by Lou Allin
A small group had gathered behind the berm of logs and twig trash at the high-tide line. American sea rocket and gumweed, hardy survivors, brushed at Holly’s pants as she walked. By itself, away down the grey basalt shore, was a small bundle. Blinking in the bright light, Holly tipped back her cap and swore softly.
“Covered with a blanket. And twenty feet from the edge. These rocks could have given her fresh abrasions.”
Chipper shielded his face from the sun. “But the medical examiner can tell. No bleeding post mortem, right?”
“Perhaps if a bone is broken with no bruising, that would be the case.” The winds had been high last night, she recalled. Unable to sleep, she had heard waves crashing onto the shore at midnight.
The tide was still going out, but the turn would come. The wind had risen, and a small chop rode the waves. Plumes of spray crashed over the rocks and soaked her boots. She turned to the crowd and managed a friendly but serious smile. “I’m Corporal Martin, investigating the accident. In a few minutes, after we’ve looked around, I’d like to speak to some of you about what you might have seen, starting with the person who found Angie. If you have any information, please wait at the picnic table over there. And could the rest of you clear the beach until we’re finished? It would make our job easier.” She saw three or four children carrying foam snakes and plastic beach pails. “We’d appreciate your taking the young ones a long distance away.”
She heard a few mutterings, but her politeness seemed to work. Except for five or six people, the crowd dispersed. A man of about thirty in swim trunks checked his watch pointedly, then came forward. Lean, with knotty muscles, he sported a colourful tattoo of a dragon, its fiery tongue licking around one shoulder. His hairy legs were slightly bowed. A few knee scrapes testified to the unforgiving rocky shelves. A trickle of blood still flowed. “I saw her in the water. Bob Johnson. It’s getting late for me, so could we—”
Taking a deep breath, Holly met his eyes until he lowered them. “Did you move this girl, Mr. Johnson?”
His voice wavered, and he swiped a hand through his thinning blond hair. “Jesus. It...she was floating in the bay, trapped in the kelp bed. You know these riptides. Another minute, and she could have been dragged out to sea. Thought I was helping out, lady...officer.”
Holly glanced around. Chipper had roped off his fourth tree, hand on his slim hips, and was admiring his work. “I understand. As I said, we need to check the scene first. You’ll be first in line when we’re ready. That’s a promise, sir.”
He grunted and moved off, moving his arms in a “what can you do” expression.
After slipping on latex gloves, Chipper and Holly walked forward. Wind, waves, people running about. Already the scene was a circus. Whatever happened to death in a quiet room? Then she chastised herself, reaffirming the sobriety of the moment. She knelt by the form and gently withdrew the blanket, an old army-surplus model. Probably gathering every sort of material in a car trunk since Mulroney left office. The girl’s eyes stared up at her, revealing the milky sheen of death. The effect wasn’t as shocking as she’d thought, poignant instead. It reminded her of the bright red starfish she’d once brought home from French Beach and left outside to dry on the steps. Slowly it had faded to white, the elusive spark of life gone. Over weeks it disintegrated into calcifications, then blew away as if it had never existed.
Holly blinked, pulling herself back. No major damage was evident on Angie’s face, but scrapes and cuts from the rocks and the marine life would make the coroner’s job trickier. Crows passed raucous approval from the trees. Ever vigilant for food, a host of motley juvenile seagulls floated on the waves, scavenging sea creatures. One on shore pecked at a blue-black mussel shell. One creature’s bier was another’s smorgasbord.
“God, look at that.”
Two
Chipper pointed to an area half an inch long on one of the girl’s forearms, where tiny predators had been chewing in furtherance of future generations. He put his hand over his mouth and stumbled away, one foot tripping in the cracks that fractured the basalt.
“Who’s in charge here? I passed a few villages missing their idiots, or isn’t that phrase acceptable these days?” a jovial voice called, panting for breath around the stem of a corncob pipe. Mason Boone ambled forward, lugging a large black satchel that might have done duty at 22 Baker Street. His rice-sack gut pooched under suspendered grey work pants. Hush Puppies slurping on the wet rock, he urged his bulk toward them with surprising grace.
