee Augustine), who died after bravely fighting cancer in 2004. Rena had an older brother, Mike, and a younger sister, Karen.
The next item was a story about a prostitution bust, in 2006. Rena was one of a number of women who had been arrested after the RCMP launched an operation to put an end to street prostitution in Fort McMurray. The paper quoted Sgt. Earl Gushue saying, “Operation Clean Sweep is aimed at finding the women working as prostitutes and trying to get them off the streets. It’s unfortunate that the only way we are able to do that is by arresting them and charging them, but we’ve worked with the Fort McMurray office of Alberta Social Services to try to divert at-risk women into a program designed to get them off the street.”
Apparently the program didn’t work for Rena Redcloud, because she was mentioned in two court briefs a year later, the first a prostitution conviction, the second a conviction for theft, resisting arrest and possession of cocaine.
The next item was a story about her death.
August 14, 2008
Fort MacKay Woman Killed in Motel
Chinese Oil Executive Arrested
By Todd Prosper
A Chinese oil executive was charged early Tuesday morning with first-degree murder in the death of Rena Redcloud, 24, of Fort McKay.
Ling Cho Wi, of Beijing, China, was arrested at about 5 a.m. after police were called to investigate noise coming from a room at Great Western Motel, on Highway 18. They found the body of Redcloud and arrested Wi.
“Our officers were called to the scene and quickly ascertained that a homicide had taken place,” said RCMP spokesman Wayne Rogers. “They apprehended the suspect, secured the crime scene and the officers from our Major Crimes Unit began their investigation.”
Wi is a representative of SinoGaz, a Chinese oil company. He came to Fort McMurray to lead a team negotiating the acquisition of a 120-hectare oil sands development from Tallahassee, Fla.-based PanPetroDev.
In December, Wi told Fort McMurray Today that his company expected to eventually hire about 4,000 Canadians who would work side by side with Chinese workers to establish a large oil sands extraction operation.
“SinoGaz wants to establish a mutually beneficial relationship with Fort McMurray,” he said. “We’re excited by the opportunity here.”
Redcloud had been arrested for prostitution several times, and was convicted last year for prostitution, theft and cocaine possession.
Her father, Dennis Redcloud, told Fort McMurray Today that his daughter will be sadly missed.
“We are very sad,” he said in a telephone interview. “We have lost our daughter.”
Redcloud said he blamed drugs and alcohol for the death of his daughter.
“They made her a different person,” he said. “We will try to remember her as she was before she started with the drugs.”
Jack read the story three times.
The next story was three days later.
August 17, 2008
Social Worker Heartbroken by Redcloud’s Tragic Death
By Todd Prosper
The women who worked closely with Rena Redcloud in a program designed to get prostitutes off the streets are devastated that their efforts couldn’t prevent the troubled woman from returning to the sex trade.
Ir
ene Faulkner, director of the Second Chance program, which was established by the Alberta Human Services Department to try to encourage prostitutes to get off the street, said she keeps wondering if she could have done something more to help Redcloud.
“We’re very upset,” said Faulkner. “We really thought we were making progress with Rena. She was doing so well. She was talking about going to community college in the fall, but it seems that her drug and alcohol addictions were just too strong.”
Faulkner said that Redcloud was fun-loving, intelligent and artistic, with a passion for music and Aboriginal dance.
“She was very interested in First Nations culture,” said Faulkner. “We talked a lot about careers she could pursue if she could get out of sex work. She was still working the streets occasionally, but I think she had made up her mind to try to get out of the business. Then we read in the paper that she was murdered. It’s heartbreaking.”
Faulkner said her program had succeeded in getting some prostitutes off the streets, but it could never solve the problem.
“There are thousands of single men in the camps,” she told the paper. “They have pockets full of money and no family here. That creates a large market for sex trade workers, and that demand is going to be met.”
There was a picture with the story, showing Faulkner sitting at a crafts table, making a dream catcher with Redcloud. They were both smiling. Redcloud wore her hair in two long braids.
