Murder in the
CHILCOTIN
Murder IN THE
Chilcotin
Roy Innes
NEWEST PRESS
COPYRIGHT © ROY INNES 2010
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Innes, Roy, 1939 –
Murder in the Chilcotin / Roy Innes.
ISBN 978-1-897126-69-1
I. Title.
PS8617.N545M865 2010 C813’.6 C2010-903641-7
Editor: Diane Bessai
Cover and interior design: Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design
Author photo: Laura Sawchuk
Proofreading: Caroline Barlott and Deanna Hancock
NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.
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Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6
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No bison were harmed in the making of this book.
printed and bound in Canada 1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10
Contents
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
He stood with the women. No men came. He was barely thirteen, but old enough to watch, they said. Strong enough to help carry out the bodies.
The people from the town were there: 250 of them, according to the newspaper. Many were sitting — in chairs, wagons, buggies — waiting for the show.
They were led out, one at a time, up the steps of the gallows. A white man priest followed behind, moaning some foreign words. Five trips in all. Five warriors: one the boy’s uncle, another, a cousin, just sixteen; a cousin more like a brother. The boy remembered days together, hunting, fishing, riding like the wind.
Only one spoke before the noose went round his neck: Klatsassin, their leader; their chief.
“We are prisoners of war,” he said, “not criminals.”
The boy couldn’t hold back a gasp when the first dropped through the trapdoor, but he didn’t cry. None of them cried, nor did they turn away. But some of the white women did.
When it was over, the crowd dispersed. No one met their eyes. An aura of shock and shame surrounded them.
The doctor made his last trip into the shed below the gallows. They’d simply pushed each body aside as the next one was hanged, so as not to offend the white crowd’s sensibilities seeing the dead men. Finally the Mountie sergeant came over to where they were standing.
“Okay,” he said. “You can take them away.”
The boy climbed onto the wagon seat and gave a light tap with the reins to urge the pony forward. He pulled up to the door of the shed and got down. Two of the women entered first and then him. They shielded the light a bit, but not enough.
They were ugly in death; heads flopped over, crotches wet from urine and feces, hands bound behind their backs. Warriors once. Now pieces of meat lying on the ground, waiting to be taken away for burial. White man’s prisoners of war.
The shock didn’t lift for days, but when it did, a hatred built in the boy’s heart that he vowed would never leave. The story would be passed on … and the hate. The white man would pay for his injustice.
1
RAVENS WHEELED ABOVE THE GRAVEL ROAD, screaming their displeasure at one another, fighting for dominance over this tiny bit of Cariboo sky. A half-kilometre south lay B.C. Highway 20, a strip of asphalt running halfway across the province from Williams Lake to the Pacific coast. A curl of smoke rose on the western horizon from a small gypo mill on the outskirts of Anahim Lake. It was too soon for the smell of death to reach the great black birds, but the inert form lying on the road below held promise for them.
Two men were beside it. One stood, a tire iron clutched in his hand; the other knelt, searching for signs of life in the prostrate body. When he was sure, he rose and spoke to his companion.
“Sheessuss. Yuh kilt ’im. Yuh kilt a Mountie.”
“He mad’ me mad.”
Their voices were soft, almost childlike, and neither face showed a trace of emotion.
Silence followed, both men seemingly lost in thought as they gazed down at the dead policeman. Finally, the killer turned, walked back to a battered old pickup parked just ahead of the RCMP cruiser, and threw the tire iron into the box.
“Got ta dump ’im,” he said.
The other man hesitated for a moment, then grunted his agreement. “Yess. Got tah ditchem fer shur.”
They worked quickly, efficiently, as though the whole thing had been planned. With considerable effort, they managed to drag the body to the cruiser and lift it onto the passenger seat where one held it in the sitting position, while the other buckled the seatbelt to hold it there. Next, they erased traces of the scuffle with buck brush switches pulled from the side of the road. That completed, and satisfied nothing had been left to attract attention, one man got into the pickup, the other the cruiser. They started the vehicles and drove about a hundred metres before turning onto an old abandoned logging road. Within seconds, the tiny caravan disappeared from view, hidden by the dense second-growth timber covering the hillside.
Quiet descended again on the gravel road. The ravens dispersed, flying elsewhere to search for their daily fare; but, momentarily, soft hoofbeats and the jangle of a bridle broke the silence as a figure emerged from the pines.
The horse, a small pinto, shook its head, annoyed perhaps by standing in the shadows for so long while its young rider watched the scene unfold below them, not moving until the men had gone.
The boy urged the animal across the ditch and onto the road, finally pulling up where the Mountie’s cruiser had been parked. In one of the tire tracks, a metallic gleam caught his eye. He dismounted, keeping a firm grip with one hand on the reins, picked up the object and blew the dust off it. It was a pen: shiny metal at one end with the figure of a Mountie on a horse, and a bulbous red grip on the other. He quickly stuffed it into his pants pocket, looked around a bit more, then climbed back on his horse and rode off at a gallop, heels pounding against the pinto’s flanks.
2
INSPECTOR MARK COSWELL, satiated from his morning breakfast orgy at The Dutch Pancake House, gazed with annoyance at the message light flashing on his office desk phone, and grumbled, “Who in hell needs to talk to me at seven-thirty on a Monday morning?”
