Black Cat Weekly #75

Chapter 5-1

byThere is a knot in my stomach that tightens every time I press the start button. And nothing happens. The Keurig coffeemaker refuses to cooperate. It simply sits there blinking blue. Now the knot is moving further up my abdomen and across my kidneys and lodging in my lower back.

When I was the police chief in Humboldt, Saskatchewan, I could just duck out the door to the nearest Walmart and have a replacement in mere minutes. But I’m currently a police chief in the Canadian north, a mere 3,200 kilometers from the Arctic Circle, and there is no Walmart. There is no department store of any kind. sss delivers in three to five days (it used to be three weeks), but coffee in a climate where temperatures can routinely hit -13 degrees Fahrenheit is not simply nice to have, it is essential.

There is a f*******: marketplace that might be the best option. I turn to ask Ahnah Friesen, the Iqaluit Constabulary’s exceptional executive assistant, what she’d recommend we do in this crisis. Before I can say anything, however, our front door swings open and David Picco, the member of the legislative assembly for Rankin Inlet strides in.

“Got a minute,” he says, heading for my office. It is not a request.

David Picco is the man responsible for getting the local police force established—a first for the territory of Nunavut—and the person responsible for me being here in Iqaluit without a coffeemaker. He’s also a mentor and a friend.

I’m right behind him. Coffeeless. “What’s up?” I ask before the door shuts behind me, something we rarely do here and a harbinger of bad news to come.

“I’d like you to come with me,” David says. “We have a situation. It doesn’t appear to be a police matter, but I’d like your input.”

“Of course,” I say without hesitation. “How can I help?”

“Not sure,” says David. “I’ll tell you what I do know on the way.”

We’re heading down Mivvik and turning on to Queen Elizabeth past the post office. David is clearly rattled. I wait silently. My training as a cop in the south has taught me that. Lack of caffeine makes it easier.

“A young man has died,” David finally says. “It might be the water.”

“s**t,” I say sitting up straighter. The knot is back.

Water is a hot-button issue in Iqaluit. Residents have repeatedly complained about the smell of fuel every time they turned on their taps, and last year the city’s 8,000 residents had to use bottled water for two months when it was confirmed something potentially toxic was in the water. That something was fuel. It turns out a sixty-year-old underground fuel tank was buried next to the water treatment plant. Remediation and cleaning are under way, but many people in town feel efforts are too little, too late.

David brings the Ram 1500 to an abrupt halt in front of a green and grey apartment building on Aiviq Street. The coroner’s Subaru Crosstek and the city’s one ambulance are parked out front. “Second floor,” David says.

“I don’t want to influence what you see,” he adds by way of explanation. “And I don’t want to see that room again unless I have to.”

There is no elevator, not unusual in Iqaluit, and the stairs have seen better days, also not unusual. There is a group of people outside the third apartment on the left. “Doug Brumal,” I say by way of introduction. “Police chief.”

That creates a stir. A clear voice from inside yells out, “What the hell are you doing here?”

That would be Kari Frost, the chief coroner. I make my away around two paramedics, one gurney, and a clutch of what I presume are other tenants. Kari is on her knees in front of a motionless man. A stethoscope dangles from her neck. Kari nods in my direction as if answering my unasked question.

I step in closer, mindful not to contaminate what might be a crime scene, although with the crowd and the chaos inside the apartment, I fear that ship has sailed. “David Picco thought I might be able to help. He’s outside in his truck.”

That got me a raised eyebrow, and this response. “I’ll meet you both at your office in 15 minutes.”

I take a quick look around. The apartment is a mess—but not from efforts to save the young man lying dead on the floor. Dirty dishes overflow the sink and the counter and have made their way into a small living area that includes a Formica dining table with mismatched chairs and a sea-green sofa with purple cushions and two bed pillows. I realize for the first time that there is a young man on the sofa. He is so still I didn’t see him until now. The first thing I notice: he’s breathing.

“Doug Brumal,” I say by way of introduction. I’m now standing in front of him. He’s Caucasian and I’d guess around 6’1” and 140 pounds. He’s lean—and he’s nervous. This could simply be the aftershock of seeing someone die, someone I presume who may be close to him. The young man nods but barely looks up.

“I’m the police chief,” I add. Now that gets me a response. Mr. Lean with the Save Our Planet T-shirt looks up quickly and seems to spasm. Again, I’m not sure if this is shock or something more. “Jakob,” he says. “But everybody calls me Peanut.”

I hear a not-so-subtle cough behind me. I take a quick look at my watch. There’s ten minutes left before Kari descends on the police station. I head for outside and fill David in. Like most Inuit I know, he has been waiting patiently and without impatience. “What do you think?” he asks.

