tourists were caught in the occasional riptide or rogue wave. Ocean swimming was bitter cold. Even the surfers and parakiters wore wetsuits. She hoped it wasn’t a child. No one had been reported missing, but this was prime boating season. Recently two people had perished in quiet Sooke Harbour. Alcohol was often the guilty third party.
“Not this time. Up the hill beside the creek. Must be one of those drifters camping under the bridge.”
“Was it a fall? A fight?” Maybe she should have tried to get the men to relocate. Such a narrow line between proactiveness and bullying. This wouldn’t look good if headquarters got sticky about her loose protocol on public lands. “You told him what?” she heard her superiors ask.
“Going by the scene, Chipper suspects drugs.” Fatal overdoses had doubled on the island last year, but were still much lower than Vancouver. Addicts ran a calculated risk. Lower population, less chance of getting damaged goods.
“I don’t understand. Bill said...” Her voice trailed off. What about that fresh shiner? Maybe he was the victim. But he’d said he never trucked with hard drugs, and she’d watched him carefully for signs of nervousness. Steady as Sir, the giant rock on Muir Beach.
“Who’s Bill?”
“Bill Gorse. An older man I met down there. Resident peacekeeper, he fancies himself. Sets strict rules for drinking and drugs. He mentioned a couple other men, but they weren’t around.” Derek Dunn, was that the name? Had he come back from selling that camcorder? And what about Joel Hall?
She arrived at the scene ten minutes later. Chipper gave her a wave and came over with several notebook pages. This wasn’t the first body they’d found, but she hoped never to be so callous as to be unmoved by death. It was her job to protect, but if too late for that, to serve in the ceremonial offices with every possible dignity. Even so, death had its hierarchy. Traffic fatalities were on the bottom of her list. Mangled remains which demanded a strong stomach and a gentle hand for survivors. What might she find here?
Chipper was out of breath, and a sheen of sweat covered his brow, perhaps from climbing up and down the path beside the creek. “Ann said that the ambulance should arrive any minute. Boone, too,” he said. Boone Mason was their local coroner. British Columbia had an idiosyncratic system, dating back a century, employing thirty-two full-time and seventy-five part-time people on an ad hoc basis. Anyone with a strong medical, law enforcement or legal background could certify a death. Recommendations to prevent future accidents were also within purview of the mandate. It was Boone’s call to request a Medical Examiner for an autopsy in case of a suspicious death. He had been a private investigator in Vancouver before a knee blew on him. He lived with his deaf cat in a spacious doublewide in a nearby trailer park.
Holly paused in the theatre of her responsibilities, looking at Act One, Scene One. A family of four stood by their loaded Grand Caravan with a dusty Ontario: Yours to Discover plate and a moulded plastic gear carrier open on top. The little girl of around seven was crying, her face buried in her mother’s lap. An older boy sat looking at a small metal tag glinting in the sun while his father read a road map. Hapless tourists, or they wouldn’t be stopping here at high tide when the beach was inaccessible. Perhaps they were admiring the distant rollers or counting the many fishing boats peppering the bay. The first of over two hundred cruise ships had entered the strait over a month ago.
Chipper held up his notebook, printed in his usual meticulous style. “I’ve got all the names. Plates, home numbers. Driver’s license ID, the works. Plus I made a preliminary outline of the scene. Though my drawing’s not—”
“Where is the body? And what are those people doing hanging around here? Are they witnesses?” Holly asked quietly. A cold trickle was making its way down her spine like mercury falling in a thermometer. She felt a twitch of annoyance at Chipper’s priorities. How secure was the scene? Normally he loved stringing yellow tape.
“B-b-but they found the victim. Farther up the creek.” He pointed up a path half hidden by leafy salal.
“Surely not the kids. They look pretty young for long hikes.”
“They were geocaching.”
“Geo...what?” The geo she got, but was it catching or cashing?
Chipper grinned at being a step ahead. He spelled the word. “I just heard of it. Apparently it’s a game with an Internet site. You need a GPS.”
“For kids? Sounds sophisticated, not to mention expensive.” Then again, what did she know about the costs of raising a family? It sounded cheaper than outfitting a couple of boys for hockey.
“Maybe ten years ago. Now even Canadian Tire carries units at a reasonable price. Then you go online and search for treasures according to their coordinates.”
“Treasures...what kind of—” Were people leaving valuables in the bush? Clueless townies fumbling around in the hinterlands surrounded by the perils of nature was an ugly picture. It didn’t take much to get lost in thick and mountainous terrain with a disorienting canopy hiding the direction of the sun. Even in small East Sooke Park, a missing hiker had been forced to spend the night.
Chipper gave a small frown with his tilde-shaped brows, turning his back on the family and lowering his voice. “Not real treasures. Cheap little stuff that kids like. A pin, a toy, a balloon, a stick-on tattoo. When you find the cache, you can take something and leave something. Write in the logbook. It’s actually pretty cool.”
Holly observed the family from a distance, keeping her voice low. “What’s that metal thing the boy has? Please don’t tell me he found it at the site.”
He made an effort not to laugh in what should be a sober moment and put a hand on her forearm. “Relax, Holly. It’s called a travel bug. They brought it from Ontario to place in a cache. They’re numbered so you can track them all over the world. It’s like a parallel universe, another dimension.”
She was getting distracted by the details, verging on short-tempered being left out of the loop. Death and games had no business interacting. “Okay. Sorry. Humour me and slow down. Does this have anything to do with the body? Was the victim geo...caching?”
“No sweat on that. The vic...the man looks like a regular here at the bridge. The game explains why this family was in the area, that’s all. Good thing they weren’t farther back, because a cougar and cubs were reported in the bush along Tugwell Creek, and bears are always around.” Black bears, not grizzlies. The smaller brother was much less dangerous, both in size and temperament.
She nodded, flexing her shoulders, reminding herself that being in charge carried stress as well as prestige. “I need to talk to them. They probably want to get on with their vacation. Meanwhile, don’t let anyone else pull in to admire the view. Say you’re conducting an investigation.” Number ten in the one hundred useful ambiguous phrases for law enforcement.
“I can put up neon cones or crime-scene tape. There’s some in the trunk.”
Chipper was a by-the-book man, but this time she didn’t agree. “Then everyone will stop to gawk. Be firm, but try not to provoke interest.‘Investigation’ could mean anything. Vandalism. Stolen goods.”
He made his face as bland as a pail of chocolate milk. “Okay, Guv.”
After tossing him a wry look, she walked over to the family and introduced herself. Frank and Chrissy Jones were from Sudbury.
“Mr.