He picked up the receiver and stabbed the message button. A beep, then a familiar voice came from the speaker. “It’s me … Blakemore. I need to speak to you … pronto.”
Pronto? His former corporal, newly promoted to sergeant, had left Vancouver just a few months before to head the RCMP unit in the West Cariboo district — cowboy country all right, but not as yet American. Pronto, indeed.
He punched in the number left at the end of the message. The fledgling sergeant answered on the first ring — not a good sign.
“Thanks for getting back to me right away,” Blakemore said. “I’ve got a problem up here.”
Coswell sighed. Blakemore and problems seemed to go together. “For heaven’s sake, you just got there. You couldn’t possibly be in trouble so soon.”
Blakemore ignored the comment. “One of my rookies, Brent Hansen, was found dead over the weekend inside his burnt-out cruiser at the bottom of a ravine. Poor bugger. His very first posting. Hasn’t been here any more than a couple of months.”
“Accident?”
“I don’t think so. I drove in with the coroner after he got the call. Crime scene was a mess. The native police crew and half the population of the reserve were there. Tire tracks everywhere. They’d even pulled the cruiser up from the ravine. Had to, they said, to douse the wreck with enough water so the fire wouldn’t flare up again.”
“Go on. Why not an accident?”
“The head trauma. Back of the skull caved in by a narrow object. The airbags were burnt up but they had deployed. And even if they weren’t effective, any injury should have been to the front of his head, not the back. No. I think he was dead before the vehicle ran into that ravine.”
“The coroner agree?”
“Yes — on the drive back to Williams Lake. He didn’t say a word at the scene.”
Coswell exhaled through pursed lips. Yes. Blakemore had done it again. It was four years, almost to the day, since the murders in the Monashees,* the first mess Blakemore got him dragged into.
“Okay. Now give me the bad news,” he said. “You know how to handle a murder investigation. Why call me?”
“Complications.”
“Like what?”
“The First Nations Police Force. They’re stonewalling me.”
“I didn’t know they had a force in the Cariboo, and even though they obviously do, a dead Mountie equals Federal, not local — end of argument.”
“Easy to say, but you haven’t had to deal with the Tsanshmis. Tough as boot leather and stubborn as hell. Race relations up here aren’t so good.”
“I get the picture, but where do I fit in?”
“I’d like you to speak to Ward. His kind of political clout is the only thing that’s going to give me the authority I need in this case, and you know how to talk to our revered leader.”
Chief Inspector Ward was lord of the provincial RCMP and Coswell’s immediate boss — a man with the same characteristics that Blakemore just used to describe the Tsanshmis.
“All right. One of our own is down. Someone has to pay. Now what, exactly, do you want?”
“It would be best if Ward did a face-to-face with the miserable bastard who heads up the native force — Chief Daniels. He’s not the band chief. That’s Chief Isaac who’s two hundred years old and as communicative as a rock. Daniels runs the show.”
Coswell winced. He knew damn well that Ward wouldn’t leave his Vancouver ivory tower to go to the Cariboo unless Queen Elizabeth happened to be touring the place. He’d send a delegate and Coswell knew just who that delegate would be.
Blakemore was waiting for him the following morning at the Williams Lake airport terminal. The fifty-five-minute flight from Vancouver had been mercifully smooth. The dread of being stuck in an eighteen-seat turbo-prop airplane, not much more stable than a kite, in Coswell’s opinion, had made for a restless night’s sleep.
“You okay?” Blakemore said, remembering the green, motion-sick inspector who’d flown in to the Kootenay airport years before.
“I’m fine … and hungry. It’s lunchtime. Take me to the best steak house in town. I know they grow cows up here. Let’s see if they know how to cook them.”
“No problem there. Wife’s gone to Vancouver, so I’ve been batching.” To Blakemore, “batching” meant dining in restaurants.
Steaks at the Quarter Horse Cafe easily satisfied both men’s standards — inch-and-a-half-thick sirloins smothered in caramelized onions, with huge baked potatoes on the side.
“Hold the greens,” Blakemore told the waitress. “I don’t want to overeat.”
Business didn’t commence until dessert and coffee were served. Coswell paused halfway through a forkful of saskatoon berry pie.
“Okay. Give me the whole story, and remember, I’m here as a consultant. This is your case.”
Blakemore laid down his fork and leaned forward, looking around before he spoke. “They want to do the investigation themselves. They say it’s on their land, so it’s their right.”
“Bullshit. I told you the federal laws take precedence. What’s the problem?”
“Sam Hansen is the problem. Father of Brent, the dead rookie. He’s kind of a god among the ranchers here. His grandfather literally opened up the Anahim Lake region in the early 1900s.”
“And was hated by the natives for stealing their land?”
“You got it, even though it was all legal, fair and square. Federal government at the time gave out land grants to anyone willing to set up viable ranching.”
Coswell laughed. “You mean the government stole their land. Well, that should have smoothed everything over.”
Blakemore didn’t laugh. He frowned and continued, speaking in a low voice. “Hansen found out right away about us getting pushed aside by the Tsanshmis and he raised hell. Came into the station boiling. Thank God the coroner kept his mouth shut about the cause of death or it would have been ten times worse.”
