by Andrew Pyper
Mr. Schantz was not in Grimshaw at the time of the murder, and police have stressed that neither he nor his wife is a suspect in their investigations. As to alternative leads, authorities admit they are currently without clear directions.
Miss Worth's body was discovered by Mrs. Schantz in an upstairs bedroom early on the morning of November 12. While police are not publicly disclosing the details of the crime, the Beacon has learned that it was a brutal attack, the weapon being a wood plank bearing a nail or screw at its end. This weapon was used in fatally striking Miss Worth several times.
A memorial service for Elizabeth Worth is to be held at McCutcheon's Funeral Home on Thursday, November 17, 2 P.M. Any gifts of remembrance are asked to be made to the Perth County Family Services, which administers the guardianship of orphans such as Miss Worth.
Paul Schantz. The old man we'd visited in the Cedarfield Seniors Home. The one who'd warned me about the dead coming back.
Next, an inky carbon copy.
CORONER'S REPORT-SUMMARY STATEMENT
Perth County Coroner's Office
Dr. Philip Underhill, B.Sc., M.D.
Deceased: Elizabeth Worth
Age: 16
Report Release Date: Friday, November 18, 1949
Cause of Death: Brain hemorrhage from head trauma. Circumstances involved repeated strikes to the skull (numbering 8 to 12) by a wood board. A three-inch screw affixed to the board creating an open fracture in the cranium, likely in initial strike. Subsequent blows using same instrument cause of fatal cerebral injury.
Autopsy (Summary Remarks): Homicide (see above). Upon examination, deceased showed indications of recent sexual battery and physical struggle (likely the result of resistance to attack). Nature of injuries consistent with non-consensual intercourse.
A short piece in The Globe and Mail.
"Not Our Man," Police Say
Announcement Clears Foster Father of Suspicion in Case
of Grimshaw Girl's Rape and Murder
By David Huggins
Grimshaw—At first, the murder of a young girl in this agricultural community was received by local residents with understandable shock. However, since parts of a coroner's report were released to the public showing Elizabeth Worth, 16, was sexually assaulted a short period prior to her death, this small, southwestern Ontario town has been gripped by rampant speculation as well as grief and fear.
Though community members have provided a "handful" of tips, police still have no substantive evidence or suspects in the case.
For some, suspicion was primarily directed at the girl's foster parents, and particularly her male guardian, Paul Schantz, 47. Yesterday, however, police officially cleared Mr. Schantz from any foul play when they announced that he was out of province visiting an ill family member over the time of the girl's rape and murder.
"We are aware that cases of this kind bring hardship upon those living close to the events," Grimshaw Police Superintendent Robert James stated at a news conference. "One form of such hardship is the way people can muse about possible guilty parties. I am here today to tell you that Mr. Paul Schantz is not under investigation in this case."
Superintendent James's announcement was made in apparent response to harassing phone calls and anonymous letters the Schantzes have received following the release of the coroner's report.
The investigation has now turned to "other avenues," police said in response to questions from this newspaper.
Another newspaper clipping, from the Province-Wide News section of The Toronto Telegram.
SMALL TOWN REELING FROM TWO FOSTER
HOME LOSSES
First a Murder and Now Apparent Runaway
from 'Refuge for Lost Souls'
Grimshaw—A search is under way for Roy DeLisle, a 16-year-old foster child who went missing from his home in this sleepy community 150 miles west of Toronto. Mr. DeLisle's disappearance has left many residents of Grimshaw puzzled after the murder just last week of Elizabeth Worth, another child under the guardianship of Paul and May Schantz, the owners of the home where Worth and DeLisle lived.
While police are officially treating Mr. DeLisle's file as a missing persons case, two sources within the force told the Telegram that they are "exploring connections" between the young man's absence and the coroner's findings that Miss Worth was sexually assaulted shortly before her death.
"I would say that Roy DeLisle could rightly be considered a suspect at this point, yes," the police source said. "We'd certainly like to talk to him."
Though just a teenager, Mr. DeLisle has already compiled a disturbing criminal record and history of violence. The Telegram has obtained court documents showing that, during three of his previous foster home stints, Mr. DeLisle was twice charged with assault (both times the complainants being women), along with one charge of public indecency.
Local police as well as the O.P.P. are involved in the search, but their efforts have so far been frustrated by little information on the boy, whose parents died shortly after his birth, and who otherwise has no known family Further, no photographs of Mr. DeLisle have yet been made available to investigators. "It's like he was never here," commented one provincial police detective.
Finally, another story in The Grimshaw Beacon, this one published on March 12, 1950, four months after Elizabeth Worth's death.
