cells in Detention, had to let a few of them post bond and turn them loose. Won’t ever see them again. They’ll disappear underground. You can bet good money on that.”
Asler was a U.S. detention and deportation officer stationed in Buffalo. In his thirties, he was a few years younger than Nick. He’d been sent to meet Nick at Niagara Falls, New York, and take him to the crime scene on the U.S. side of the St. Lawrence River, seventy kilometres from Montreal. They were in the same line of work, but on different sides of the border. For both of them, the priority was to stem the flow of illegal aliens into North America. Nick was the Canadian counterpart of Asler’s boss, so he apparently thought he should try to take Nick’s mind off what had happened. It wasn’t working.
“We moved fast on this one,” Asler rabbited on. “We separated the ill and the infirm from the healthy. The snakehead is in a separate cell. In fact INS has already begun processing the illegals for deportation. The bosses want them out of the country pronto. Before the human rights lawyers and cultural groups twig to the whole thing. We even got the snakeheads. How often have we gotten lucky like that? One’s dead and the other in lockup.” He tapped the steering wheel to the beat of country and western music playing on the car radio.
Nick didn’t respond. He hoped his body language was sending a clear message that he didn’t want to talk about Walter Martin’s death right now. Didn’t want to talk, period.
Just by listening to Asler’s tone of voice, Nick knew the guy had been at his job a couple of years too long. In another place, another time, Asler would be pumping gas or driving a bus. He was a decent man, not particularly bright, the son of a mason. Policing the border was like enlisting in the army for guys like him. They sacrificed their lives for the good of their country, and not only in wartime. To Asler, illegal migrants were the enemy, and he always met his quotas to deport. Last year his personal stats showed that he had caught over seven thousand people who had been either trying to enter the U.S. illegally or had overstayed their visas.
The numbers just kept going up. Illegal border traffic went both ways, but seventy percent of the traffic was from north to south. The U.S. Attorney General was not too happy that illegal aliens often used Canada as a conduit for entering the U.S. These rising statistics were fast becoming a bone of contention between the U.S. and Canada. As they said in the vernacular, the shit rolled down. On the political side, the Prime Minister passed the flak down to the Immigration Minister, who in turn passed it directly down to Nick, warning him that his team, the investigative and enforcement unit of Immigration and Citizenship Canada, had to deal with the problem. It was in his court now. But how the hell did you police thirty million visitors who entered the country? How did you ensure that they all left when they were supposed to? Worse, there was no efficient way to track the untold thousands who stayed illegally and were swallowed up by the vastness of the North American continent.
“We tried to get the guy, Nick. The one we did get went nuts, wouldn’t stop shooting. Ignored the direct orders of the U.S. government. One of our sharpshooters took him out with the first bullet. Head shot. What do these people expect? We’d roll out the red carpet for them?”
Nick saw little point in explaining his belief that the law must be served with detachment. “You were in the papers this week over some other shooting.”
“We’ve had quite a few of them lately.”
Nick let out a breath but held his silence. The U.S. Canada Immigration Operation was a joint cooperative effort. To maintain working collegiality, Nick refrained from making comments about the use of excessive force.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up in front of a two-storey concrete building. Nick knew the border control checkpoint well. It was fenced at the back with heavy wire around the detention centre where those apprehended on immigration arrest warrants, or caught using false documents, were held. Ideally, detainees were housed there until their country of deportation had been identified. The next step was to contact their country of origin to obtain entry visas so they could be deported back home. In many instances, those with the worst criminal offences were refused entry visas by their country of nationality for their return home. Who could blame them? Nick knew that many of those countries did not have the resources to feed their hungry, let alone attempt to rehabilitate criminals and psychopaths. Depending on their criminal records, they were either locked up or were released, turned loose on society again. Those who were granted freedom were warned to check in with Immigration on a regular basis. But plenty of them were never seen again. They disappeared “underground.”
Inside the station, Nick recognized Jim, a supervisor of border operations who was a couple of years away from retirement.
“Where are the detainees?”
“I’m doing paperwork on some of them right now. Want to help me with these body bags?” asked Jim, running one hand through his thinning grey hair.
“Not really. But tell me the numbers.”
“Thirty-six males, two of them minors. Five females, all young. Hard to tell their ages. They’re all Asians.”
Nick’s eyes wandered to the sliding glass doors and the black body bags being loaded into another van.
“What about them?”
“Four illegals dead. They either didn’t know how to swim or they were old and terrified of water.”
“Any of the illegals in lockup speak English?”
“Nobody’s admitted to knowing the language.”
“What good is interrogating them if we can’t communicate?” asked Nick, flipping through the manifest. “Book a couple of interpreters for this afternoon.”
“Nick, I got news for you. There’s no more money in the budget for interpreters for illegals. We can’t afford it. Congress downsized our budget this year.”
Nick was saved from venting his opinion by Asler’s timely return. Instead he asked, “What about the snakehead who was killed? Was he our guy under wiretap surveillance?”
“Yeah, it looks like him.” A team of immigration officers on both sides of the border had been tailing the suspect for several months.
“How about the others? Are they in lockup?”
“One gunshot wound was flown out on a MedEvac. Surgery at Canadian taxpayers expense. Engle, the big cheese, made that decision.”
Another way to stiff the poor Canadian taxpayer. Nick changed the subject, “You’re telling me one of the snakeheads got away? How did that happen?”
Jim replied, “I wasn’t part of the sting operation. Better talk to Asler or Engle about that.”
Back on the road, Nick took in the passing scenery. Growing up in Rochester, New York, he knew this area like the back of his hand. Finally, turning his gaze on Asler, he said, “Okay, tell me how it happened.”
“The craft had already docked. According to one of my officers, Martin gave the order for them to come ashore single file. That was when somebody started firing.”
“So, five people are dead counting one snakehead?”
“You should see how many illegals they’d crammed into that boat. They panicked and when they started throwing themselves into the water, it got crazy. People piled on top of each other because they couldn’t swim. Four of them drowned in less than five feet