Coswell shook his head. “When will people learn? Pissing everyone off gets you nowhere, but you did the right thing calling me in. I’ve got no axe to grind — I’ll just lay down the law. You concentrate on solving the case. Leave the power brokers to me.”
Blakemore gave a sigh of relief. “I thought you’d say that, so I’ve already arranged a couple of meetings. First one’s this afternoon … with Sam Hansen. Getting him off my back will be a great start.”
Coswell nodded, then looked pensive. “I’m wondering. How did your rookie get assigned here? First posting’s never in home territory.”
“I told you. His old man’s got power.”
Despite his determination to let Blakemore handle the case, Coswell’s years of being in command took over.
“I presume the boy grew up on the homestead. Must have gone to school, mixed with the native kids. You might want to start looking there.”
“I’ve already thought of that. Unfortunately, I have to get by the elders first — both native and white.”
“Okay. Let’s get going, but first we’ll stop off at your station. I’ll change into my uniform. Nothing like a little brass to impress the locals, much as I hate to wear the damn thing.”
Blakemore offered to hire one of the local logging helicopters to fly them in to Anahim, but Coswell would have nothing to do with it.
“We’ll drive,” he said. “I’ve never been to the Cariboo and I want to have a good look. I checked, and it should only take us a couple of hours. I noticed a number of reserves along the way. We might stop in at a few to let me get the flavour.”
God knows where he checked, Blakemore thought. The drive would take closer to three or four hours and there was no telling what the inspector planned to get out of the local flavour. Reserves were not on the list of fun places to be for an RCMP officer, official visit or no.
Coswell drove. He’d correctly predicted the gut-wrenching curves along the way and had no wish to test his queasiness as a passenger. Blakemore did not suffer from motion-sickness but the inspector’s apparent disregard of the posted speed signs gave him considerable trepidation. When the needle touched 120 kph, he could remain silent no longer.
“Jeesh, Inspector. Ninety’s the limit on this road. We don’t have to make it in two hours. Better to get there alive and without an embarrassing citation.”
“Relax. We’re on official business. Besides, I concentrate better when I drive fast. It’s a lot safer that way and this is a great road. I’m enjoying it.”
After two more curves, the coefficient of friction almost reached zero on the back wheels, prompting Blakemore to try once more.
“See those red splotches every so often?”
“Yeah. Some animals got hit at night, I guess.”
“Not just at night and some of the big ones are moose. You hit a moose and we’re dead. Those long legs put the mass up about windshield level.”
Coswell slowed to one hundred and ten. “Keep your eye out,” he said.
They drove for a while in silence. Blakemore eventually became accustomed to the speed, although he did keep a constant lookout for anything that might dash in front of them.
“I’ve been thinking,” Coswell said. “Why are the Tsanshmi so reluctant to allow an RCMP investigation? They couldn’t possibly have the training or forensics to deal with something like this.”
“Two reasons: one, the killer or killers could have been members of the band. There’s enough bad blood around here to make that a real possibility. Checking it out themselves keeps the game on their turf.”
“And then they can avoid the white man’s justice. Is that it?”
“Maybe. They do have a different sense in that regard than we do.”
“What? A couple of sessions with the healing circle? I’ve read about that.”
“I don’t know,” Blakemore said. “I guess it depends on the circumstances and who did it.”
“Like the killers were being abused by your rookie? Or maybe the Chief’s son did the deed?”
“Could be.”
“You said ‘two reasons.’ What’s the second?”
“Sam Hansen has been mouthing off, spreading the word that Tsanshmis murdered his son. There’s even a little vigilante talk going around I hear.”
Coswell whistled. “You’ve got to be kidding. This isn’t Mississippi north, is it?”
Blakemore shrugged. “Maybe closer than you think, and I’ll bet the war paint started coming out of the closet the minute word got to the reserve about Hansen’s raving.”
“Great,” Coswell said. “We’re headed straight for enemy territory and I’m not even armed.”
“Riot gun’s mounted beside the emergency brake and I’ve got my sidearm,” Blakemore said.
“I’ve never had to use either and don’t plan to start now. We’ll talk our way out of trouble. Trust me.”
Blakemore didn’t reply.
Coswell’s interest in touring a reserve ended when Blakemore pointed out the first one, a series of dilapidated dwellings amidst what appeared to be an automobile graveyard.
After kilometres of intermittent barbed wire fencing and Black Angus cattle roaming in green fields, the entrance to the Hansen spread loomed on the right — a massive, weathered-pine arch with The Running H Ranch burned into the wood at its apex. As Coswell manoeuvred through the potholed dirt track leading to the ranch buildings, he silently blessed the Force’s decision to supply rural units with decent suvs instead of the clunky city sedans.
“Have a heart, for heaven’s sake. Slow down,” Blakemore pleaded. “I’ve only got the one set of kidneys.”
The main house looked as though it had been built a hundred years ago — log construction, small windows, and a traditional, full-length porch. An incongruous, late-model 350 Dodge Ram diesel with auxiliary lights from bumper to cab top, sat parked in front.
“Now there’s a man’s truck,” Blakemore said. “Four-wheel drive and enough torque to pull a mountain. God, I wish I could afford one of those.”
“Suitable on a ranch,” Coswell said. “But just a big toy for you. You’re better off with one of those little Suzuki Jeeps like you drove in Vancouver. Remember?” *
“I remember. Japanese sardine can. The claustrophobia gave me nightmares.”
