Chipper arrived at ten,
music from his car echoing long before he came through the door. The young Sikh corporal was due to stay until seven on their overlapping schedules until November brought an end to the major tourist wave. Everyone at the detachment preferred the busier months, although the winter meant time for extra training and updating of their skills.
At six-foot-three, with his café-au-lait skin, short goatee, and light-blue turban, Chipper was probably in more holiday shots than any other Mountie barring those protecting the Houses of Parliament. Even though he didn’t wear the dress-uniform red serge, visitors, Americans especially, loved to take pictures of Canada’s multiculturalism at work. The uniform privilege had been a hard-fought case all the way to the Supreme Court, which ruled over twenty years ago that Sikh RCMP officers were entitled to wear the five K symbols of their religion, including the kirpan and the signature turban. The Sikhs had a proud history of fighting for the British Empire in the First and Second World Wars. To the shame of Canadians, Holly felt, nearly two hundred thousand people had signed a petition against the idea.
“Hey, Guv. Yo, Ann,” he said, tossing a gleaming white grin as he saluted. On the table he deposited a dozen assorted muffins from the Tim Hortons in Langford. “Low-fat carrot and pineapple for you two.”
“Chief, boss, or your highness will be fine,” she said, though secretly she enjoyed his little joke. People gave you nicknames if they liked you. Nice nicknames, that is. “And you might avoid the chocolate one yourself. Don’t they have 550 calories? I thought I saw some love handles. The Big 3-0 is looking over your shoulder.” To his amusement, she gave his tall figure a challenging onceover, even poking his slim waist. How much easier it was to interact with a modern man instead of the mastodons from her training years. Most were at the “she’s gotta be able to take it, so let’s lay it on” stage. Change came slowly in the established military machine. It would take another generation to catch up, but progress was being made.
“No way. You are looking at the king of crunches. I picked up a Bowflex on Used Victoria. Mr. Universe, here I come. Maybe I’ll even get in one of those calendars like the firefighters. Can you imagine what a date magnet that would be?” He pounded his flat stomach with a modified gorilla growl, then went to his desk and picked up a bulletin, which he brought to Holly. “This came last week. Roadway deaths have gone up by nearly 8 percent this year. Fifty-one on the island. The Integrated Road Safety Unit is coming to Victoria for a seminar next month. I’d like to go.”
She gave him a folded-arm response. “Sure you just don’t want to get out of traffic duty?”
His expressive mouth tossed back the challenge, then he dropped to one knee as if proposing. “Losing me, even for a day, will be tough. Be generous. Think of the lives you might save.”
Ann was clearing her throat, her hand levitating over the muffin box. They both knew that she was watching her calories. Then with a small groan, she opened a paper lunch bag and took out a celery stick, popping it into her mouth and chewing with little satisfaction.
Holly gave the bulletin a once-over. Recently B.C. had enacted the toughest drinking and driving law in the country. Blowing even .05 instead of the standard .08 could mean a three-day suspension and a fine of $450 plus towing and impound costs. “Speed and alcohol lead the lists, followed by driver inattention. Someday every car will have a breathalyser.” The worst living nightmare was being on-call in a traffic fatality, especially when children were involved. Or animals. Nobody ever spoke about poor little Schatze heading like a furry missile through the windshield. Her father was right to be cautious about Shogun.
Chipper folded his hands on the desk and looked up, his boyish face a roadmap of innocence. Her extra four years in the field made the difference. He had yet to draw his gun on a person, a milestone few wanted to reach and a good reason why holsters had snap covers. Once he’d had to use his sidearm to dispatch a deer because the cruiser shotgun was being cleaned. “Those dark, beautiful doe eyes. I’ll see them in my nightmares,” he’d told her, then not spoken the rest of the day.
“Islanders don’t know how to drive in winter, that’s for sure,” Holly said.
“Spare me, you two.” Ann had entered the force in her mid-thirties, having raised her son on her own into his teens before pursuing a law enforcement career. She never spoke about those early struggles, nor the father. For all Holly knew, the contribution came from a sperm bank, except that young single girls didn’t usually have that option. “I spent two years in the Wawa area, remember? The
Edmund Fitzgerald
didn’t go down for nothing in Lake Superior. Every weekend brought another lake-effect blizzard. One snowflake falls here, and it’s a three-ring circus. You’ll be sorry you bought that Mustang with no weight in the back, Chipper.”