There was a short story from a few days later, when Ling Cho Wi had his preliminary hearing, was denied bail and transferred to the Edmonton Remand Centre, to await trail.
The next story appeared two weeks later.
August 30, 2008
Murder Suspect Found Dead in Remand Centre
By Todd Prosper
The Chinese oil executive charged with the murder of a Fort MacKay woman was killed in the Edmonton Remand Centre on Friday.
Ling Cho Wi, an executive with SinoGaz, was found dead at 5 a.m. in a bathroom at the jail. A news release from Alberta Correction Service said Wi was stabbed repeatedly with a knife made from a juice can. The knife was left at the scene of the attack.
Wi was charged with first-degree murder two weeks ago after the body of Rena Redcloud, a Fort MacKay woman, was found in his motel room in Fort McMurray.
Correctional Services plans to review its security procedures in wake of the attack.
The Edmonton Police Service is investigating the homicide.
“Officers from our homicide unit have examined the crime scene,” said spokesman Const. Sheila McDonough. “They are interviewing possible witnesses and following leads inside and outside the correctional facility.”
Simms flew into Toronto Island, took the shuttle to Union Station and got a taxi to NTV’s Toronto studio, where she joined a camera crew and set off for Goodson Fields, a public housing project near the intersection of Jane Street and Finch Avenue in the northwest of the city.
She looked up from her BlackBerry and wrinkled her nose at the grim neighbourhood when the van arrived at the community centre where Donahoe was supposed to be making his announcement. The community centre was cheerful and well looked after, with a brightly painted mural on its concrete wall, but the surrounding high-rise apartment buildings were ugly and run down. Aside from the media vehicles and a couple of police cars, the cars in the parking lot were cheap and old. There was garbage in the street, and a group of young black men in baggy pants and ball caps was hanging around on the corner. Normally a Toronto reporter would have handled the event, but Simms and Murphy had agreed she should fly in to ask Donahoe about Meech II.
There was already a good-sized group of local reporters assembled on a riser in the common room of the cheerful little community centre. Donahoe’s advance staff had set up a backdrop in a corner of the room: Taking Action to Help Crime Victims.
Simms ignored the local reporters and made a beeline for Dave Cochrane, who was chatting with some local reporters next to the backdrop.
“Hi Dave,” she said, and gave him the smile. “I want to have a word with you.” She turned to the other reporters saying, “Do you mind?” as she turned her back on them.
“Sure Ellen,” said Cochrane, stepping closer so that they could whisper. Ellen put her hand on his arm.
“Is Donahoe going to announce today?” she asked.
“Ellen, does this look like a campaign launch?” he said. “No. This is an announcement of a program, which we’re very proud of, to help victims of violent crime.”
“I hear he’s going to announce,” she said.
“Well, I don’t know about that. There will be a Q-and-A afterwards.”
“So he’s going to announce then?”
“We don’t want to take away from the announcement, but if someone asks him whether he’s getting calls, asking him to enter the race ….”
He looked up as a middle-aged black woman entered the room, following a little girl in an electric wheelchair.
“Oh,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”
He hurried over to shake the woman’s hand, and bent to chat with the little girl. They made their way to stand in front of the backdrop.
A few minutes later, Donahoe came into the room and greeted the little girl and her mother, then lined up with them in front of the backdrop. A press assistant moved through the reporters, handing out a backgrounder. Donahoe stepped to a podium and cleared his throat.
“Good afternoon everybody,” he said. “I want to introduce Myra Manchester, and thank her for agreeing to keep her daughter Grace out of school for the afternoon, to be here with us. I bet you don’t mind, do you Grace?”
Donahoe knew Myra and Grace well, and he took his time with their story, telling the audience how Grace had lost the use of her legs in a drive-by shooting, and how her mother and neighbours had held fundraisers to get her a wheelchair so that she could play basketball with her friends.
