The River Killers

by Bruce Burrows

  But it didn’t, it wasn’t, and it was.

  Tommy, Louise, and I watched it after Gunther inspected it briefly. The video had been shot by a single stationary camera, mounted fairly high, maybe ten feet up on a wall. The lighting was not great but it was good enough to recognize faces.

  The scene we viewed, three of us hunched avidly in front of the monitor, like hockey fans for a Stanley Cup seventh game, was of a mundane room roughly twenty feet by thirty, with cages along the three walls that we could see. Each cage held a rabbit and they all appeared to be sleeping, drugged, or both. Fleming Griffith entered the frame and began removing the unconcious rabbits and replacing them with more active specimens. When he had placed new rabbits in all the cages, the video ended. It had played for about five minutes before lapsing into grainy nothingness.

  Louise used the remote to fast-forward a bit, check for footage, fast-forward again, check again for footage, and so on, until the end of the tape. There appeared to be only the five minutes of footage we had seen at the start of the tape. We sat in silence until Louise spoke. “What the hell was that all about? I was hoping to see something that would lead us to a multiple killer and all we see is Griffith playing with bunnies.”

  “I don’t think Griffith even knows about the video.” I waved at the monitor in a what-the-hell-was-that sort of motion. “It’s obvious he didn’t know the camera was there. But Crowley considered that footage extremely important, maybe incriminating. He went to a lot of trouble to hide it.”

  Tommy shook his head, bemused. “Well, look. Let’s call up Griffith, tell him about the video. Threaten to give it to the SPCA. That ought to scare the shit out of him.”

  We all sat there and thought this over. Then we watched the video again, and still couldn’t make any sense of it. Dispiritedly, I looked at Louise. She shrugged. “We need a Plan B. Can you work on that, Danny?”

  “I did Plan A. Can’t someone else take some responsibility?”

  On that less than positive note, I left to do something. Anything.

  Twenty-two

  Back at the hideout, I engaged myself in the development of Plan B. I liked the title. It summed up our organizational focus, in that we had a plan, and it referenced our flexibility, in that we had responded to events to formulate a second plan, which we styled B. Yes, it was a good title.

  No-Neck Jerome prepared takeout pizza for supper, and from the wine list I selected Granville Island lager. After we had dinner and I had offered to do the dishes, No-Neck was relieved by Rugby Pants Jerome. I’d just informed him that Tiger Woods had taken up darts because it was a more challenging game than golf when my phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “What did you think of the video?” It was my caller of the previous evening. Thank God, he’d called back. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about, but I knew I needed some privacy. I walked casually into my bedroom.

  “What video?”

  “I saw you outside the bank, Danny. You’re a clever boy. I didn’t know if anyone would be able to figure out my clues. Congratulations.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Surprised? Of course you are. Better check my picture on the DFO website. It’s still there. Under ‘C.’ I checked it when I checked yours. I’ll call you back tomorrow. And Danny, your friends don’t need to know about this yet. You can tell them when we’ve finished our business.”

  I quickly fired up my laptop and went to the DFO internal website. I clicked on personnel, bio clips, and down the alphabetical names to “C.” There he was, the guy I’d seen outside the bank, the guy that had stared at me. The picture showed a slightly younger man than the bearded person I’d seen, but it was undoubtedly him. The name at the top of the file was Alistair Crowley.

  My mind reeled. Christ, it performed seven jigs and danced the hokeypokey.

  The question that crowded to the front of my mental bedlam, elbowed the other questions to the ground, kicked them in the teeth, and stood on their inert bodies, was—who was the dead guy in Yeo Cove? After five minutes of intense thought, examining initial propositions and logical flows, rethinking the conclusion several times, and whacking myself on the forehead more than once, the answer was obvious. It was our bad guy. He had gone up there to kill Crowley, but Crowley had killed him. This put, as they say, a different spin on things.