Coswell pulled the cruiser up behind the Dodge.
A small corral occupied what in the city would be the front yard. A lone figure leaned against it, one foot resting on a railing. He was hatless, his full head of white hair ruffled by the breeze — tall, lanky, wearing a denim shirt and jeans. A single black stallion ran about the enclosure, snorting its disapproval of the cruiser and the cloud of dust that came with it.
“Where the hell is everyone?” Coswell asked as he shifted the car into park.
Blakemore shrugged. “Mounties heading up your driveway tend to make some people around here scatter. The guy over there, by the way, is Hansen.”
The man didn’t move, seemingly ignoring his visitors, and didn’t speak until Coswell and Blakemore stood beside him. Even then, he continued to watch the stallion pawing the dirt at the far side of the corral.
“That’s Brent’s animal,” he said. “Best quarter horse in the whole damn country. Never told the boy that. Nobody could ride him except Brent. Useless to me. Useless to anybody now.”
“We are sorry for your loss, Sam,” Blakemore said, “and I’m also sorry to have to bother you, but Inspector Coswell here has come from Vancouver to help.”
Hansen turned and looked at them, finally settling his gaze on Coswell. His pale blue eyes showed no sign of grief, only anger … and resolve.
“Much appreciated,” he said. “But I don’t have a lot of faith in police right now. My son didn’t run that car off the road. He drove a tractor when he was nine. Hauled hay with a pickup at fourteen. Never an accident, even in high school when the rest were raising hell. Nope, somebody murdered my son and I plan to find out who.”
In just those few minutes, Coswell had a complete picture of the man. He was hard and unyielding, with standards probably only he could live up to — regretting now that he hadn’t been easier on his son and seeking vengeance to make up for it.
“You’ll have a much better chance of finding out what happened if you work with us,” Coswell said. “We’ve got the necessary licenses, so to speak. People have to talk to us.”
“They’ll talk to me, too,” Hansen said, and, realizing he’d said too much, changed the subject. “You could probably use a coffee about now. Let’s go sit on the porch and I’ll have Maggie bring something out for us.”
As they walked to the house from the corral, Coswell wondered why this Maggie person hadn’t appeared when they drove up. Surely the sound of the cruiser doors slamming would have carried into the house.
Hansen pointed to a row of rustic lounge chairs set in the shade of the overhang. “Get yourself comfortable,” he said, then pulled the door open and shouted inside.
“Coffee time, Maggie. We’ve got two visitors. Bring some of that bannock you made … and fixings to go with them — butter and jam.”
To Coswell’s dismay, Hansen took a chair beside Blakemore. All three now faced the yard, their expressions and body language largely hidden — not exactly conducive to productive interviewing. Hansen continued to stare straight ahead, only occasionally finding something interesting on the toe of his boot to alter his gaze.
Coswell got the talk going. “Sergeant Blakemore filled me in on the situation here, particularly in regard to the Tsanshmi problem, and — ”
“A problem only to you,” Hansen said, cutting him off. “I don’t have to kowtow to those bastards. If they want war, I’ll give it to them.”
“These aren’t the 1800s,” Coswell said. “Taking the law into your own hands will just get you into deep trouble. Please, let us deal with this.”
Hansen calmed down. His voice took on a sly undertone. “You’ve confirmed that my son’s death was murder … haven’t you?”
Blakemore took the initiative. “We believe it was,” he said.
Hansen merely nodded.
“Which makes it even more imperative that we handle it,” Coswell said. “And I can tell you that the sergeant and I have a pretty good record solving cases like this. Give us a chance.”
The door opened, interrupting the proceedings. A woman stepped out, carrying a basket covered with a calico cloth. She was very young, with pronounced native features: skin a burnished bronze, eyes almost black, shiny raven hair pulled into a tight horseshoe-shaped bun at the back of her head. Her ancestry was North American Indian, no doubt, but not west coast, more the chiselled features of the prairie or eastern tribes. She wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled down, buttoned at the wrists and tight-fitting jeans that accentuated perfect curves. In short, she was gorgeous.
Coswell watched, fascinated, as the woman dragged over a bench with her free hand, set the basket down, and began to serve its contents. She moved with the grace of a cat, each motion deliberate, her face expressionless, never once making eye contact.
She handed each man a cup of steaming coffee and offered bannock wedges neatly arranged on a china plate. The meal was tempting, but the men’s attention remained focused on the girl.
“That’s fine, Maggie,” Hansen said. “We can handle the rest.”
She turned and, without a word, went back into the house, pulling the door shut behind her with a faint click. Hansen pointed to the basket.
“Help yourselves,” he said, and as they reached forward, “I can see that she made an impression on you, but don’t be fooled. That girl’s beauty is only skin deep. She’s the last of Anne’s projects, my late wife, before cancer ate her up last summer. Anne collected Vancouver street kids like other people rescue dogs from the pound. Maggie’s a drug addict … still on treatment, by the way — a job I plan to get rid of as soon as it can be arranged. Doling out methadone’s not something I enjoy.”
“I thought only physicians could do that,” Blakemore said.
“The rules get bent a bit this far from civilization.”
Coswell began to wonder if any rules applied this far from civilization. He felt as if he’d just been transported to the Old West, but he pulled himself sharply back to the present and got on with the business at hand — getting Hansen to back off the case.