POLICE STILL FRUSTRATED IN SEARCH
FOR GRIMSHAW TEEN
Roy DeLisle Missing Since November
"Sometimes runaways just don't come back,"
says frustrated Police Chief
By Louis Weir
Beacon Staff Reporter
Grimshaw Police and Ontario Provincial Police conducting a coordinated search for a missing Grimshaw boy who is considered the prime suspect in the murder of his former foster sister, Elizabeth Worth, have announced they are scaling back the resources being applied to their search. Roy DeLisle, who would have recently turned 17, has been missing since Friday, November 18, of last year, when he apparently left home for school in the morning but never arrived.
"We've done everything we can for now," said Donald Poole, Chief of Grimshaw Police and overseer of the search efforts. "Roy is out there somewhere, and we are hopeful that a member of the public will alert us to his whereabouts. We will find him, but it likely won't be in Grimshaw or the Perth County area or Ontario. Sometimes runaways just don't come back to where they ran from."
Paul Schantz, the foster parent who was acting as guardian of Mr. DeLisle for the four months prior to his disappearance, has previously alluded to the boy's "restless ways," and in an interview with the Beacon, speculated that Roy may have had a "wandering spirit."
When asked to comment on Mr. DeLisle's previously disclosed criminal history and attacks on young women, as well as his possible role in Miss Worth's death, Mr. Schantz would say only that such considerations are a matter for the police.
Mr. Schantz is still recovering from the tragic loss of Miss Worth late last year. Elizabeth Worth, 16 at the time of her death, was found murdered in the Schantzes' Caledonia Street home on November 12. Only two days after her memorial service, Mr. DeLisle was reported missing.
Though Chief Poole would not be drawn into open conjecture at his press conference, many have noted a connection between evidence that Miss Worth was raped before her death and Mr. DeLisle's missing status, not to mention the nature of his prior charges.
I finish reading lying on the floor. The first tendrils of dusty sunlight making their way toward me over the hardwood.
His name is Roy.
The boy was a real person once. A teenager the same age we were when we first entered the house to find Heather Langham in the cellar.
He killed that girl.
Of course it's possible that someone other than Roy DeLisle, her foster brother, assaulted and then murdered Elizabeth Worth. It could have been another kid at school, a teacher, a stranger. But it wasn't. It was Roy's "restless ways" that invited him to the party, the same way
he invited each of us decades later. He had done bad things in the homes he was dropped into before the Schantzes', and he had done another, even worse thing to Elizabeth Worth. And then he was gone.
But wherever Roy ran to, he's back in the Thurman house now. That's why Ben watched. Made sure the doors stayed closed. Prevented others from going in. Ben had made a prison for himself in this room, but he'd done it to keep the Thurman house a prison for Roy DeLisle.
I'm folding the clippings to slip them back inside the journal when something else falls out from its pages. A plain envelope.
I know what's inside before I open it. Not from the feel of its shape through the paper, not its surprising weight. I just know.
And then it's there, a coil of delicate chain and gold heart in the palm of my hand. Heather's locket. The one she was wearing when we buried her.
As though at the sound of someone coming up the stairs, I hastily tie the clippings with the same ribbon and, not knowing where else to put it, tuck the package back into the air vent under the bed. But not the locket. I slip its chain into my wallet. Feel the gold heart press against my hip.
When I get to my feet again the dawn has finally arrived, though the streets remain quiet. I take a seat at Ben's window and try not to think. About the clippings, about the locket. Discoveries that explain everything. Or nothing.
It's this effort to sit and simply breathe that at first prevents me from noticing the man standing on the sidewalk, directly in front of the Thurman house.
He has been there for some time, or at least as long as it has taken me to focus on the view below. His back to me. Canvas sneakers and lumberjack shirt and a John Deere ball cap turned backwards on his head.
I recognize Gary Pullinger, Tracey Flanagan's boyfriend, a split second before he turns. His eyes searching the houses on the McAuliffes' side of the street, alerted to a sound, or perhaps by the sense that he was being watched. He appears lost. It's as though he had thought he was in another, safer town all his life and only now recognized the depths of his error.
And then he spots me. I can read the swift consideration of options passing through his mind. In the end he simply starts up the slope toward the hospital at an intentionally leisurely pace, an attempt to reinforce the illusion that he didn't stop outside the house at all, but merely paused to inhale a breath of the sun- sweetened air before continuing on his way.
But he had been watching the house. Looking into its windows. Searching for something he both wanted and did not want to see.
* * *
MEMORY DIARY
Entry No. 15
High school ended with a prom I didn't go to, a graduation ceremony I was asked to leave for shouting "Loser!" during the valedictorian's address and a football game Grimshaw lost, during which we gathered in Carl's Ford at halftime. As soon as the next day, we were heading in different directions. Randy to attend drama school at a community college in Peterborough. Carl to hitchhike out to Winnipeg to see an uncle of his we'd never heard of. And Ben to stay in his attic bedroom, watching.