  It also put Louise in a bad light. The constables that had identified the body had been handicapped by the fact that said body didn’t have a face, and they had jumped to the conclusion that because it was in Crowley’s float house it must be Crowley. That was fairly reasonable, but it was a big mistake, and Louise had bought into it. So had I, for that matter, but I wasn’t the investigating officer.

  As to whether I should share this development, I needed to think about it and find out what Crowley was up to. But, I brightened, this could be the beginnings of Plan B. Danny Swanson might once again be able to save the day and ride off into the sunset—or buy a float house and live in Echo Bay.

  The next day was awkward. Louise phoned and asked what I was doing. I said I was thinking. She said don’t hurt yourself and hung up.

  I phoned back and asked what she was doing. She said she and Tommy were chasing down leads on my shooter. I said I’d join them but the South West Ford Dealers’ Pro Am was on.

  That was a lie and I was forced to manipulate No-Neck Jerome into playing professional crib. We didn’t play for a lot of money. It wouldn’t have been fair as I was the reigning Johnstone Strait champion. To the tunes of Joe Cocker and Ze Mad Dogs and Ze Englishmen, as introduced by the anomalous French guy on the record, we fifteen-twoed through the morning.

  By the time I’d won enough for a case of beer, it was sufficiently late to drink one guilt-free. We flicked through the cable channels and discovered an Aussie Rules football game. Jerome made grilled cheese sandwiches, and I had my third beer. What an exciting day.

  By suppertime, I was as tightly strung as a cheap mandolin. I let Jerome order food and I let him do the dishes and I let him grumble about doing all the housework. My magnanimity was limited just enough to point out that he was the highest paid dishwasher in the universe. After absorbing a significantly smaller portion of dried spareribs than Jerome, I retired to my bedroom.

  I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for Crowley’s phone call. Unconsciously I nodded to the rhythm of the music coming from the living room. Otis Span. “Ain’t Nobody’s Business.” The best blues piano player of all time finished a chorus and Luther Georgia Boy Snake Johnson took over on harmonica. My phone rang.

  “Did you look up my picture?”

  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “That stupid farmer couldn’t outsmart day-old sperm, much less Alistair Crowley. As soon as he said he was coming up to talk things over, I knew they were going to try to kill me.”

  “So you killed him instead.”

  “Self-defense.”

  “You said you needed my help with something. What?”

  “My recent death is going to be somewhat of a hindrance to my career. In this country, at least. But there are other places that have a more mature attitude toward fish science. I’ll be welcomed.”

  “How does that involve me?”

  “I’ll need to demonstrate my professional qualifications. My résumé, so to speak, is locked away in the West Vancouver lab.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The DNA from all our experiments. It’s frozen in room twelve at the lab. If I get it, Griffith won’t. And it’ll be my passport to a new job and a new identity. But I don’t have keys.”

  “And that’s where I come in? Okay, if I agree to help, your part of the bargain is information. I need enough to nail Griffith and The Farmers.”

  “There’s only one now,” he said. “He’s stupider than the other one, and consequently more dangerous. But I guess you know that.”

  “How do you know so much about the case
? How did you even find out I was involved?”

  “So many questions, Danny. We’ll have a long talk. At the lab. Tomorrow night.”

  “Wait a minute.” I felt suddenly unsure of things. Scared. I had developed an extreme aversion to getting shot again. “I don’t have the keys. I might be able to get them but I’m not sure. Phone me tomorrow at noon, and we’ll go from there.”

  “All right. But remember, Danny, the police can’t be involved. They’ll want to talk to me and that would spoil my new career. You want Griffith? Then you have to help me disappear. Again.”

  The line went dead.

  I was lost in the slithering dithers. Should I go? Should I tell anyone? Could I trust Crowley? Was I even sure it was Crowley?

  As dispassionately as possible, I retraced the steps of my reasoning. It had to be Crowley on the phone because he knew about the video, and the guy I’d seen outside the bank had matched Crowley’s picture. Did Crowley have any reason to harm me? If he wanted to disappear, he wouldn’t want any links to his past. But he probably wanted revenge on Griffith and I was his best chance for that. Add the fact that I was a personable and charming young man, and the balance tipped in favor of him not killing me.