The B.C. Coroners Service was a unique animal, setting fast and tangled roots in one of Canada’s younger provinces, much of which was still wilderness outside of the sushi bars of Vancouver and the tea rooms of Victoria. The province employed twenty-one full-time coroners, but the approximately one hundred and twenty community coroners dispersed throughout the territory worked on an as-needed basis. Some thought that anyone of good character could qualify as a community coroner, but the preferred background was in the legal, investigative and medical fields. Retired nurses and lawyers made good choices. They did not perform autopsies, but should circumstances warrant, they authorized pathologists to take charge. They were responsible for assembling the facts in a death: identifying the deceased and how, when, where and by what means the person died. Complicated forensics were left to the medical examiner, if one were needed. Fault or blame was not the coroner’s bailiwick, though no one should be incurious.
Boone Mason had been a private investigator in Vancouver before a knee had blown on him during a handball game and compromised his mobility. At sixty-five, he lived quietly off a disability pension supplemented by his occasional coroner assignment and Texas hold’em poker winnings at the legion. His relationship with the RCMP in the Western Communities wasn’t smooth. A stubborn nature often made him a gadfly. “He’s a good man with a beak for the truth,” Reg had told her. “Pain in the ass or not, don’t underestimate him.”
“Poets are goddamn liars. Death is never pretty,” he said after introductions as he put down his satchel and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He tucked the pipe, apparently empty, into his shirt pocket. “I can see why that poor slob pulled her on shore. Natural reaction. But if anything’s hinky, Christ on a cupcake.”
Holly felt her chest tighten. She looked for Chipper, but he was still parked on the other side of a Sitka spruce. A white handkerchief had come from his pocket, as if he had given up the battle. “But how could you—”
Boone turned his grizzled face to hers. He had assumed the retired male’s habit of shaving only when necessary, but stopped short of wearing a beard like a hundred local Santas. She could also see why Reg had mentioned his nose for the truth. Large and craggy, it gave him the look of a friendly vulture. “Ninety-nine per cent of drownings are accidents. It’s up to me to make recommendations to prevent future harm. Relax. Just making small talk. Reg told me you were taking over. Figured you needed some fatherly guidance.”
He pulled away the rest of the blanket. Holly’s throat felt like she was trying to devour a four-headed balloon animal. Boone gave her a sidelong glance. “First body?”
“No, but first day in charge. Some timing.”
“Shoulda stood in bed.” He chuckled to himself and narrowed his eyes in assessment. “Craziest saying. Don’t know what the hell it signifies.”
With straightened shoulders, Chipper had returned to the periphery and was studiously avoiding any connection with the body, his dark glance following a bald eagle high overhead, its feeble peeping cry belying its reputation as king of birds. From far away, Holly could see inquiring heads in the underbrush and hear fragmented comments. Walking over, she directed Chipper to keep away the onlookers, who, now that the coroner had arrived, sensed a melodramatic story to take home to Anacortes or Kamloops. “This looks straightforward enough. Maybe we’ll get lucky and avoid complications,” she said, back at Boone’s side.
“We’re already luckier than she was. And besides, complications make lif
e interesting. Doncha like no challenges?” Boone rotated the neck and head, then parted the hair, frowning. “Serious blow to the side of the head. From a dive or a fall. At the edges of the cove where the rocks meet the water.” Then taking out a thermometer, he positioned himself to shield the body and turned Angie onto her side with a gentle “Up we go, darlin’.” Holly followed an instinct to flinch and turned away as if to keep an eye on the crowd. Squeezing her fists until the nails bit the palm, she knelt next to him. The girl wore a bikini, and wore it well. Not an ounce of fat, and a neat six-pack revealed long-term toning, if not avid body building. An athlete? The shoulders were broad, the hips slim. Her legs and arms had been shaved. A swimmer? Odd that she hadn’t worn her hair short, but she’d probably used a cap. On her shoulder was a tasteful blue rose. How many teens didn’t have a tattoo?
