“Thanks, I’ll take a look at it.”
“I just wanted to let you know. Sometimes people don’t look in the boxes for a while. It’s too painful, maybe.”
I could see that she was getting upset. As painful as it was for family to go through the boxes, it was probably just as painful for her to pack them. In the last few years she’d seen my father a thousand times more than I had.
I walked up to Anita and took her hand in mine. “Thank you, for everything.” For taking care of him when I couldn’t, for seeing him every day when it had been too painful for me, for being strong when I was weak.
Anita smiled and nodded then turned and walked down the hall back to her desk in the lobby. She had barely taken her first step before I had the box open and the letter in my hand.
I stared at the yellowed envelope, the faded ink, the unmistakable handwriting—“Lincoln” on the front in my father’s sloppy yet distinguished cursive. I held the letter up to the light but nothing showed through. I flipped the envelope over and smiled at the red wax seal, an ‘L’ pressed into the wax. How old-fashioned.
The wax crumbled as I opened the envelope and removed the hand-written letter.
“Lincoln,” I read aloud. “I’m sorry I never told you the truth. I’m a coward and if you’re reading this I’ve gone to the grave a coward. Our camping trip, we were in Algonquin Park, summer of eighty-four. You walked away from the tent one night, I never understood why, but I woke to you screaming. The moon was full, enough light to see by. I ran after you, trying to find you in the night.”
I paused and Kara stayed silent, waiting for me to regain my composure and continue.
“I searched and searched and couldn’t find you. Then I heard you scream again and a man yelling. He called you a filthy nigger, said that you ruined everything, that he wanted a white boy. There was so much anger in his voice, and it made me so angry to hear him call you that after everything our family has gone through. When I got to him, you were lying on the ground, unconscious and beaten. He was cutting your pants off, Lincoln, with a large knife. I had no choice. I jumped on him and hit him as hard as I could.
“We fell to the ground fighting. I was losing, he was stronger than me. He’d dropped the knife when I hit him.”
The letter stopped here, briefly at least. It was a slight break, imperceptible to some perhaps. Like the way the ink that followed was just barely darker, the writing more deliberate.
“I managed to get him off of me, and I rolled for the knife. He had gotten up and tried to jump on top of me but I rolled out of the way. I stabbed him in the back, Lincoln.”
I couldn’t breathe. Reality had knocked the wind out of me.
“I buried him while you lay there, unconscious. I found a shovel in his tent, I could only assume what he was going to do with it. I finished burying him as the sun was coming up, then threw the knife in the river. I packed up his camp and woke you up. You never asked about the extra backpack. I threw it in the first dumpster I found along the way to the hospital. I told them you fell down a ravine. The scar on my chest, Lincoln, the one I never told you about, was from the fight. I wore it proudly, Lincoln.”
I remembered the scar, a raised line on the right side of his chest. I’d asked about it but never got an answer.
“I’m sorry, Lincoln. I always told myself I was protecting you but now I wonder if I was only protecting myself by keeping it a secret. I didn’t want you to know what had happened, you never asked and you never seemed to remember, but I never wanted to face what I had done, hiding it like that. I’ve done many things in my life I regret but nothing more than keeping this from you. I hope you can forgive me. I love you, Dad.”
I used my sleeve to dry my eyes and wipe my nose. We didn’t speak for minutes, the silence of her understanding comforting me.
“Looks like I got my man,” I said at last.
“What are you going to do?”
“Head to Orillia tomorrow and tell the Commissioner.”
“You think it’s a good idea to go right to the top?”
“I have to. Thanks for standing by me.”
I didn’t give her a chance to protest or say goodbye. There was too much going through my mind for me to deal with Kara’s concerns as well. I knew what I had to do. I would relax tonight, raise a glass to my father, who did what he thought best, and tomorrow, tomorrow I would let the truth be known after so many years.
But first, I had another confession to make. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my father’s watch. It had just felt right to have it during the funeral, and now I passed it to Kara.
“I found this at the crime scene in Algonquin. It’s my father’s.”
“You took it?” She was incredulous. I was responsible for the deaths of two men but taking evidence from a murder scene was apparently my greatest crime.
“I had to, or at least I thought I did. I knew it meant something.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Take it to Chen. They’re excavating the bodies of the two boys tomorrow. I-”
“Are you going to tell him everything?”
“I have to. Chen and I have known each other a long time. I’ll give him the watch and hope he logs it into evidence like he found it that day.”
“And your prints?”
“It’s too dirty to lift anything from.”
“You’re still asking him to lie, to risk his job.”
I nodded, words were not needed.
“What about a trial?”
“There won’t be one, so no judge or jury to convince of the evidence. I was only eight, they can’t charge me. And my father’s dead now.”
“And what about then, it was a long time ago. Could they charge you?”
Kara was concerned. In the event of a cold case, people are tried under the law as it stood on the date of the offence.
“The Young Offender’s Act came in a couple of months before, changed the age from seven to twelve for being able to charge a child.”
Kara forced a slight smile. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I had to. I’m going to leave first thing in the morning.”
