Purple Palette for Murder

by R. J. Harlick

  “In the morning your husband received the call that sent him to Digadeh,” she said.

  “Why didn’t he let the cops go after the man?”

  “My question exactly. Apparently there was no time. The daily flight to Digadeh was leaving in less than hour, so he took it, intending to notify the RCMP upon his arrival.”

  We hit one of those permafrost melt dips in the road a little too fast. If it hadn’t been for the seat belt, my head would’ve hit the roof. She could give Uncle Joe a few tips on speeding, if that were possible.

  “Did he?”

  “Unfortunately, neither of the community’s two constables was at the detachment, so he left a note. It’s included as evidence in the case against your husband.”

  “Don’t tell me. He wrote that he was looking for Frank, who beat up his daughter and put her in the hospital.”

  “More or less, except he did ask the police to arrest the man.”

  “So why didn’t he wait for that to happen?”

  “He was worried Frank would escape before the police could act on the note. Apparently someone he met on the road told him that Frank was heading into the bush.”

  I watched a plane rise up into the electric-blue sky and disappear into the billowing white of a cloud.

  “So what happened? Did Eric try to stop him?”

  “Eric doesn’t remember.”

  “Doesn’t remember! Why not?”

  “He says he blacked out. When he came to, he was lying beside Frank’s body with his bloody knife in his hand.”

  “Someone must’ve knocked him out.”

  “The RCMP had the Health Centre nurse check him out. She couldn’t find any evidence that he’d been hit on the head.”

  “Did she perform any other tests? He could’ve passed out from the extreme stress of the situation.”

  “Does he have any underlying medical conditions?”

  “No, he received a clean bill of health from his latest physical about six months ago. But you never know. He might have an underlying medical condition that wasn’t detected.”

  “I will ask that he undergo a thorough medical exam­ination. But if we are unable to find hard evidence for the blackout, we won’t be able to use it as a line of defence. In fact, at the moment, I have very little to use for my defence. It could be the best way to go is to plead manslaughter. We could argue that in trying to stop Frank from escaping, he accidentally killed him.” She wheeled the car into a parking spot and turned off the engine.

  “No way. I refuse to believe that my husband killed a man.”

  “Right now he is charged with first-degree murder. If I am not able to mount a credible defence against this charge, your husband will be going away for twenty-five years. But if we have the charge reduced to manslaughter, I would negotiate for an early release of three years.”

  “You are supposed to be the best defence lawyer in Canada. I will not let you plead him guilty to manslaughter. Either you mount a proper defence, or I will find another lawyer.”

  “Sorry, my dear. Your husband is my client, not you, and he wants to plead guilty to manslaughter.”

  TWENTY-six

  All the way to the hospital I couldn’t stop muttering, “You stupid idiot. How can you give up so easily?”

  This man wasn’t my husband. The Eric I knew was a fighter.

  His life was paved with causes he’d taken on, fought hard for, and for the most part won. His only reason for running for election as Migiskan Anishinabeg band chief was to correct the wrongs of the past and help his com­munity become more viable, both economically and socially. When he was confident that his people were well along the road to making this happen, he took on the challenge of overseeing the Grand Council of First Nations with the intention of moving as many of the serious issues facing its members toward resolution as he could. This job had barely begun. He had too much vested interest to give it up now without a fight.

  Pleading guilty made absolutely no sense. I refused to believe that he had anything to do with the killing of Frank Chocolate. So why take the easy road? To avoid the risk of spending twenty-five years in jail? Not likely. The man I married would fight the first-degree murder charge with every bit of ammunition he could muster. He would push his lawyer to do everything within her power to prove his innocence.

  So damn you, Eric, why aren’t you going to fight?

  Well, if you won’t, I will.

  I bounded up the stairs to the ICU floor with more zest than I’d felt since hearing the staggering words about his arrest. Hoping Teht’aa was fully conscious, I would start with her. If she said someone other than Frank attacked her, I was on my way to proving his innocence.

  But it was not to be. Although her eyes shone with recognition when I entered the room and she clasped my hand with surprising strength while voicing her gratitude at my putting my fears aside to be with her, she expressed only confusion when I finally felt it appropriate to ask about the attack.

  “Are you sure you don’t remember who did this to you?” I persisted.

  “I’m sorry, Meg, I wish I could. I want to see the monster caught as much as you do.” Her heart rate and blood pressure readings on the vitals monitor rose slightly before dipping back down to normal.

  “Is there anyone you know who would be capable of doing this?”

  She started to shake her head in answer, then stopped. “Oooh, that hurts too much.” Using her unbroken arm, she reached up and gingerly patted the bandage swaddling her head, then touched those on her face. “I guess I don’t look too hot, eh?”

  “At the moment, you’d give a zombie stiff competition, but in a few weeks’ time, you’ll be back to your beautiful self.”

  She flashed one of her signature smiles, then grimaced. “Ouch, that hurts too.”

  “Could it have been Frank?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Your father thinks he hurt you a while back.”

  “He’s wrong. Just because he saw a bruise on my face, he thinks the worst.”