“Have you considered that your son’s killer might not have been a local, but just someone passing through — a fugitive, a drunk, or your everyday wacko psychopath? That happens not infrequently, you know. Nothing’s safe for a policeman, not even a simple roadside check.”
Hansen thought this over for a minute, but didn’t buy the argument. “No. Whoever ran Brent’s vehicle into that ravine knew the territory. Anyone else would have just hightailed it. Probably a spur of the moment thing, fit of temper and all that, but Brent’s killer is right close by. Mark my words.”
Coswell tried to think of a reasonable rebuttal but couldn’t come up with one.
“Can you give us some names?” Blakemore asked.
“You can start with your drunk and abusive regulars. Check your own lists. I’ll keep mine to myself. Don’t want word to get out that the big bad whitey is looking for someone in particular. It’s bad hunting practice to announce yourself.”
That brought an end to the questioning. Coswell recognized the futility of trying to cool Hansen’s thirst for vengeance. Time to move on. He took the last big bite from his piece of bannock, washed it down with a swallow of coffee, and stood up. He motioned to Blakemore.
“Time to mount up, Sergeant,” he said, slightly embarrassed by his choice of words. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”
Blakemore, having already finished his bannock, palmed another piece as he rose.
“We appreciate your talking to us,” Coswell said, “and please pass on our thanks to your lovely Maggie for a delicious coffee break.”
“I’ll do that,” Hansen replied. He got up from his chair but remained on the porch while the two Mounties returned to their cruiser and prepared to leave.
“Not a handshake kind of guy, it appears,” Coswell said, turning the key in the ignition.
“You got that right,” Blakemore said and began eating his purloined treat, scattering crumbs on his lap as he did so.
As they drove west, the country changed abruptly from huge tracts of green grass and alfalfa fields to scrub pines and untamed wilderness.
“They run out of barbed wire?” Coswell asked, noting the absence of fencing.
“We’re on reserve land,” Blakemore said. “Indian cattle roam free. I’d suggest you slow down a bit.”
He’d barely gotten the last statement out before they rounded a curve and Coswell slammed on the brakes.
“Jesus! There are cows all over the road,” he said. “That’s got to be against the law on a major highway. Someone could get killed running into one of those things.”
“No law says you have to fence your land up here. Onus is on the drivers and I can tell you if you hit any of that beef, you’ll have to pay for it.”
“Damn. Now what do we do? They’re moving around like they own the place.”
He leaned on the horn, but the cattle — steers, cows, and a multitude of calves — barely paid any attention, continuing to graze on either side of the highway, crossing unpredictably back and forth.
“You get out and shoo them away,” Coswell said.
“Not a chance. Cows with calves can be real ornery. I’m not into getting myself gored.”
Coswell hammered the horn a couple more times and tried to ease the cruiser forward with little success. Finally, the solution came to him. He turned the dial on the siren to full blast and flicked the switch.
Stampede! The herd split up and thundered into the bush on both sides leaving the road clear. Coswell pulled the gearshift into first and burned rubber for fifty metres before slipping it into drive.
“I hope the tribal police didn’t hear that,” Blakemore said.
“They’ll think we’re infringing for sure.”
“Bugger them. If they let their cows run loose like that they deserve a little infringing.”
“So much for diplomacy.”
“Never mind. Last sign I saw said we’re just forty klicks from this place with the unpronounceable name — T-s-i-l-h-q-o-x-t’i-n. How the hell do you say that?”
“Chilcotin,” Blakemore said.
“Really?”
“Used to be called Coxton, named after some gold commissioner from way back, but when the Tsanshmis chose it as their band office, the name got changed quick. There’s a bit of a nasty history around that — white men slaughtered, deception, warriors hanged — a real mess. Called the Chilcotin Wars.”
“Ah. An amateur historian. You surprise me.”
“I do read, you know,” Blakemore said, miffed. “And I wanted to get some idea as to why there’s so much racial friction around here.”
“Get different cultures and religions together in close quarters anywhere in the world and there’ll be friction, especially when one of them arrived first. But I admire your efforts.”
As they approached Tsilhqoxt’in, a church, perched halfway up a dry hillside on a dinky, bulldozed landing, caught Coswell’s eye. A long set of stairs led up to it. The building was tiny, but a disproportionately high steeple topped with a wooden cross rose from its roof, making the whole thing look top-heavy.
“I wonder if they do funerals up there,” Coswell said. “Must have to dig a couple of extra graves to allow for heart attacks.”
The village was set back from the highway a hundred metres. The potholes in the dirt access road were even deeper than those at the Hansen ranch. “Main Street” consisted of three buildings, all facing the highway: a garage with two pumps, a ramshackle building sporting a Coke sign on the door, and a long park-type trailer. Coswell made out a sign reading BAND OFFICE above a door at one end of the latter and one reading TRIBAL POLICE over an identical door at the other. The residences, twelve in all, were simple, unadorned boxes, most in need of repair, but each with a television satellite receiver. Derelict vehicles and kids’ toys supplied most of the landscaping. A few young children loitered at the side of the dusty road. There were no sidewalks.
The police cruiser, parked in front of the band office, appeared identical to the one he and Blakemore had driven up in, complete with a blue and red light bar, but TRIBAL POLICE replaced RCMP within the logo.