“Come on, Ann. No comparison,” Holly said. “There are what, twelve people living in Northern Ontario? Once a winter there’s a bloodbath here on the Malahat. That bus driver who avoided a beer truck saved the lives of everyone on board last week.”
The Island Highway traversed tortuous territory on its way through Goldstream Park up to Nanaimo. Rockcuts on one side and forested cliffs with jumbo Douglas firs on the other. Year-round tourists gawked at the postcard views across to Vancouver and the white-capped mountains beyond. Few invested in snow tires despite the warning signs.
Just before she left, Holly told Chipper about the incident Saturday night. “No kidding,” he said, his tilde brows rising over eyes of velvet brown. “Wish I could have been there.”
“I know you mean that in the right way. You’re not suggesting that a big strong man was needed, are you?”
He tipped back his chin with a slight narrowing of the eyes. Was that a blush she saw?
“Never. A woman’s touch comes in handy dealing with other females. But you say you have a lead? That’s a bit of luck.”
“Good police work makes its own luck.” Another nugget from her mentor, Ben.
Chipper thought for a moment. Then he said, “Get this, then. Does this sound like a coincidence or what? Milt Carroll from West Shore stopped in at Dad’s store last week and told me about someone they’re having trouble with in Langford. He rushes out of nowhere to assault women walking alone after dark. Then just plain vanishes. Do you think it’s the same person?”
This was a perfect example of why communication between detachments was critical. She pooched out a lower lip in thought. “Langford’s twenty kilometres away. But this guy sounds pretty bold if he’s struck several times. What are the women like?”
Chipper ticked off points on his long, slender fingers. “The ages range from twelve to seventeen, all on the short side. Five two or less.”
Holly headed for the Mr. Coffee for a fresh cup. “Maddie Mattoon was taller than I am and very athletic. This M.O. is different, too. Middle of the city versus a quiet campground. Our guy has only hit once, but in my mind he’s much more dangerous. What kind of assault are we talking about in Langford? How far has it gone?”
“All he’s done so far is grab a quick feel, then run. He isn’t hanging around to strangle them.”
“Sound like a different animal to me. For one thing, he’d need a vehicle out at French Beach,” Holly said. “But keep track of this for us. We want to keep the avenues of information open.”
Ann said, “It’s not impossible for a clever felon to change his M.O. just to throw things off. They know how much we depend on force of habit. Look what happened with that Beltway Shooter. Two African-Americans. Totally out of profile for snipers.”
“True. When the criminal goes upstream against all the educated guesses …” Holly gave a disgusted shrug. “I love our park system. But it’s tough for us to spread out along sixty kilometres of beaches. Some spots don’t even have car access. They’re hike-in only. No opportunity to stake out the place or set up a decoy. And the Park-Watch people from the summer are gone now.” Sitting all day handing out brochures about avoiding car theft wasn’t Holly’s idea of a good time, but it appealed to a pensioner looking for a few seasonal bucks.
Chipper crossed his long legs. His shirts and pants bore razor creases thanks to Mom’s faithful ironing. “It could be a one-off. Or at least, let’s hope so.”
“The whole thing happening in the dark makes me nervous. I wonder if anything will turn up on the clothes she submitted. I haven’t gotten word back on that. Not that I even will unless I make a request. It’s their case.” She shivered. “But that wire. Talk about nightmares.”
Ann spoke up. “Don’t count on hearing anything soon. A friend of mine in Major Crimes says forensics are backed up to the Stone Age in anything less than a homicide.”
“Botched job or not, the premeditation bothers me. Who walks around like an all-purpose handyman carrying wire for strangling? He may be practising for something much worse.”
“So not a trace of him? No tire tracks?” Ann put in, arching her back in a routine stretch. Tuned to
CSI
, the public expected a crack unit in white and sometimes even black suits and booties combing every site with the latest in diagnostic tools.
“In a public park with wind, dust, and leaves blowing around? The inner grounds were locked to traffic. If he had a car, bicycle, or motorcycle back at the road, how would we know? It’s not like we have CC cameras operating like in some parts of big cities. I surveyed the campers. Unless three university lacrosse players are in league, forget it.” She paused and tugged on an earlobe. A slight flicker of her eyelids signalled hesitation.
