Mâtowak: Woman Who Cries

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A large shadow falls over my desk. I look up to see my boss, RCMP Staff Sergeant Gabriel Lacroix, scowling down at me. Lacroix is French. He's not First Nations, but his stance, size, and dark skin remind me of our chief on the reservation when I was a kid. A no-nonsense man with little patience for the shenanigans of restless boys.

“There has been a possible homicide in College Heights. Dispatch has the particulars. There was no weapon found at the scene. Handle with kid gloves; this one is high priority. I want you to treat the victim's wife as if she were your own mother. Clear?” His scowl deepens. “And no further involvement in your wife's murder. You wait until Surrey call you. Is that clear, Corporal Killian?”

I nod and present my yes-of-course-Staff-Sergeant face. Lacroix, neither satisfied nor more perturbed than normal, walks away.

It's been fifteen weeks since he accepted my transfer in from District, yet, he still only speaks to me when necessary. I'm satisfied with that arrangement. After too many years spent trying to impress the white establishment, I just go ahead and call Dispatch. I check my watch, 9:24, ask them to send the file to my computer, and request they page the Forensic Ident members.

An instant later, I click on the link, read: Victim: Leland Warner—a name I recognize—shot to death in his home. Address: College Heights. Shooter: unknown.

I page the rest of my team.

Constable Stan Carrigan texts to say he's en route. Two seconds later, Constable John Ryan texts. He's less than a block from the address. Ryan has been at many crime scenes but never without our team, though there is a senior officer, along with his junior counterpart.

I call Ryan. “We'll be there as soon as possible.”

Ryan says, “I'm pulling in the driveway now.”

“Who's there so far?”

“Two patrol cars.”

“Page PDS and request their best search dog. Take your time.”

“Gotcha,” Ryan says. “Anything else?”

“No, just follow protocol.” I hang up with him and call Carrigan. “How close are you?”

“I'm passing Costco. ETA ten minutes.”

“Ryan's there with a senior member.”

“Understood.”

Last night, the local weatherman had advised no snow until next week when a system in the Pacific was due to hit. Given that, I slip on my parka, leave my outdoor boots behind, and exit the building via the side door. It's warm enough not to zip the parka.

My car's parked in the lot across the street. The Ident team are in the minivan in front of me at Fifth Avenue waiting for a break in traffic. I pull up to them, turn with them southwest onto Victoria Street. Suddenly, I'm sweating. In the middle of winter.

At the intersection of Victoria and Seventeenth, the light turns red; I crack open my window. Cold air seeps into the car. A heaviness I've experienced off and on all morning pushes on my chest. A heart attack?

Couldn’t be.

The light turns green. At Twentieth Avenue, we turn right. I pull my favourite photograph of Angie out of my inside pocket, cup it in my left palm, glance down at her face. My hand shakes.

On our first date, my hands also shook. There was no mistaking the look of surprise on her friends' faces when we showed up at the whites-only party. Angie'd worn white, like a bride, which set off her silky blonde hair and blue eyes. My black T-shirt, jeans, dark skin, hair, and eyes must have stuck out like a raven trying to hide amongst swans.

There was an embarrassing moment at the door where we were greeted by three gawking females, two grinning widely. I had my hand on Angie's back and felt her stiffen. Then one of the girls broke the ice, and said, “No wonder you've been hiding him. He's gorgeous.”

The host grabbed my arm and, beginning at one end of the house, introduced me to every person there. Halfway through the room, I caught Angie's eye, and mouthed: Save me. She threw back her head and laughed. Later, while we made love, she said, “My friends are wrong. You're nerdy, not gorgeous. And, mister…don't ever forget that.”

We were in love. Sure of our future.

Now, six months after her murder, I'm celebrating our seventh anniversary alone.

I place her photograph back inside my pocket. “Happy Anniversary, babe.” My eyes burn while I fight not to cry.

A kilometre down Haldi Road I pull into the vic's large circular driveway and park between a patrol car and Carrigan's vehicle to the left of the garage. The minivan is at the back door. The time is 9:41. I pull coveralls and shoe coverings from the trunk, walk to the house's open service entrance door. As I approach, I repeat in my head: The job. I'm here to do the job.

Inside the enclosed porch I climb into the coveralls, slip the covers over my shoes, then pull on two sets of nitrile gloves. Inside the residence, it's a short walk down a short hallway to the open space of the kitchen.