  I could tell Louise and get the police to cover my back, but this was probably our last chance to nail Griffith. I couldn’t do anything to screw things up. And, anyway, the force’s record in protecting me was somewhat blemished. I would have to suck it up and fly solo. But my skin prickled and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I succumbed to a quintessential cringe.

  I dialed Bette’s number. “Hi, it’s me,” I said when she answered. “How’s life with Heidi?”

  “Hell is living with someone who exists on seven calories a day and does aerobics without sweating.”

  “Listen, I need to look around the lab and I don’t have keys. Can I borrow yours?”

  “I’m sure that violates some rule. I hope you won’t report me.”

  “I’ve lost my memo pad. How about I come by tomorrow evening and grab them?”

  “Sounds good.”

  With that settled, all I had to do was figure out a way to dump Jerome. I mulled that over for the rest of the evening and much of the next day. Crowley phoned promptly at noon and I told him we were on. After an afternoon of pacing nervously, it was time to order supper. I insisted it was my turn to choose and phoned in an order to a sushi place right next to Waterfront Station. High-Top Jerome bitched that there were closer places, but I told him this was the only place you could get ragfish roe.

  • • •

  When he pulled up in front of the place there was, as I had hoped, no parking places. “I’ll run in and grab it. Extra soy sauce, right?” I was out the door before he could object. I walked quickly into Sayonara Sushi, and just as quickly out the side door and into Waterfront Station. I already had the correct change in my hand when I got to the ticket machine. Glancing at my watch, I punched the appropriate buttons and, thirty seconds later, I was dashing down the steps to the SeaBus. My timing was good but not perfect, and I had to wait an anxious two minutes before the next departure. Finally we pulled out, and I was on my way across Burrard Inlet to North Vancouver.

  I felt a little guilty about Jerome. There weren’t many medals awarded for letting your charge skip out. I hoped he wouldn’t put things together quickly enough to have me picked up on the other side. He didn’t, and soon I was in a cab headed for Bette’s place.

  Bette had moved into an older house just above the decommissioned railroad tracks in Ambleside Village. She had a beautiful view of the harbor and enough foliage around to make it seem rural. When I knocked on the door, it was answered by a Heidi, who scrutinized me closely. “And you are?”

  Bette appeared behind her. “It’s okay. He’s an old friend of mine.” She threw me the keys and I made a nice catch, which didn’t seem to impress Heidi.

  “Thanks, Bette.” I left, which did seem to impress Heidi. I’d arranged to meet Crowley on neutral ground, the White Spot in Park Royal, so that’s where I had the taxi drop me. I ordered coffee to drink and nachos to nibble on and settled in to wait for the man who would deliver up Billy’s killer.

  He walked in just before eight. He looked left and right, saw me, and indicated to the waitress that he would join me. As he strode toward the table, I studied him closely. He was deeply tanned, with a weather-beaten face and gnarled hands, unlike his academic colleagues, but he carried himself with authority, and behind the glasses, his eyes were hard and unblinking.

  He sat down and his mouth tightened in what may have been a smile. “Congratulations again, Mr. Swanson. You had to solve a number of puzzles in order to be here tonight.”

  “You must have suspected your colleagues couldn’t be trusted. So you archived the whole story in code and hoped that someone could find it if necessary.” He nodded. “How did you know I was involved?”

  “Basic hacking. I know the e-mail passwords of a couple of my old colleagues. After you showed up at my wake, which was very decent of you, e-mails positively flew around about you having my journals and computer. If anyone was going to get to the video, it was you.

  “What the hell was the video about? I thought we were dealing with mutant fish, not cute little bunnies.”

  He looked at me like a prize pupil who’s screwed up an exam. Finally, he answered. “When the directive came to release our engineered fish into the wild, it occurred to me to do a toxicity test on them. After all, someone might catch and eat one.”

  “Oh God.” I hung my head. “The rabbits weren’t sleeping. They were dead.”