  “He loves you. He doesn’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “For your information, I did it to myself, okay? I accidentally hit an open drawer when I was picking something off the floor. By the way, where is Dad? Surely he’s returned from his hunting trip.”

  “Didn’t Uncle Joe tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  She didn’t need this kind of a shock after five days in a coma, but if I didn’t tell her, she wouldn’t stop bugging me. “Sorry, Teht’aa, there’s no easy way to say it. He’s in jail, but he should be out Friday.”

  “Jail? Dad? What for?” She tried to sit up but winced and collapsed back onto the pillow.

  I swallowed. “He’s been charged with murder.”

  “Murder?” Her voice rose several octaves, along with her blood pressure. “Who?”

  “Frank.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Her heart rate was spiking too. But mine probably had too when I first heard the news. Still, I thought it best to wave the nurse over.

  “Are you sure Frank wasn’t the man who attacked you?”

  “Is that what Dad thinks?”

  I nodded. “Someone told him Frank did it.”

  I squeezed up against the bed to let the nurse pass behind me.

  “You’re upsetting the patient,” the nurse interjected. “You should leave.”

  “No, she can’t,” Teht’aa cried out. “I have to find out about my father.”

  “I understand, but you need to rest. We don’t want you to have a setback,” the nurse answered.

  “Not knowing will make me more upset.”

  The nurse picked up a small pill container from the bedside table and a glass with a straw. “Take this. It will help calm you.” She tapped a tiny white pill onto Teht’aa’s open
palm and held the straw close to her mouth, waiting for her to swallow the pill.

  “You’ll have a few minutes before it takes effect.”

  She scrutinized the monitor one last time before returning to the nurses’ station. Either Teht’aa was over the initial shock, or the pill was having an immediate effect, for her vitals were starting to lower.

  “Fuck, I can’t believe Frank’s dead. And Dad is supposed to have killed him? No way. I don’t believe it. When is this supposed to have happened?”

  “Saturday.”

  “But Frank wasn’t even in Yellowknife. He was supposed to be in Digadeh.”

  “That’s where he was killed.”

  “Are you saying Dad was in Digadeh too?”

  “Yup. Do you know if Frank was in Digadeh the night of your attack?” I crossed my fingers.

  “That was last Wednesday, right? God, I can’t believe I was out cold for five days.” She yawned and shut her eyes for a second. “Frank told me he’d booked the Thursday flight.”

  “That means he was still in Yellowknife Wednesday night, so he can’t be ruled out as a suspect. Damn. I’d been hoping.”

  “Why?”

  “If someone other than Frank attacked you, it would help your father.”

  “Because the police think he killed Frank because of me?”

  “Right. So can you think of anyone else? What about Hans Walther?”

  “Hans? How do you know about him?”

  “He’s been wanting to visit you. He says he’s your boyfriend.”

  “No way,” she sputtered, then yawned again.

  “Could he have attacked you?”

  “He can be a little fierce, but no, I don’t think so.” Her mouth opened in yet another yawn. “Could you do something for me? Next time you come could you bring my computer? It’s on my desk in the apartment.” Her eyelids drifted closed.

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid I have bad news. It was stolen.”

  “What?” Her eyes shot open. “Can’t be. You need to get it back.”

  “I’m sure the police will do their best to locate it. But if not, your insurance will cover the cost of a replacement.”

  “I don’t care about the computer. I need what’s on it. You have to find it for me.” Her eyes closed. “It’s the only copy … I have of the data.”

  “What data?”

  “Story … I’m working on. It’s … it’s about … dzìewà….” Sleep silenced her.

  TWENTY-seven

  My phone call found Uncle Joe at his son’s house. After leaving his grandniece, he’d taken his son’s truck to catch lake trout for their evening meal. But despite my love of freshly caught fish and the warm reception by his family yesterday, I turned down his invitation to join them. I wanted to focus on helping Eric. Besides, I couldn’t justify enjoying a delicious meal and lively company while my husband languished alone in a cold, sterile cell, eating tasteless prison food.

  On the bright side, Derrick had left a message while I was with Teht’aa. My husband had been transferred to the Correction Centre, which meant visits were allowed. Finally. The lawyer was trying to arrange one for tomorrow afternoon. At last I could be with him, hug him, kiss him, if allowed, and we’d talk. Oh, we’d talk. He’d tell me everything he knew about Teht’aa’s attack and all that followed, and I’d do my utmost to persuade him to give up this ridiculous idea of pleading guilty.

  Before heading back to the apartment, I decided to check out the place where the police said Teht’aa had been found, hoping it might give me some insight into the assault. With the downtown core concentrated in a six-block area — mind you, they were large blocks — it didn’t take me long to find the butt-strewn piece of asphalt in the alley behind the Gold Range Motel where she’d almost died. A piece of yellow police tape tied to the handle of a waste container confirmed I’d found the right place. With images of a bleeding and battered Teht’aa foremost in my mind, I gingerly stepped over the area while several smokers eyed me with suspicion from behind the container.