The odour of defecation and gunpowder lays heavy in the room. Even after fifteen years, I gag over the film coating my tongue. I was an embarrassment to my staff sergeant back in Surrey's Homicide, who told me early on I had better get used to it. I survey the scene. This is nothing like we faced when I worked the cases off Highway 16. The majority of the time we had only bones to process. No crime scene. No witnesses. No large quantities of blood.

Ident waste no time collecting evidence; brain splatter across the top of the island. I kneel beside the remains of an older gentleman sprawled face-up on the kitchen tiles. There is a puddle of blood under his head. It doesn't appear that he's been moved. There's no bruising on the forehead, no signs of residue on the skin, which could mean he wasn't shot at close range.

Tilting the head gently reveals the bullet had exited the back of the skull, leaving a large hole. Possibly from a 9mm. I stand up, my knees creak, which reminds me that while The Butcher, Vancouver's worst serial killer in two decades, gets life in prison, I'll probably get new knees in a ten years. I look towards the door, the counter, and the kitchen window. Squinting, I make out a small hole in the glass above the sink.

Kneeling again—damn, it hurts—I open the vic's mouth, check the tongue, the cheeks, and thank the powers-to-be for nitrile gloves. Otherwise the thought of sticking my fingers in some dead man's cavities would have me gagging. In front of subordinates, no less.

I check his chest pockets, which can be as scary if the vic had a drug habit and was hoarding old syringes. I rifle through trouser pockets, feel someone standing next to me. It's a young constable, the driver of the patrol car outside.

The kid's baby-smooth face is grey, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Either he partied too hard last night or this is his first crime scene. He stares at the body, blinks, swallows. Hopefully he has the good sense to go outside if he's going to puke.

“You were first on the scene, Constable…?”

“Pinscher. Constable Riley had a blow out coming up the hill, so I arrived first.”

“And?”

He opens his notepad. “My ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival) was 9:14. The back door was open, no sign of forced entry. I taped it right off, asked Mrs. Warner to stay with in view, while I came in and checked for vitals. I immediately went back to the door and assisted Mrs. Warner in through the front entrance. She hasn't been back in this room since. I waited for Constable Riley. He checked the vic's pulse, looked for a casing, went to see if there were footprints. He called it in at 9:19. Mrs. Warner said she was upstairs and didn't hear anything. Apparently, only delivery people use the service door. There was no blood on her, no casing. Oh, and—” He sucks air. “The vic's a VIP.”

“Yes, the Honourable Leland Warner, retired from the Cabinet of Canada. How old is the widow? What's her condition?”

“Sixty. Constable Riley is with her in the living room. She's upset.”

No—really?

I smack my lips together to stop myself from smirking. “Go and stay near her, but give her space. Later when you get back to the detachment, copy your notes and give them to Constable Carrigan.”

Pinscher turns to leave. Behind him, Stan Carrigan steps forward. A camera flashes behind me.

“It's true? The victim's our former Minister of National Defence?” Carrigan asks. “Holy cow.”

“How long have they been back in Prince George?” I pat Warner's stomach, legs, ankles, and find nothing. I didn't expect to.

“About eighteen months. Warner was Cariboo-Prince George Member of Parliament for a lot of years before taking over as Minister of National Defence after the scandal with the last one. Apparently, he's responsible for suspending use of those Mercedes G-Wagon combat vehicles. He also made sure we got the sixteen new CH-47 Chinook choppers and the seventeen C-130Js for The Sandbox. He may have been a horse's ass, but that one gesture endeared him to a lot of Canadians. He retired and came back to work in his law firm here in Prince. Do you remember the incident with his two sons?”

I nod. Two privileged, rich, white brothers terrorized a First Nations woman and her daughter by kidnapping the daughter and later threatening to kill them both. The First Nations mother was a highly respected English professor from UNBC. The brothers were Warner's sons. If they hadn't ended up dead, they probably wouldn't have done time.”

I glimpse Carrigan's face. He doesn't look apologetic over his bias opinion.

“As soon as the Coroner's finished, send Constable Gregory with the body to Kamloops; he'll sign the body out. Have him do the stats for their forensic pathologist. Age, weight, COD (cause-of-death). Fill me in on the back-story later.”

“Okay.”

“Check the window over the sink. There's a hole in the glass, consider the position of the body, determine whether that's the exit path of the bullet or vice versa. Scan the backyard. Is somebody outback with a search dog?”