Blakemore led the way up the office stairs. Coswell trailed, still looking around. “God knows how this place rates bold print and a dot on the map,” he said. “There can’t be more than fifty people living here, although I can see why. The amenities leave a lot to be desired.”
“Pretty close guess,” Blakemore said. “Most of the population lives out on the land, small ranching and the like. They do their shopping in Anahim or Williams Lake.”
He hesitated for a moment at the door, debating if he should knock, but then decided to go right in.
Two men were seated in the office, both in uniform. One, much younger and slimmer, sprang from his chair when the Mounties entered. The other, a man of about fifty, give or take ten years, remained seated in what looked like an armchair on wheels. Twenty pounds of extra fat filled out his frame and face, erasing what otherwise would have been wrinkles.
“Didn’t hear a helicopter,” he said. “You drive?”
“Yep,” Blakemore replied. “This here’s Inspector Coswell from Vancouver.”
The man’s eyes flickered with amusement. “Bringin’ in the big guns, eh?”
He nodded to Coswell and cocked his head towards his associate.
“That’s Richard. Don’t let the uniform fool you. He’s just an intern helping out while my deputy’s on holidays. Still in school learning to be a cop. I’m Chief Daniels.”
Richard bristled.
“I’m in my last year of criminology at Simon Fraser University,” he said.
Daniels shrugged. “Whatever. But these men have come for a heavy talk about territorial matters, Richard. Chief of police-type talk. Why don’t you take the cop-mobile out there for a spin? Come back in an hour or so.”
He might as well have slapped the young man across the face, judging from his reaction. Richard stood for a moment and then bolted out the door.
“Was that necessary?” Coswell asked. “Not much of an internship if he’s chased away from discussion of a policing matter.”
“He’s a little too keen at times. Gets these hifalutin scientific ideas that only cloud the picture. Better we do a man-to-man and keep everything straight.”
Coswell recalled Blakemore’s “stonewalled” expression. Chief Daniels had a game plan, all right … chiselled into stone.
* Murder in the Monashees, NeWest Press 2005
* West End Murders, NeWest Press 2008
3
RICHARD DELORME SLID into the front seat of the tribal police cruiser and slammed the door, his handsome features distorted by anger and embarrassment. He shifted into reverse and started to back up.
“Look out!”
He jammed on the brake just as a tiny figure on a pink tricycle appeared in his outside rear-view mirror — a child, and he’d almost run her over! His anger melted in an instant.
The shout came from farther away. He looked to his left and spotted the source: a boy about ten years old standing in front of the store clutching a sketch pad.
Richard gripped the wheel hard for a moment, then reached forward and turned off the ignition. He got out of the cruiser and walked over to where the boy stood.
“Thanks, Jimmy,” he said. “That was close.”
The boy looked down at his feet.
“Dumb sister,” he said. “I’m supposed to be looking after her, but she don’t listen.”
“Little kids are like that. You can’t watch them all the time and if anyone’s at fault, it’s me.”
Jimmy continued to look down; the scare still fresh on his face … along with the guilt.
“No school today?”
“Teachers’ holiday.”
Richard laughed. “A professional day, you mean.”
The boy nodded.
“What are you drawing?” Richard asked. “May I see it?”
The boy shyly handed the pad over. He’d sketched the cruiser.
“That’s really good, Jimmy, and I mean it. You’ve done it all in pen. That makes it hard. No rubbing out the mistakes.”
The squeak of a tricycle, badly needing oil, announced the arrival of Jimmy’s little sister, who was about five years old.
“He done it with his new pen,” she said.
“Is it a special kind, Jimmy?” Richard asked.
“Nope. Just ordinary.”
“Is too special,” the girl said. “Got a picture of a Mountie on it and a red handle.”
The boy glared at her.
An image flashed across Richard’s mind: he remembered a pen just like that — Brent Hansen’s pen. He’d kidded his friend about it. “Worried about getting blisters from all the tickets you’re going to write,” he’d said.
“Let me see the pen, Jimmy.”
“Don’t have to.”
“Yes, you do. I’m telling you as a policeman. Now, hand it over.”
The boy looked for a moment as though he might turn and run, but slowly shoved his hand into his pocket and drew out the pen. Richard took it and knew instantly that it was Brent’s.
“Where did you get it?”
“Found it on the road.”
“What road?”
“I forgot.”
Richard reached forward and grasped the boy’s shoulder. “I know who this pen belonged to, Jimmy, and he’s dead. I need you to tell me exactly where you found it and when. If you don’t, a whole lot of serious trouble is going to land on your head. Now give.”
Jimmy began to cry. His sister followed suit, but Richard merely tightened his grip.
“If you tell me,” he said. “You won’t be in any trouble. I promise.”
The boy looked up, tears streaming down. “Yes I will. They’ll hurt me.”
Richard let the boy’s shoulder go. Through the tears he could see terror. “They?” he said. “Mounties don’t hurt kids. You know that.”
Jimmy hung his head. “Not Mounties … them.”
Richard could hardly breathe; his heart raced. The boy had witnessed Brent’s murder!
“Jimmy. Who were they? Who killed the Mountie?”
“I got to go home now,” the boy said. “Mom will be mad if I don’t. Come on, Cindy.”