“Yes?” In unison.
“When I went back after the inspector had left, I found something in the yurt.”
“The what?” Ann asked.
Holly drew a hut shape with her hands, adding after the description, “A tiny piece of what looked like tissue paper. I’m not sure what to do with it. Nobody wants to look like an idiot, but with nothing else …”
Ann and Chipper exchanged amused glances. “Let’s see this piece of evidence,” Ann said. “And don’t apologize for going the extra distance. No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.”
“That’s a great quote. I may use it someday. Oprah?”
“My grandmother, channelling Eleanor Roosevelt, one of her heroines.”
“Okay. But no laughing.” Holly went to her desk and collected the envelope. She removed the scrap with tweezers, and Ann applied her large magnifying glass as Chipper came over to peer over their shoulders.
“That
is
small all right. Paper, but it’s pretty degraded, whatever it was. It’s probably been wet and dry several times over,” Chipper said. Holly wondered if he was suppressing a smile, but his deadpan look was hard to read. “Not much to go on. It could have floated in from anywhere. It’s a micro-sample.”
“I asked HQ if I should send it to Vancouver and got laughed off the phone. We don’t have the resources, they told me in a nutshell.”
Ann asked, “What about that wire? I’m surprised that she wasn’t cut.”
“Maddie was too concerned with simply breathing. I would have been, too. Pitch black, and it all happened in seconds. Otherwise she might have passed out … or worse.”
“Seconds count when your air’s off. Lucky she didn’t end up brain damaged,” Chipper said with a dark look.
Holly went on. “Indulge me, gang. Let’s go back to what exactly he could have used to choke her.”
Ann adjusted her seat and stood to do a few back stretches. The others were accustomed to this once every hour. “Rope, for one. Polypropylene or old clothes line. Even something heavier. We live in a fishing village.”
Holly shook her head. “I saw her neck. Whatever was used was smooth. There were no abrasions, no discernible fibres.” She struggled to remember exactly how Maddie’s bruises looked. Pinching her fingers together, she added, “Thinner than this. Thicker than that.”
“Say the size of a coat hanger but supple,” Chipper added, running a finger around his collar in discomfort. “Lucky it wasn’t piano wire or that stuff to hang pictures. Poor kid.”
Holly gave a slow nod. “Very true. It would have cut into her skin. She was red and bruised from sticking her hands under it to try to breathe. Her fingers were marked but not cut. Her nails were short, so forget getting anything from beneath them, even if she’d had time to scratch the guy.” She demonstrated what she thought had happened.
Chipper raised a hand. “Hey, lawn trimmer line. That’s everywhere.” He made a pencil drawing about the same thinness. “I have to keep the weeds down around the back of the store where there’s a small lot. It’s very tough stuff. You can’t break it with your hands. Hard to cut, too. You need secateurs or tin snips. A perfect weapon. Well done, ladies. Now we’re thinking like a crim.”
“A crim. Don’t let us hear you talking about skels, or Holly’s Dad will give you one of his pop culture tests.” Ann chuckled to herself. “Anyway, getting inside a felon’s head is our job, Sonny Boy.”
“Everyone I know has a trimmer. Even I do,” Holly said. “Keeping blackberries at bay is a west-coast pastime.”
“Gas powered or those wimpy electric ones? You could be dangerous.” Chipper spread his hands to ward off a mock punch from Holly. “But in the meantime, what can we do? Put out the word?”
A line of exasperation creased Holly’s forehead. “The inspector deliberately told me to sit on this unless something else happens. I don’t feel right keeping silent.”
“We can’t put up signs in all the parks. What about a newspaper story?” Chipper asked.
Ann held up a warning finger. “It’s a very fine line between heightening awareness and starting a panic.”
“Panic, that’s what
he
said. It’s a sad day when a reliance on tourism covers up the truth and endangers people. If there were a cougar in the area, no problem. That’s part of our mystique.” She thought of the famous Jane Doe case in Toronto where a woman sued the police because they hadn’t notified the community that a rapist was operating in the area and that women needed to be on their guard.