  “And Griffith replaced the dead ones with live rabbits and informed us that feeding the engineered fish pellets to the rabbits had no toxic effect whatsoever.”

  “When was the video shot?”

  “Nineteen eighty-five. We’d installed a camera so we didn’t have to waste time monitoring them. Mammals bore me. Fleming didn’t know about the camera because he’d been on the east coast for three weeks. He showed up on a Friday and volunteered to check the test subjects. I said fine, and left him to it. He left a report on my desk saying that there were no toxic effects. When I came in on Monday, I had to check the tape for something, and I saw that Griffith had covered up the fact that these fish could be lethal. It was fortunate that I was the first one to see the tape. I knew valuable ammunition when it was handed to me. It was also my first concrete evidence that Griffith couldn’t be trusted.”

  “Billy Bradley, our shipmate, what happened to him?”

  “It was late one afternoon. I was just leaving. Just about everyone else was already gone. I ran into him in the parking lot. He smelled of beer and he had something smelly in a black plastic garbage bag. He insisted I look at it, and I realized it was one of our failures. I wanted time to examine it and your friend was ranting about prize money, so I took him back inside.”

  “Who else was around? Was Fleming there?”

  “I’d seen him strutting around earlier, but I assumed he’d left. As far as I knew, no one else was there. I told your friend to wait in the lunchroom and I took the specimen into one of the workrooms. I photographed it, took physical data and a tissue sample, and then discarded it with the rest of the morts. I went back to the lunchroom prepared to give your friend a scientific-sounding brush-off, but he was gone. So I left too. A week later, I resigned in order to do the transition to field monitoring. I never knew your friend went missing until Mark mentioned it that day in my float house.”

  “Did you check the videotape the next morning?”

  “I had no reason to. And if I didn’t remove the tape by noon, it would just start taping over the previous day’s record.”

  “Who were The Farmers?”

  “They were two aquaculture biologists, glorified lab assistants really, who had been seconded from the provincial government. Fleming liked them because they worshipped him and I put up with them because they would follow orders without a lot of pe
tty moralizing. Farmer number one, Jerry Mathias, stayed at the lab as my contact. I would phone the main switchboard after hours and leave a message. Jerry would go in early in the morning, check for messages, and if I had left one, he’d erase it.”

  “So after your conversation with Mark, when you found out Billy had probably been killed, you left a message that, what? Threatened to go to the police?”

  “Of course not. I would never jeopardize the experiment. But for some time, I’d wanted more control. It was my project, after all. The others were no more than useful assistants. And if they’d screwed things up by killing your friend, that gave me leverage to demand the final say in decisions. So I left a message that I was not happy and I was thinking about taking our product elsewhere, and we needed to discuss things. The Kelp was already late for a scheduled maintenance trip. When it showed up, Jerry told me he’d been delayed by fog at the Port Hardy airport. And he acted strangely, asking all kinds of questions about my files and data systems. He poked around my float house, showing a curiosity he never had before. He picked up my shotgun, checked that it was unloaded, and made some crack about gun safety. After thoroughly arousing my suspicions, he left to run up to Morehouse Bay to check things there, then he was going to come back for me and we’d go down to Lagoon Bay to check batteries and transmitters.”

  “And, of course, he saw your desktop computer, but not the hidden one.”

  “Yes. It was easy to keep one step ahead of these clowns. I loaded my shotgun and put it back on the rack. When Jerry returned, he demanded all my files and data. When I refused to hand them over, he pulled out a pistol and threatened me. When I walked over and picked up my shotgun, he laughed. I can hear him now.”

  “‘It’s not loaded, Alistair. Did you forget?’”

  “It was the last thing he ever said. I pressed the muzzle against his ignorant mouth and blew his stupid head off. Self-defense. He was more useful as maggot food. And it gave me the opportunity to disassociate myself from Fleming and his master plan.”

  “Why? Because the mutant fish were breeding in the wild? Someone would have found out eventually. Your career prospects would be about as healthy as the east coast cod stocks.”