  In the broad daylight of a northern evening, it seemed an innocent enough place, despite the litter. But when night arrived, it would take on a more ominous feel. Apart from a single light at the back door of the motel, I didn’t see any other building lights or streetlights. At the end of the alley was the liquor store I’d passed driving here. While it was busy at this time of day, it would’ve been closed when Teht’aa was attacked. The same would apply to the rest of the buildings, low-rise and commercial, backing onto the lane. A parking lot, mostly empty, stretched between the alley and the next street. I doubted there would be any traffic, foot or otherwise, after business hours. Not exactly a place that a single woman would want to visit late at night.

  So what in the world had Teht’aa been doing here?

  I started at the sound of a soft voice behind me. “Lady, please, you got a cigarette?”

  I turned around to find a scrawny middle-aged woman with hanks of black oily hair tickling her chin. Her shoulders were hunched under a faded yellow nylon jacket with a broken zipper. She clutched it closed to keep it from billowing open in the wind. Hope tinged the wrinkles etched in her broad face.

  “Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  “Maybe a twenty to get some?” She bit her lower lip.

  I reached into my purse. “Do you spend time here?”

  “Yah, I guess. Here and there.” A dirty, bare toe poked through the frayed hole in her running shoe.

  “Were you here last Wednesday night?”

  “What night that?”

  “Wednesday, a week ago tomorrow.”

  “Yah, I guess. I don’t remember.”

  “She’s here most days. This is her hangout, eh Lucy?” An elderly man approached. He was about Uncle Joe’s age, but with more flesh on his bones, less hair on his head, and a surer gait. A gauze bandage covered one of his cheeks. “But since she can barely remember what she did an hour ago, she’s not going to remember last week.” He spoke with a faint British accent. “I’m Father Harris. Perhaps I can help you?”

  “My stepdaughter was assaulted in this alley last week.”

  “I see. You must be Eric Odjik’s wife. I’d heard that you were in town. I’m sorry about Teht’aa. Lovely woman. I have been praying to our dear Lord that she will survive this terrible tragedy.”

  “Maybe your prayers have worked. She has regained consciousness. By the way, I’m Meg and a Harris too. Someone thought we might be related, but I don’t think so. My family is Protestant, and as far as I know none of my far-flung relatives ever wandered this far north.”

  “You never can tell. An ancestor might have found the right path.” His mournful face brightened slightly with a wisp of a smile. “But I’m from Britain originally, arrived in the early 1960s, so unless your family still has ties to the old country, I agree it’s not likely.”

  “I’m afraid my family ties to Britain date back to the early 1800s, when the first Joseph Harris arrived as a member of the British army. So any connection we had to England has long since been severed.”

  “You say your stepdaughter is out of the coma. Has she identified the man who did this terrible thing to her?”

  “Unfortunately not. She doesn’t remember. But I’m hoping with time that she will.”

  “Yes, right. I will pray for her speedy recovery. Now, if you don’t mind, I must continue my rounds.”

  “Rounds? Do you come by here regularly?”

  “Yes, most nights. We have too many lost souls wandering the streets of Yellowknife, lost souls like Lucy and her friends.” His eyes shifted to the bedraggled woman walking with a slightly lopsided gait back to the garbage container to join the other two equally bedraggled women. “I like to ensure they have a place to sleep for the night, particularly when the temperatures are below freezing.”

  “Wer
e you here last Wednesday?”

  “The police have already asked me that. Unfortunately, Wednesday is my night off, so I would not have been able to help your daughter. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. Since you know this alley and the people who frequent it, can you think of any likely suspects? Maybe someone who has a history of sexual assaults?”

  Touching the bandage on his face, he stared blankly at me for a few seconds before answering. “I wish I could help. You must understand that it has taken me many years to build up the trust of these people. If I betrayed this trust, my work would become all but useless. But to ease your mind, the lost souls I work with are for the most part only interested in getting their next drink. I suspect whoever did this terrible deed was likely a frequenter of this motel. It does have a reputation.”

  We both turned to face the anonymous back wall with its two rows of curtain-covered windows, except for one room with the curtains pushed aside.

  “Maybe someone in one of those rooms saw something,” I suggested. “But I imagine the police have already checked it out.”

  He continued to stare at the windows. “I imagine they have.”

  Lucy shuffled out from behind the container again and shambled toward us, while her two friends continued to watch from their sanctuary.

  “Maybe Lucy can remember something.”

  “I doubt it. I’m afraid years of drinking have done too much damage. I suspect she was also born with fetal alcohol syndrome. How old do you think she is?”

  “I’d guess in her fifties.”

  “She was thirty-two in March. Life has not been kind to her. I knew her mother, another lost soul. She attended the school where I taught.” He sighed. “I also knew her aunt.”

  “Are you talking about Saint Anne’s?”

  “Yes. How do you know?”

  “Teht’aa’s great uncle mentioned it. Joseph Bluegoose. You might know him?”

  “We’ve met. Now if you don’t mind, I really must be continuing on with my rounds. I have more lost souls to check on.” He held out his hand. “It’s been nice meeting you, Ms. Harris. I will start reciting a special prayer for Teht’aa in my evening prayers to help speed her recovery.”