Richard let them go. He’d talk to Jimmy again, but not out in plain view where them might be watching. Now all he had to do was decide whether he’d let that asshole Daniels in on his discovery. A gut feeling told him to keep the information quiet for the time being.
He went back to the tribal police car and started it up again. This time he carefully checked his rear-view mirror before he pulled away. A cruise up the highway would give him time to think.
4
THEY WERE GETTING NOWHERE. The tribal police chief blocked them at every turn.
“Everything points to murder,” Coswell said. “Blow to the back of Constable Hansen’s head. C’mon. That didn’t come from an accident. And why would he even be up that road? Sergeant Blakemore tells me it’s nothing more than a trail.”
“Found a hunting rifle on the floor of the wreck,” Daniels said. “Figure the boy saw a big buck and chased it with the cruiser. Probably had the rifle in the back and when he went into the ravine, it came flying forward and hit him on the back of the head … tragic accident.”
For a moment, Coswell couldn’t speak. Did this rube really think he was going to buy that?
“Yep,” Daniels said. “A real tragic accident.”
Obviously he did.
Coswell exploded. “Listen, you poor excuse for a lawman. One of our men has been brutally murdered — a cop-killing, for Christ’s sake. Where’s your sense of duty?”
Daniels remained placid. “Duty’s done,” he said. “Report’s been filed. Case closed.”
Coswell leapt to his feet and turned to Blakemore. “Let’s get out of here, Sergeant,” he said. “Talking to this man is a total waste of time.”
Blakemore rose from his chair, bewildered by the turn of events, and shocked at seeing Coswell lose it. He almost regretted bringing him in on the case.
Daniels didn’t move from his chair. Coswell paused at the door and turned back to face him.
“I’m going to turn this God-forsaken place upside down until I get answers, and if you raise just one finger to stop me, I’ll bring Ottawa down on your head so hard you’ll be lucky to get a job as horseshit sweeper at the local rodeo.”
With that, he stomped out, Blakemore right behind him.
Back in the cruiser, Coswell didn’t say a word, his face grim. He started the engine, backed up, and swung onto the access road at a speed that would have bounced them off their seats if not for the seatbelts. Blakemore reached frantically for anything that would steady him — dashboard, door handle, roof.
“Whoa, Trigger,” he pleaded. “You’re going to bust an axle.”
He caught a glimpse of Coswell — grinning from ear to ear. “Got to keep up the charade,” he said.
“Charade?”
“Fear, my man, fear. We’ll get cooperation from that complacent lout, I can assure you … indirectly. He’s just witnessed a hornets’ nest stirred up and there’s a good chance he might get stung. Having two pissed-off Mounties combing the place will force him to check how well his ass is covered. I’m going to drop you off in a minute and I want you to hoof it back there and watch him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find that intern and have a talk with him. He’s out on the highway somewhere and I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of running into him by going west. If he’s gone in the opposite direction, try to intercept him before he turns into the village. Get yourself a spot where you can see the station and the highway east.”
“You think he’ll cooperate?”
“I have no doubt. He’s mad, and rightfully so. You don’t get loyalty from bright, ambitious people like that by putting them down. The boy’s on his way up in the world and he knows it. Daniels is a fool.”
When he was sure he couldn’t be seen, he pulled the cruiser to the side of the road and let Blakemore out.
“We’ll rendezvous at the gas station in an hour. If I’m not back by then, try going over to the police trailer and use the ‘good cop’ routine on Daniels. Maybe you can get him to let his guard down a bit. Oh, and by the way, I’ve decided to extend my time up here. You need help. We’ll be a team again.”
Blakemore watched the cruiser pull away. He didn’t like the feeling of humility that had come over him when he realized how cagey the inspector had been. The brand new sergeant’s stripes on his shoulder felt slightly uncomfortable. With a sigh, he turned and started back toward the village, cutting through the bush until he found the perfect spot to start his vigil.
Coswell decided that twenty minutes would be enough of a drive in one direction. He reasoned that the young intern, Richard, should have turned back by then. Daniels had told him to return in an hour or so. Very little in the way of traffic appeared on the highway: one or two semi-trailers, a few logging trucks and a number of pickups, most of the latter driven by natives. When the twenty minutes had passed, he slowed to a crawl and spun the steering wheel, pushing the cruiser into a tight u-turn.
He barely got up to speed again when red and blue lights flashed in his rear-view mirror.
“Shit!” he said to no one as the cruiser bore down on him. He flicked on his flashers. The vehicle slowed and pulled in behind him. Coswell recognized Richard behind the wheel. He turned off the flashers and when he saw the intern do the same, he rolled down his window and stuck his arm out to signal a right turn.
At the first side road he came to, Coswell made the turn and drove fifty metres before coming to a stop. Richard followed, pulled up behind him, and got out. Coswell did the same and waited for him to walk over.
“Didn’t want to create a scene back there while you wrote me out a ticket,” Coswell said.
The young man looked confused for a second until Coswell began to smile. Richard grinned in return.
“I don’t have the authority to give you a ticket, anyway,” he said. “Just a warning. Besides, I’m not into power-tripping. This internship’s strictly a way of getting as much as possible on my cv when I apply to the RCMP.”
“You’re going to follow in Brent Hansen’s footsteps?”