“You have a lot to be proud of, Myra Manchester,” he said, and led a long round of applause. Myra had to wipe her eyes.
Donahoe continued with a lump in his throat.
“Well, I want to tell you,” he said, “when Myra told me her story I was inspired, truly inspired by her spirit, and the spirit of her little girl. But I also was angry. I was angry to think that she had to hold a fundraiser to get her little girl that wheelchair, while the drug dealers who did this to her are getting their lawyers paid for by the taxpayers. So I am very, very happy to announce today the creation of a new program, the Special Fund for Victims of Violent Crime, which will provide families like the Manchesters with funding for wheelchairs, physiotherapy, sports programs, special training and education, whatever they need to give their kids every chance in life that other kids take for granted.”
He paused for applause.
“This permanent federal program will be funded with a one-time federal grant of $4 million,” he said. “But in the future it will be funded out of the federal government’s Proceeds of Crime Recovery Fund.”
Simms’s BlackBerry buzzed on her hip. It was Murphy.
She stepped away, from the riser, plugged one ear and took the call.
“Hey Scoop,” said Murphy. “You ready for the Q-and-A?”
“Yeah,” said Simms. “You still want to go ahead with it? This announcement makes him look like a hero. Any chance we’ll look cheap by hitting him with this?”
“No,” said Murphy. “If he wants to announce his candidacy with some poor kid in a wheelchair as his backdrop, that’s not our problem.”
“Cochrane said he wouldn’t announce today, but he would respond to questions in the Q-and-A,” said Simms.
“What’s he gonna say?” said Murphy. “’People are asking me to run, and I’m giving it serious consideration.’ Right? After he says that, ask him if he would open the Constitution to grant Quebec special status. Then right after the Q-and-A, we go to you for a standup, then play the tape.”
Flanagan set up the computer on a table ne
xt to his desk while Ashton went to fill Zwicker in on the result of their interview with Sophie. He booted it up, typed in the password, plugged in an external drive and started to copy over the contents of the hard drive. While the computer made the duplicate, he opened the documents folder and took a quick glance at the list of files: mostly personal business correspondence, tax files, resumes and letters to landlords. He opened the pictures folder, and clicked through snapshots, holiday pictures and party pics. He took a quick glance next at the history folder, and clicked on some of the most recent web pages, taking a quick look at the sites that Sophie had visited since Sawatski was attacked.
Sophie had checked the weather, some news and gossip sites and had spent a lot of time visiting web sites with information on brain damage. She read several pages, in both English and French, with reviews of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a book that a French writer managed to write although he had locked-in syndrome, and was able to communicate only by blinking.
Sophie had also repeatedly visited an online forum for people with family members with locked-in syndrome. When Flanagan went to the site, it automatically signed her in as Gaspegirl, and he was able to search the forums for her contributions.
The most recent was titled Disappointment.
Gaspegirl: I felt great after yesterday, when my boyfriend communicated with me and a friend for about five minutes. We had good eye contact, and he responded to my questions with clear blinks, but today he seemed not to want to talk at all. I had the feeling he could hear me but didn’t want to respond. It was so hard to lose him again.
Zitherwoman: Don’t give up so easily. It took six months after my husband’s accident before he was able to consistently have long chats with me. But now he can blink at me all the time. We have long chats every day, and I thank God that my husband has come back to me. Remember, we’re in His hands.
Flanagan made a note to show Ashton this exchange. Sophie might not be saying everything she knows, but it was clear from the forum messages that she cared about Ed and was doing what she could to help with his recovery.
He flicked back through the history folder to the days before Ed was found in the canal. There was a lot of news and a lot of porn. Sawatski appeared to visit online video sites every day, and watch short, free pornographic films, mostly orgy and group sex videos. Flanagan grimaced and clicked on one at random and sat to watch. A colleague sitting behind him said, “Shouldn’t you save that kind of thing for home, Flanagan?”
Deadline Page 22