“Yes. Chastin and Bandit. They're scanning the neighbourhood and surrounding woods.”

I nod. “Good.” My knees crack as I stand, and I wince. Damn. If Carrigan heard them crack, there's no indication. Why I care is stupid. Bad knees don't mean I'm not capable of running this investigation.

The Ident photographer steps forward to snap pictures of the counter and floor.

“I want photos of everything,” I tell her, “before and after the body's removed.”

I point at one of the fingerprint experts. “Pay particular attention to the service door entrance for prints. Since there is no sign of forced entry, our perp might have knocked on the door, pressed the button without gloves, or leaned his hand against the door frame. Or maybe the door was unlocked, and he opened it.” I turn back to Carrigan. “We'll need a sketch. And two teams canvassing the neighbourhood.”

I look at the counter, stove, prep area, then down at the body, searching for anything out of the ordinary. No one will be able to accuse us of putting low priority on this case. The dead man on the kitchen floor isn't a cop's spouse, or a missing kid from some northern village or the wrong side of Prince George. Former Minister of National Defence Leland Warner was an influential member of society. Those in command will make sure his death is solved. If not by me, then by somebody else.

That should annoy me, but it doesn't. I'll do everything possible to find the shooter. Since Angie's death, securing justice for the victim is what gets me out of bed every morning. I can, and will, and must make a difference to somebody.

Won't say that to the grief counsellor, though. I'm not sure my privacy is safe from the bureaucrats. Sorry, Dad, but white people make me nervous.

This murder looks too neat, void of emotion. The shooter got Warner's attention, and Warner left the table—the newspaper still lay on top. Maybe the shooter directed Warner backward towards the counter with his gun. Or he used the delivery of a package for cover and asked for Warner's signature, prompting Warren to turn to the counter.

I glance at the counter and floors for evidence of a pen or a package.

The youngest member of my team, Constable John Ryan, joins me at the entrance to the kitchen. John is built like a hockey player, fast on his feet, alert to his surroundings. Dedicated. Easy to respect. So far, as I can tell, he's good-natured under all circumstances. Some would say that's a gift. One day I'll ask him where he grew up. Bet it was a long way from the reservation or residential schools.

“You were able to get here fast.”

“Yeah, just my luck.” Ryan catches himself and injects, “I delivered those papers you gave me, so I happened to be the closest one when you paged.”

“What did you find?”

Ryan looks at his notes. “Honourable Leland William Warner, sixty-two, retired. You'll want to see the file on his sons, Declan and Bronson. They've been dead eighteen months. Most say it's why Warner retired before the election. God rest his soul.”

I ignore the religious reference. I learned a long time ago that there is no God. Anyone with half a mind should know that. The world is a godless, corrupt, hideous place. Why else would eighteen families be missing loved ones off the same highway? Why else would a woman lose her children, then her husband? Why else would I be celebrating my seventh anniversary alone?

“Any possible suspects?”

“Yes, three. Doctor Brendell Meshango, Declan's English professor, was with Warner's sons the night they died. Last report said she was head of the English Department at UNBC. Sophie Brooks, First Nations artist, had dated Declan until, rumour says, his dad put an end to it. Maybe she took it bad? Shawn Norse, ex-biker. It was Bronson Warner who beat Norse’s wife into a coma for no reason. She died in hospital a few days later.”

“We need to find out if there is a connection between the sons' deaths and Warner's.”

Warner's face shows an empty expression. As a homicide investigator, I know why the faces of the dead hold no emotion; facial muscles go slack at death. Yet, it never fails to amaze me to see their blank expressions.

“Call in the coroner,” I tell the closest investigator. “Constable Gregory will need to know time of death, etc., so we can get the remains to Kamloops as soon as possible; he's got an six-hour drive ahead of him. Tell them to bring the metal box. He can leave from here.” I turn back Ryan. “What about the widow?”

“She was upstairs. Says this door was open when she came down. Didn't hear the shot or any other commotion, which could be why she's still alive.”

“Or the shooter used a silencer and was satisfied with one target.”

Ryan nods. “Mr. Norse is the husband of murder victim Jasmine Norse. Everybody knows how much he hated Warner. Considering Warner's son beat Mrs. Norse to death, he'd be our prime suspect, eh? He definitely has motive. Given his associates, getting his hands on a weapon wouldn't be a problem.”