Though I'd applied to a handful of universities and had even been accepted to a couple, I decided to move to Toronto, find some work busing tables and try to become someone else. It was a plan that my parents only halfheartedly objected to. "Your room's always here," my father assured me, his face rounded in a show of generosity, as if he might have otherwise turned it into a massage parlour or dog kennel. He figured I'd be back. And while he wished me well, I believe there was some part of him that would have liked me to stitch together a life in Grimshaw as he did, be more contentedly defeated like him.
"Get ready to have your skulls explode," Carl said, lighting up.
The smoke blotted out the sun, the school, even the sound of fans cheering another of the visiting team's touchdowns.
"I guess we should talk about it," I said.
"I don't think we have to," Carl said.
"I'm talking about not talking about it. With anyone. Ever."
"I think we're pretty clear on that," Randy said.
"I hope so. Because there's no statute of limitations on kidnapping."
This took a minute to sink in.
"Let's make a pact," Ben said.
Randy turned to him. "You mean we should drink each other's blood or something?"
"Just a promise."
"Okay. We promise."
"No, we have to say it," Ben clarified. "And we have to hear each other say it."
We all nodded at this.
"What do we have to say?" Randy asked.
"We're the Guardians," I said.
Nobody seemed to have heard me. Except Ben.
"Okay. On three," he said. "One, two—"
We all said it. Three words that cleared the smoke from our faces, and we could see who we were.
* * *
[15]
I rip through my wallet to find Barry Tate's card and call his number at the cop shop. Yet when his voice mail picks up, I'm frozen. Barry asks for "complete details" to be left in the message, but what are those? I saw a missing girl's boyfriend looking at a house. No more than that.
"If this is urgent," Officer Tate goes on, "press zero and your call will be transferred to 911."
Is this urgent? My heart certainly thinks so, taking runs at my ribs.
"Hi, Barry. It's Trev. Trevor. Sorry to bother you—gosh, I don't think this should bother you—but there's something I'd like to report. I left my cell number with you, right? Okay, so see you around."
I hang up.
Trev? Gosh? See you around? What could Barry possibly think when he hears that? I know what. That poor guy with the shakes is losing his shit.
I get dressed and head downstairs. The house is quiet. A good thing, because I don't want Betty McAuliffe to catch me running out of here with my shoes in my hands.
"Coffee only takes a minute."
She's standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"Gosh," I say for the second time in this new, going-downhill- fast morning, "I didn't know you were up."
"Heard you bumping around."
"Sorry to wake you."
"Didn't say you did."
The two of us wait. Or it's just me waiting, feeling for a way out the front door.
"I wanted to ask," I say. "Did you happen to see my Dictaphone around anywhere?"
"Dicta-who?"
"It's a little recording machine. Seem to have misplaced it."
"That's what you were doing up there. I thought you were on the phone for hours on end. But you were talking to yourself."
"I suppose it's a little strange, isn't it?"
"It sounded a lot like Ben to me."
"Well, if you happen to see it . . ."
"So you can keep up your observations," she says with an unreadable smile.
"I wasn't making observations."
"No? That's what Ben told me he was doing."
Mrs. McAuliffe starts back into the kitchen, but I stop her by speaking a name.
"Roy DeLisle."
"Is that a question?"
"I suppose he is a question."
"The boy who ran away. Is that who you mean? Years and years ago. The way he disappeared after that terrible business with the orphan girl."
"Elizabeth Worth."
"My goodness. You know all the names."
"Ben passed along a little local history to me."
Betty rubs her hands together, as though lathering soap. "He went to the library sometimes. 'Research' is all he'd say when I asked what he was reading up on. I shouldn't be surprised it was that awful story."
"I guess that's why everyone calls the house across the street haunted."
"They do?" she asks, and though at first I take her disbelief as a joke, a lie so unbelievable it was never meant to be swallowed, her face tells me nothing either way.
"I grew up here," I go on eventually. "We all did. But I never heard anything about it."
"Why wou
ld you have? Those were things that happened half a lifetime before you were born."
"Still, you'd think someone would mention it. I mean, she was raped. She was murdered."
"That could only have come from your parents. And you were our children. It's our job to prevent you from hearing things like that for as long we're able."
"Until it just goes away."
"If you're lucky," she says, and shrugs. "Small towns are good at forgetting. They have to be."
I consider walking over to Sarah's place and asking if I can stay. Not just for the night or two she has already offered, but for as long as she'll let me. I'll do the cooking and cleaning. And as much of the nighttime fooling around as she and the Big P allow.
But having Sarah say no to such a proposal might push me over the edge into full-blown Benhood, and this worries me more than the idea of Roy DeLisle taking my hand as I walk.
"Trev! Over here!"
It's Randy, waving at me from the Queen's dining-room table he shares with Carl. Because they are who I've walked to, not Sarah. By the time I sink into the chair next to Carl, the waitress arrives to take their order.
"You hungry?" Carl asks me.
"I'll have what you're having."
"Steak and eggs?"
"Perfect."