“Yes,” he replied, with such conviction that Coswell knew he had an ally.
“Tell me about it,” he said. “Did you know him very well?”
“Since elementary school. He was a couple of grades ahead but we got to know one another through horses and rodeos. We became best friends, actually.”
“What kind of person was he?” Coswell asked.
“Great guy. Nothing like his bigoted old man or some of the other white ranchers’ kids. Didn’t look down on anyone … even an Indian. Everybody liked him.”
Uh-oh, Coswell thought, another saint. But saints weren’t immune from enemies. He could think of a few who met rather gory ends, including the Messiah Himself.
“Unfortunately, somebody didn’t like him,” he said. “He was murdered, you know.”
“I know.”
“You do? Chief Daniels doesn’t think so.”
Anger again. Coswell waited. Finally, Richard let go. “He wouldn’t listen to a thing I said. I took the forensics option at school last year and I’ve done a lot of reading. That crime scene could have been preserved. We came up right behind the fire truck. He did nothing when he saw the cruiser burning — just stood back and let the fire guys at it. They asked him if they should haul it up and he told them to go ahead. And he made no effort to keep the gawkers back. They tramped around everywhere.”
“Did he do anything inside the vehicle before Sergeant Blakemore and the coroner arrived?”
“Yes he did, even though I said we shouldn’t disturb it.”
“He told us a rifle had been found.”
“News to me. He must have found it while I was trying to move the crowd back. But it’s no surprise that Brent had a rifle with him. He was nuts about hunting, and deer season started on Saturday.”
“Daniels thinks that was the cause of death, hit on the back of the head when it came flying forward.”
Richard thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see any sign the vehicle rolled. Looked like it slid down nose first. Also, I find it hard to believe that Brent would take a police vehicle up that poor excuse for a road just to chase after a deer. And even if he did, his rifle would be beside him. Stop, get out, and walk around the back to get the gun? No way. The deer would have been long gone. One more thing doesn’t fit either, if he was road hunting.”
“What’s that?”
“The seatbelt. No one hunts with his seatbelt on.”
Coswell whistled. “Wow. I’ll bet you’re acing those criminology courses. That’s fine deductive reasoning.”
Richard shrugged. “Just common sense.”
“Nope, that’s deductive reasoning. Welcome to the world of practical investigation. We’re glad to have you.”
The young man glowed. “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t get much praise around here.”
Coswell could hardly contain his delight. He’d found the mother lode of local information and he wasn’t about to let it get away.
“Let’s go sit for a while. My legs aren’t what they used to be and maybe you’d like to get a look inside our state-of-the-art cruiser. Nothing but the best for our district sergeant.”
Richard perked up like a bird dog. Coswell guessed that the tribal vehicle contained only the basics, but he wasn’t sure; the interior of a police vehicle was so familiar to him that he took all the gadgets for granted. Richard, however, raved about it.
“I’ve heard about these inboard computers,” he said. “Not much use out here but I’ll bet they’re a godsend to city police.” He laughed. “I’m surprised Willy’s Pond rates one, though.”
“Willy’s Pond?”
“That’s what the locals call Williams Lake.”
Coswell pressed his advantage, satisfied that he’d established a good rapport. “I must confess to you that your Chief Daniels has been less than helpful to our investigation. He’s obviously thinking along different lines from us. I’d like you to join Sergeant Blakemore and me on this … officially. What do you say?”
“Officially?”
“I’ll arrange to have you made an auxiliary RCMP constable. That will look even better on your cv and the pay’s probably as good as your internship. Blakemore and I will be your sponsors. You’ve already got a uniform that’s close enough.”
Richard hesitated briefly. Coswell knew the young man was too bright to miss the obvious snow job, but the offer was too good to turn down.
“I’d like that,” he said. “And I get no pay as an intern; just the privilege of working with Daniels.”
“Great. Let’s start right now. Give me your take on all this. I’m particularly interested in who you think might be the guilty party in Brent Hansen’s murder.”
Richard smiled. “I can’t answer that exactly, but I’m a hair’s breadth from finding out.” He related the incident with the boy, Jimmy.
“My God,” Coswell said. “You’ve just made my day.”
Richard and Coswell, engrossed in their conversation, paid no attention to the pickup that slowed briefly when it came abreast of them, and then sped off along the highway heading east, its two occupants disturbed by what they saw.
“Jeesh, dat’s Richert talkin’ to a white cop.”
“Yess.”
Five minutes of silence passed before either spoke again.
“We neetah go huntin’.”
“Yess.”
Hunger pangs stabbed at Blakemore and he prayed that Coswell wouldn’t take much longer. Without his rifle and the anticipation of a big, fat buck coming into range, bush-sitting offered no satisfaction. His view wasn’t the least inspiring: the Tribal Police office and the highway occupied the eastside view; nothing happening in the former and just a bit of local traffic on the latter — no sign of the intern.
He gazed west. A vehicle appeared in the distance. Coswell? He watched it approach, but instead of a police car, an old rattletrap of a pickup appeared. It turned into the village, bounced through the potholes and came to a stop in front of the Band office. Two men got out. Both wore cowboy hats, denim pants, and jackets. He couldn’t see their boots, but they hobbled along like they’d just got off their horses. At first, he thought they were going into the office, but they continued on to Daniels end of the trailer and disappeared through the door.