Boone then placed the thermometer in the water for a short while, retrieving it with a nod. “Nearly water temperature. Not surprising. Plays hell with rigor and time of death. Not as bad as being in an air-conditioned or heated room, though.” He looked up, breaking into Holly’s thoughts. “You and the rajah could give a gander to the area. We’re not going to be able to hold this scene for long. Wind and waves wait for no man.” Holly bristled at the unexpected racial jibe, nor did she appreciate the directives. They were more or less equals, each with a job. “How about watching your language, Mr. Boone?”
He grinned and poked her leg. “Just kidding. Lighten up. My late wife of forty years was born in Bombay or Mumbai, whatever. One hell of a cook when it came to pilafs and curries. And it’s plain Boone to my friends.”
Holly looked down and toed away a string of kelp affixed to her boot. Now she’d alienated the coroner. Things had been so different when Ben Rogers called the shots. “So, does there have to be an autopsy? Is it at the discretion of the parents?”
“Not always, but no to your second question. It’s my call. Vic Daso at the Jubilee will probably take this one. He’s a crackerjack. Help if we could find some witnesses so we could figure this out,” Boone added, rocking back on his bulging haunches. In the distance, a siren was wailing.
Holly had seen a couple of drownings in The Pas, when snowmobilers had gone down crossing the narrows on fickle Cedar Lake. March was the worst month. People got cocky about conditions, especially when alcohol was involved. Men in their twenties were the prime offenders, thought they were invincible and rejected flotation suits and hand picks as sissy gear. She searched her mind for the few training classes on autopsies.
“He’ll check for water in the lungs, though there is such a thing as a dry drowning.”
“That seems like a conflict in terms.”
“Not really. Ever jumped into icy water? Shock makes the throat constrict. So the victim dies from lack of air. Suffocation, to be exact. He’ll run a toxicology report. It’s fair to believe that there’s been drinking at this party, if not drugs. Pot. Cocaine. Meth, I doubt.”
In the recesses of the tidal pool flats, a round, pinkish shape shimmered in a half inch of water. Anemone. She touched it with her finger, and it shrank into itself. Odd that it knew exactly where to move and where to stay. Up nearer the tide line, it would find itself dry, if only for a few hours, and die. But then, perhaps some of the fairy-like creatures had done just that and exited the gene pool.
“Penny for ’em. Make that a loonie. Flying higher than the eagle these days.” Boone stared at her in some amusement.
“Wool gathering, as my grandmother used to say. What was that about meth?” A rare frown cut the space between her eyebrows.
He stuck out his lower lip in cogitation. There was a slight scar on one end. “In more urban areas, we’re starting to assemble a nice mix of stats on meth overdoses, but Notre Dame Catholic Academy? Probably not.”
Notre Dame. Ann hadn’t passed on such specific information, and why would she? Holly felt the beginnings of an ugly trip down memory lane. Fourteen years ago, she’d said a joyous goodbye to that private school in Sooke and its snobs and cliques. She’d been a maverick and proud of it. The only faculty member she’d respected was the crusty librarian, Sister Dympna. How often she’d hidden out there and buried herself in books on trees, flowers, birds and animals of the island. At that time, the school had been all-girl, a deadly species, gatekeepers to a private hell. Her one friend Valerie, a natural comic and troublemaker, had joined the army and hadn’t been in contact since.
“How did you know which school it was?”
He rubbed his chin, making a rasping sound. “Ann said when she called me.”
Two paramedics made their way down with a stretcher. “Sorry to take so long. Hydro was taking a leaning tree at the Shirley curve. About time, but traffic was backed up for miles.”
“That’s all right, boys. She’s in no hurry.” Boone packed away his kit and motioned for the stretcher. “Good to go. Time of death’s not going to be easy. First in the water, then in the sun. Sure hope someone saw her somewhere sometime. Stomach content will be a helpful factor.”
Holly stripped off her gloves. “That’s what bothers me. Was she here alone? That seems strange.” Not for herself, though. She’d spent many quiet evenings on a beach, beside a small driftwood fire, thinking her own young thoughts as she grilled hot dogs.
Chipper had assembled a collection of paper evidence bags as they joined him. “Lots of trash. An open condom foil. Probably means nothing. It’s a beach, a place for partying.”
“Cleaner than most,” Holly said. Volunteers patrolled on a regular basis to polish their world-class jewel.
