we talking meteors? Anything’s possible, but is it probable?” Vic shook his head. “You can knock yourself senseless from a fall. Hell, I lost consciousness for five minutes banging my head on a snowpack when I bombed out running moguls.”
“What else makes you think it was an accident?” Why was she pursuing this? Was it Ben Rogers who had told her that mindless but useful saying about “assuming” making an ass of you and me?
“Hard to say. Whether the stone hits the pitcher or the pitcher hits the stone—”
Holly gave a knowing sigh. “Man of La Mancha. My father’s favourite musical. ‘It’s going to be bad for the pitcher’.”
Walking on uneven ground in coves in the dark could have sent Angie off balance, given those few beers. Holly tried to remember if there had been a moon that night. “The beach has some very rough spots. She could have taken a tumble. And at that time of night, the tide would still have been high.” “Seems to fit. She was still breathing when she went into the water. Her lungs are full of sea water.”
“Of course.” She folded her arms. Let Occam’s razor settle the case.
Vic gave a soft snort. “Not really. There is such a thing as a dry drowning.”
“Our coroner told me about that,” she added with a nod to her companion.
Boone replied, “It’s one in a million to fall a few feet and kill yourself. Better odds at winning the lottery. Still, people fall off ladders cleaning moss from their gutters. It’s the where, not why and how. The water was waiting. Without that factor...”
“Fill me in a bit more on the scene. Nobody saw anything? I understand her school was camping near there. Why was she off alone?” Vic asked. With an unexpected sigh, he replaced the sheet as if to trouble her as little as possible. Then he clasped his hands as if in silent prayer.
Holly searched her memory and took a deep breath. She wanted to help this man as much as he wanted to help her. “A good question. The campsite was a long hike from the beach, but we think that she used a bike, and she was an athlete. Fifteen minutes, twenty. Maybe she just wanted to get away by herself. As for the others, it was dark except for the campfires and an occasional flashlight. No one started to look for her until the next morning.”
“Why so sure that she was alone?” Vic asked quietly.
“We interviewed everyone involved. Are you suggesting... sexual activity?” Holly wondered about the logistics. “But if she’d been in the water—”
Vic clicked his teeth together twice. “The vagina’s plenty tight when it wants to be. Sealed like a clam.”
Was Boone smiling, or was it her imagination? Holly felt her face flush.
“We did the usual swabs. No sign of sperm, though she’s not technically a virgin. Hymens are tricky, especially in active women. It’s not usually a topic of dinner conversation, but a freakish blow to the vaginal area, gym equipment such as monkey bars, even bikes can have the same result.”
Ouch. Holly recalled the condom wrapper by the site. It could have belonged to anyone, and it might have been there for days. Still, she was glad that she’d had Chipper comb the area before the winds rose.
Boone checked his watch. “Anything else, Vic? I’ve got some surveillance to run later this afternoon. Old fart pensioners like me have to earn a living.”
Vic glanced over to where one of his assistants was pointing at the wall clock. “Guess we’d better wrap this up.” He shifted the sheet and lifted each arm and leg. Rigor had released its grip. Holly winced again at the tissue shredding on the arm. “The abrasions are consistent with exposure to rocks...and to crustacean nibblers. Every animal’s an opportunist. Can’t blame them.”
“So are some people. At least she didn’t die hard,” Holly said, remembering the tragic beating and drowning death of a teen in Victoria by a mob of students.
All the way back through the shadowy, winding hills, the silence was palpable. “Looks like we’re going to call this one an accident, inasmuch as no one saw what happened, and the body hasn’t told us different.” Boone said. “Still got those tox scans, though.”
The CBC was accumulating static the farther they drove towards Sooke. Holly grimaced and reached out a hand.
“Allow me.” Boone tuned in a Bach cantata, an excellent choice for the mood. “NPR from Washington State has better reception. Just don’t look for country and western unless the weather is clear.”
“I grew up here, but I’ve been gone since I left for university.” Holly shook her head as a transport passed them with a roar at the Humpback Road just before the four-lane ended. Before she could decide whether to delay them by pursuing him for speeding, she realized she was ten kilometres under the limit. Too much thinking and rote movement.
She took advantage of their final minutes together to confess her doubts about handling the interviews. Boone was easy to talk to, on the gruff side but non-judgmental. “Maybe I didn’t ask the right questions. It’s my first time heading up an investigation. Being a foot soldier was easy. Do what you’re told. I’m wondering if I’m too—”
He mock-punched her arm. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Why, I remember...” He launched off into a time machine of the Seventies and Eighties, culminating when he gave evidence that helped put Clifford Olson behind bars. In 1982 the confessed serial killer and child kidnapper had pleaded guilty to eleven counts of murder and was sentenced to eleven concurrent terms. He’d been up for parole several times but would never be free. The public outrage at his negotiating a payment of $100,000 for his wife in exchange for revealing the whereabouts of the bodies, deep in the British Columbia wilderness, had never cooled. There was a price for closure, Holly, thought, mindful of her mother. What would she pay to find her, dead or alive? Could Boone, with his connections and investigative skills, help? Should she suggest to her father that they hire him? What did the costs matter? Norman had pots of money tucked away in mutual funds.
She let Boone off at his trailer, then proceeded to the detachment. Chipper was talking to a pair of tourists in bright floral shirts and Tilley hats. The woman carried a camera and the man a fancy carved walking stick. A camper with Oregon plates was parked behind them, and a toy poodle barked out its brains in the rear window, flailing paws at the glass. Chipper was smiling as he pointed out places on their road map. The couple tried not to stare at his imposing figure, but it was a losing proposition. His outfit said everything the world needed to know about Canada’s commitment to multi-culturalism.
Every “horseman” knew about the landmark decision in 1990 when Baltej Singh Dhillon had won his battle to wear the Sikh turban despite a petition from nearly 200,000 irate Canadians who defended their objections all the way to the Supreme Court. The five Ks were represented: the kes, kirpan, kara, kanghas and kachh. Turban and beard, steel bracelet, ceremonial dagger, hair comb and sash. All had profound meaning. Though some die-hard militarists still frowned on the adaptation of the uniform, others greeted it as a progressive nod in the British tradition of proud Gurkha regiments.
“See me in my office, Constable,” she said as she walked by. Inside, the door to the tiny lunch room stood open, and Ann sat at a table. The aroma of a spicy soup from her Thermos filled the air. On a paper plate was a slice of cornbread. She was reading a copy of Maclean’s and wearing ear buds. Her son had given her an iPod loaded with country and western