“I think there is a dead man on the floor and something Kari wants us to know,” I say. Frankly, it’s all I’ve got at this point.

We stop at the only Tim Horton’s in Iqaluit on the way back to my office and stock up on coffee for everyone. I jokingly ask the server if she has an extra coffeemaker she could sell me. The joke falls flat, although I get a polite smile. Inuit must think people from the south are strange.

We’re met with a rousing round of applause when we enter the station. That’s for the coffee and the box of Timbits. I’m on my third bite-size doughnut when Kari marches in. “Thank god,” Iqaluit’s coroner says. “I’m starving. Death has that effect on me.”

A southerner from Calgary, Kari has lived in Iqaluit for five years, a lifetime for many people who move to a place where the land is permanently frozen, the sun dips below the horizon for months, and a head of lettuce can cost you as much as $6. This is her home, but she has brought the south with her. Haven’t we all.

“Sorry guys,” she says, looking at Ahnah and my two constables, Kallik Redfern and Willie Appaqaq, “but this will have to be a closed-door meeting for now.”

Kari grabs a coffee, takes a long swallow, and lets out a big sigh. “Guys, this might be a mess. A big mess.”

We wait for her to continue. I want to dive in and ask, “What might be a mess’?” “What do you mean by mess?” “Why are we discussing this behind closed doors?” But I have learned a little forbearance since moving to Nunavut six months ago. The Inuit are a thoughtful people. They don’t jump into conversations, interrupt, or even respond immediately. They reflect, if only for several vital seconds.

Kari takes another swallow. Her 5’3” frame seems to deflate a little. “I think the kid died of benzene poisoning.”

It’s clear from the expressions on David’s face and my face that we have no idea what this pronouncement means. That confusion is quickly replaced with concern. “Benzene is a petroleum-based chemical,” says Kari. “The last water test results from the chief medical health officer showed concentrations six hundred times higher than the maximum set in the Guidelines for Canadian Drinking Water Quality.”

“s**t,” David says quietly.

Water issues have been contentious and ongoing in Iqaluit, but they have not been fatal. Until now. “Are you sure?” I ask.

“Not in the least,” says Kari. “I won’t be sure until we get blood results back from Edmonton.”

“You can’t test here?” David asks quickly. Having to ship blood cultures 2,800 kilometres away takes time and wastes time. It also increases the number of people privy to what is being tested.

“No,” says Kari. We accept her answer. The coroner knows what is at stake, and she knows what resources are available in her field here. In a small community that is closer to the north pole than to a major city, resources can be hard to come by.

“What makes you think it’s benzene?” I ask, hoping we might find a flaw in Kari’s reasoning.

“The symptoms the paramedics witnessed—vomiting, abdominal pain, convulsions,” Kari says. “He also smelled sweet.”

She sees our uncertainty. “Benzene has a sweet smell.”

“This isn’t good,” says David. You can see the concern etched on his face. “I need to contact the environmental health officer and fill them in. Then we’ll need to inform the city council and the government executive.” In Nunavut, the territorial government is run by consensus. Decisions do not have to be endorsed unanimously but they must be carefully thought through and presented. The member from Rankin Inlet is in for a long few days, maybe weeks.

“Doug, will you dig up everything you can on this young man, and keep me apprised,” David adds as he makes his way to my office door. “Kari, please push for the blood results.”

* * * *

There are only a few hours left in the work day, and my team is in full swing. This is new to us. First, almost everything is new to us. The Iqaluit Constabulary has officially been up and running for fewer than three months. Second, we usually investigate what is a suspected crime, not a suspected accidental death.

The young man now has a name: Erik Whetton. What we know so far is that he’s 27, originally from Bakersfield, California, and has been living in Iqaluit for the past six months. Willie is reaching out to the deceased’s family for further background. Kallik is going through the apartment, taking photos and samples, as appropriate. Ahnah and I are meeting with the roommate/lover/husband in 40 minutes.

Jakob Brandt is prompt. Ahnah has made the interrogation room as friendly and welcoming as possible. The lights are not on full beam, there is bottled water on the table, and biscuits I suspect were a treat for me from Kallick’s mom. It’s not usually my style to jointly interview suspects, witnesses, or others, but somehow Ahnah has become integral to this process. I’m not sure how this happened; I suspect Ahnah knows exactly how it happened.

Brandt lowers his lanky frame into one of the three metal chairs in the room. He overflows the back of the chair and his legs protrude almost to the edge of the table in front to us. Today his T-shirt says, “Save the whales.”