As Boone walked off and the paramedics knelt to attend to the body, Holly checked the boundaries. Chipper had done well, but if something had been overlooked, now was the time to find it. She passed a clump of Saskatoon berry bushes, generously dangling their luscious, supersweet fruits. A tall bunch of innocuous-looking plants threatened to brush her sleeve, and she pulled away. Stinging nettle. Fine in soup but painful to even the slightest brush. Then under a bush she saw a loose braid of greenery. To anyone else it might have appeared natural, but Holly’s trained eye spotted the anomaly. She inhaled its pleasant herbal aroma. Common sweetgrass, used in purification ceremonies among aboriginal North Americans.
At the parking lot, she took a fresh bag from Chipper, then watched Boone drive off in his rusty Land Rover, the tailpipe held in place by wire, nodding fractious acquaintance with the gravel. “What’s that?” Chipper asked, searching her eyes in a gesture of uncertainty.
“Sweetgrass.”
He considered the bundle, wrinkling his nose. “Like weed?”
She tried not to laugh. “No, First Nations people don’t smoke sweetgrass. They burn it like incense.”
His face brightened. “My mother loves sandalwood. She has a shrine to Ganesh. So what’s your take on this?” he asked.
“A blank slate. Safest that way. Let’s go talk to everyone.
They’ve been patient...curious more than rude. If longer statements are warranted, if there’s been negligence on the part of the school, we can call them back. There could be conditions for a lawsuit here, and we might need to testify. ”
Holly introduced herself to a group at the picnic table. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Johnson here, then Constable Singh and I will get your names and addresses.”
One tall and muscular girl with a tongue ring spoke up.
“How come? Wasn’t it an accident?”
Holly kept her voice low and reasonable, a combination of seriousness and approachability. “Just routine.”
When she heard a young man whisper “raghead” to his buddy, she shot him a stern look. A study in neutral, Chipper revealed neither by face or demeanor that he had heard anything.
She and Bob Johnson took seats on a huge log twenty feet from the group. Holly was determined to take her time and do things right from the start. “Mr. Johnson, you’re probably not familiar with our procedure for statements, but this is how it works. Tell me what
happened in a chronological order. I ask questions and listen. Then you tell me again, and I write it down. I read it back to you to check the accuracy. Nothing too formal at this point.” She was trying to cover all the bases but realized how difficult that was with only a staff of two to handle a crowd. Suppose she missed something important? And worse yet, someone might be lying. The basic training scenarios, domestic violence, auto accidents, didn’t match. She thought of the tricky bar-fight scenario. How to winnow out those with helpful evidence and ignore the time-wasters, not to mention the confused drunks. With the events leading up to Angie’s death possibly taking place after dark, the circumstances called for a thorough investigation, leaving no one out. As Boone had said, certain information might help prevent future tragedies.
Bob told her what he had witnessed and when. He’d arrived at eight and snorkeled for an hour. Natural underwater treasures were one of the island’s greatest attractions. Because of its stable temperatures, the Northern Pacific had the greatest number of species compared to the more frigid oceans. Ninety species of starfish against only twenty in the North Atlantic. “One of the year’s lowest tides today. One metre. You can get out to the good stuff. Plumrose anemones, red urchins, maybe even a coonstriped shrimp or a sea cucumber if you dive deep enough.” He’d come back to the beach to snack on the coffee and muffin he’d brought, then gone back in for another half hour. That’s when he’d found Angie.
“And you’re by yourself here?” Holly asked. “Where do you live, for the record?”
“Oak Bay. We have a condo.”
With that tony address, Holly pegged him as an up-and-coming executive, especially when he added that he worked in Vancouver for Dell Computers. He also said that his pictures had appeared in B.C. Magazine.
Then she turned to a man who stepped forward with a mild air of authority. Well-groomed, his dark red hair with half-sideburns, he had a winning smile and soft grey eyes, crinkled at the edges. By his side on a leash was a tiny Yorkie, whimpering petulantly at the commotion. He picked it up and rubbed its silken head. A Harley Davidson bandana circled its neck. “Chucky,” he said. “More like the movie. He’s a real devil.”