“Let me come, Link.” She took my hand as I stood above her. “I’ll support you. As a friend or a partner. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks.”
I held my hand out—I needed the watch back. It would be hard to give it to Chen. It was a piece of my father I didn’t want to let go of.
—33—
Kara picked me up at five the next morning. She said she would drive and I chose not to argue. We could switch later if she grew tired. It didn’t hurt that Kara’s Prius was much better on gas.
An hour down the 401 heading for Toronto, the conversation became very personal. “The things Jeffries said to you, did you get that a lot?”
I hated to even repeat the word. “Nigger?”
“Yes, that.”
“Sometimes as a child. It was the late seventies and early eighties, mostly kids trying out new words. They didn’t know what it meant. A few adults said it too, generally to our family as a whole. My mom got ‘nigger-lover’ a few times, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. But thanks anyway. Have you ever wondered about my name? It’s not exactly common.”
“Sometimes, all the Roman numerals mean it’s obviously a family name.”
I cast her a look of pure stupidity. “Well done, Detective.” I received a well-deserved punch to the left shoulder.
“My great-great-grandfather Charles and grandmother Hettie were born into slavery in Maryland in the eighteen-thirties,” I said.
A quiet gasp, the usual response when I mentioned my family’s slave heritage.
“They worked on the same plantation and fell in love. They wanted their children to be free, so they fled along the Underground Railroad in eighteen-fifty-nine, a dangerous and long journey for them since Hettie was a few months pregna
nt at the time. They made it through Delaware and into Philadelphia before making the trek through the mountains to New York.
“They had spent one day with a white family in New York, a light on a hitching post telling them the house was safe—abolitionists fighting to help slaves. They traveled by night and that night they heard bounty hunters in the distance with their dogs. They were getting closer, so Charles ran ahead and led them away from Hettie and the rest of the group, saving them from capture. He was caught, beaten and brought back to the plantation. Hettie and the rest made it across Lake Erie to Canada and settled in Chatham.”
“What happened to Charles?”
“He was beaten regularly once he was back on the plantation—the usual punishment for an escapee. He heard that Hettie had made it, the abolitionists relaying messages back and forth, and it kept him going. He tried to escape again but was caught a short distance from the plantation.”
The look in Kara’s eyes was familiar, a feeling of guilt and horror.
“Lincoln passed the Emancipation Declaration in eighteen-sixty-three, but Maryland was loyal to the Union during the Civil War. The state didn’t outlaw slavery until November sixty-four. Charles made the journey in the middle of winter, arriving in early the next year. His daughter, Mary Ann, was five years old.”
“Their second son was born two summers later. Lincoln had passed the Thirteenth Amendment several months earlier finalizing the total abolition of slavery. The son was named Lincoln Charles Munroe as a result. Every first-born son since then has been Lincoln.
“Chatham was a great place to grow up, a large black community. It was one of the Canadian stops on the railroad, a lot of former slaves settled there and others moved on to Toronto or further afield. As soon as they set foot in Canada, slaves were free, there was no fear of being returned to their American masters, and they had the right to vote and own land.”
“I see.”
It was all Kara could say.
“Once I was old enough to understand, my father told me the story like his father had told him. It was engrained in us, our ancestors’ strength and resolve. My parents had it harder as well, interracial marriages were becoming much more common in the seventies, but many still hated the idea. Either way, I wouldn’t want to have seen my father’s face when Jeffries called me a nigger.”
“I would’ve killed him too.”
“I guess I destroyed his fantasy. He wanted a little white boy to rape and kill. Maybe it kept me alive longer, maybe he beat me more.”
Kara put her hand on my lap and I knew that the topic was becoming too much for her. We had had enough sad stories, silence was the better option.
* * *
It was approaching nine in the morning when we reached the hotel Chen and I had stayed at. From there, my memory had to serve me to get us to the scene. I had the watch in a plastic bag, ready to hand over. We made it to the scene less than an hour later, the path worn down from numerous vehicles taking it in the past weeks. I felt badly for every jolt the small car took and figured I would be on the hook for any repairs. Had I remembered this, I would have had Kara take my van.
Chen was easy to find. He was the only one in a suit.
Dr. Conroy and his students were dressed for the weather and the work; t-shirts, shorts and high boots. We stayed back in the car, it would be best if only Chen saw me. I was off duty and on leave for psychiatric reasons, injury and stress. My presence at a crime scene hours from my home would be difficult to explain. Chen looked over at the car and was then startled by his phone ringing.
“Hello?”
“It’s Link,” I said. “I’m in the car you’re staring at.”
“What?”
“Quiet, Chen. I’m not here, just come to the passenger side for a chat.”
I hung up the phone and watched as Chen put his away then did as he was told. I rolled the window down.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Long story,” I said, speaking the undeniable truth. “First off, Vincenzo Chen meet Kara Jameson, my partner. Kara, Chen-Chen.”
They nodded at each other and exchanged the required pleasantries.