A monitor above the upright freezer catches my attention. “We'll use ViCLAS.” I'm not convinced the analysis system can solve a murder, but we'll use whatever resources we have. “Collect all surveillance tapes and find out if there was a main recorder somewhere. Were visitors or home deliveries expected?”

“I'll find out.”

“Is Mrs. Warner still in the living room?”

“Ident is with her. I took her statement.”

“I'll question her further after we take her downtown, like everyone else.”

Ryan shakes his head. “Apparently that ain't happening.”

“Says who?”

“Superintendent Malden.”

I clench my jaw, then relax. I'll deal with this break in protocol later. “They test for gunpowder residue yet?”

“She's clean.”

“Skin and clothing?”

“Yeah.”

“We'll need her clothes.” I face Stan Carrigan, who immediately moves closer. “Have the team gather every bit of evidence they can find for criminal analysis.” I say this out of habit. They can do their jobs blindfolded, but it's part of my responsibility to recite the same old spiel. “We'll need help searching this place.”

“I'll make the call. And you're right, the bullet exited through the window. The glass shards are on the outside.”

I look back at the window. Barely visible from this distance is the hole in the centre of the double pane. A sudden glare of morning sunlight shoots darts of pain behind my eyes. I squint, refocus. Warner's backyard is surrounded by a greenbelt of spruce and bare birch trees. A large calibre might have ricocheted off any number of trees before it lost projectile power.

“Stan, work backwards from the hole. Use infrared to see exactly where Warner stood, then do the same from the other side. Let's hope we find the bullet. John, you're sure it's one shot?”

Constable John Ryan glances over his right shoulder at the body. “Seems so.”

“Assume nothing.”

“Right.”

“Have them check for biological trace so we can separate Warner from our shooter. Make sure they gather all the physical evidence on the fridge, counters, and floor. In other words: everywhere. I'll need a summary of his active court cases by day's end. See if Norse is connected to anything recent, not just what went on eighteen months ago. Concentrate on what might have set Norse off this morning, but don't wait for results. Before you head back to the detachment, let our file coordinator know you'll appoint a team of two to go through every file from the past six months at Mr. Warner's law firm. If nothing shows up, go back a year. Stan, I'd like you to supervise.”

I don't wait to see Carrigan's reaction, but turn back to Ryan, who continues scribbling in his notes. “I want something for the National DNA data bank by the end of the day.”

“Weather report says to expect snow tomorrow,” Ryan volunteers. “We could lose evidence outside.”

I frown. “What weather report?”

“Global news, BC. I watch it every morning before I leave home.”

“Last night local news said no snow for the next three days.” I hear the resistance in my voice.

Ryan shrugs. “I guess they changed their minds.”

Snow, tomorrow? That's bad news for the investigation and my car. I haven't installed studded tires yet. Of course, until I came north, I didn't know I would need them. I'm still trying to remember which i***t told me all-seasons would be good enough in the north.

“Have them do a trace for tire tracks and footwear. Get a scale drawing for tomorrow in case we need to send a profile for behavioural analysis. Exactly how big is this place?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say about seven thousand square feet, but I'll find out.”

I spot a vent cap near the floor. “Central vacuum system?”

“I'll find out.”

“Have the filters checked. Get the blueprints. Now, I'll speak to the widow. Where's the living room?”

“Actually, it's called a gathering room. I'll show you.” Ryan hesitates. “Uh, our first responder took some liberties.”

“Constable Pincher?”

“Yeah.”

“Explain.”

“When he arrived, she was standing at the back door. Her purse was on the ground. He picked it up, looked in her purse, and recorded what he saw.”

“Why? Never mind.” I inhale a slow, shallow breath. “If she turns out to be our perp, he'll have to explain his mistake on the stand.”

“No weapon.” Ryan's face reddens fast. He shrugs. “Guess that's obvious, or I would have handed it over. Anyway, he made a list of the contents. I'll add a copy to my notes. As soon as he realized what he'd done, he asked if we had her permission to do several searches of her house pertaining to her husband's murder until we closed the case.”

I shake my head. This just keeps getting better. “How long has he been out of Regina (RCMP Academy)?”

“Three weeks.” Noting my surprise, he smiles. “I figured you'd want to know, so I asked.”

“Follow up on anything he noted in her purse. Just in case.”

“Gotcha.”

I take off my coveralls and hand them to one of the Idents. “The gathering room?” In my culture, a gathering place is a place critical to strengthening traditions and community. I have a feeling Warner's gathering room is anything but.