I made eye contact with Chen. “Remember when I first got here, you had the idea I was psychic, asked me who the killer was and I jokingly said maybe it was you?”
“Yeah?”
“I was really close.”
I’d expected Chen’s laughter. I took out the letter my father had written and handed it to Chen.
“Holy fuck,” was all he could say.
“When I was here I took this, found it on the ground not far from Jeffries’s body. It’s my father’s watch.” I handed Chen the bag and he stared at the dirt covered item within. “I’m on my way to the Commissioner after this to tell him everything. Almost everything.” I looked down at the watch now in Chen’s hand. “I have a huge favour to ask of you.”
Chen nodded and smiled. “I won’t say anything until I get the report.”
He dumped the watch out of the bag and onto the ground.
“Hey, look what I just found.” He pointed to the watch on the ground. “Wonder if it’s important.”
Kara and I both let slide a chuckle. With Chen, it was all in the delivery.
“Thanks, Chen. I owe you.” I reached out my hand.
“Yeah, you do.” Chen took my hand in his and leaned in giving the best hug he could with a car door in the way.
“Good luck.”
—34—
We spoke little as we drove from Algonquin Park to Orillia, to the OPP Headquarters. It occurred to me that the Commissioner might not be in the building when we arrived. But I was starting to believe in Chen’s idea of fate. Not that I was ready to accept that everything was preordained, but maybe certain things were inescapable. The old adage of fate dealing the cards and us being responsible for the hand we played seemed to fit.
Headquarters loomed in front of us as we pulled into the parking lot just after noon. The sun was high in the cloudless sky and beating in through the car’s moon roof. Kara parked the car and neither of us moved. If she was waiting for me, she would have to sit for a while longer.
My nerves were shot now, and I found myself shaking uncontrollably, fearful of what I was about to do. Kara took my hand and steadied it, her unspoken words telling me she was ready whenever I was.
A few minutes later I stepped out of the car and took my crutches from the back seat, then stood outside staring at the large building in front of me; the Lincoln M. Alexander building, named for one of Ontario’s former Lieutenant Governors.
The OPP flag flapped in the breeze high above me beside a Canadian flag and the flag of the province of Ontario. The movement of the flags had my gaze locked and I never noticed Kara come around beside me until her hand was on my shoulder.
“I’m ready,” I said, and we began walking, a slow march to an unknown fate.
It took some time to get an audience with the Commissioner, something not commonly granted to an officer walking in off the street. The Saunders case had made my name well-known in the department and may have assisted as did my constant repetition of the word ‘urgent’.
“So what happens from here?”
I shrugged. “If I get to keep my job I’ll be seeing you soon, if not… I don’t know. I guess I can always collect pogey.”
Kara laughed. She couldn’t see me collecting government unemployment handouts any more than I could.
“I’m leaving for Poland tomorrow,” I said. “I have a lot to fix and I can’t do it from here.”
Kara nodded, searching for the right words. ‘Grand romantic gesture’ would have worked.
We sat in silence for a while, waiting impatiently. I watched the people walking through the busy offices, the nerve centre of a massive organization. And then I saw him.
He walked toward me, resplendent in an OPP brass uniform. It was a face I hadn’t seen for thirty years, and a face I can’t believe I had forgotten.
William Jeffries.
The world around me crumbled into darkness.
I am lying down, warm in a sleeping bag, with my father snoring loudly beside me. The rush of the river fills my ears and I know why I have woken up. I unzip the door of the tent and walk a short distance, halfway between the tent and the river. Standing in front of a large tree I lower my sweatpants.
A branch cracks behind me, but before I can turn I feel a large, strong hand cover my mouth and I’m being lifted off the ground. I try to fight, to break away, but he’s too strong. I can’t scream, I can’t bite, my mouth is clamped shut.
I don’t know where he’s taking me, the trees all look the same. He runs with me in his arms for what seems like forever, the full moon casting its glow on his face through breaks in the trees. He looks down at me and I see rage in his eyes, his hand clenches tighter.
“Fucking nigger,” he says.
I’m crying, the tears make his hand wet and he has to adjust his grip. Every time he does I try to scream but he always cuts it short.
All of a sudden he throws me to the ground. I land hard on the rocks and tree roots. Blood and urine wet my clothing.
“Filthy nigger.” He’s screaming now as he kicks me again and again. I cover my head with my arms and I hear a loud crack. The pain is too much to bear and I start to black out, then I see his boot coming at my head again.
When I come to, someone is yelling. It’s my father’s voice. He’s found me. I’m safe. I struggle to sit up, to look around for him, but there’s blood in my eyes and it hurts to move. He crashes to the ground not far from me, I can almost reach him. The man is on top of him, choking him.
I reach for him, I have to help him. My hand feels something cold and sharp.
A knife.
I take it in my right hand and force myself to my feet. The pain fades as I stand and leap onto the man’s back, plunging the knife in as hard as I can.
My father’s face shines like an angel’s in the moonglow, a look of pain and pride. The man flails and I start to fall backwards. I see the tip of the knife sticking out of his chest as he turns, then everything goes black again.
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