In the Major Crimes section he saw no sign of Corporal Shane Wilcox, the file coordinator, or Prell. Good. Graham was a team player, but he liked working alone. He started a fresh pot of coffee then went to the washroom and studied the mirror.
What the hell was happening?
What was the use of going on? Without Nora, his life no longer held any meaning. Maybe that’s why he risked it, in his vain attempt to save the little girl. But who was he really trying to save? What happened to him in the water? He swore to God he’d heard Nora telling him not to give up.
And the girl?
Her dying words haunted him.
Everyone believed it was a tragic accident but he remained uncertain.
Maybe he was losing his mind.
He splashed water on his face then went to his desk. It was neat and, unlike the desks of the other Mounties, it was bereft of framed photos of loved ones. No keepsakes or mementos to hint at his personality. Just a phone, a glass cup holding pens and pencils, a yellow legal notepad and the Tarver file.
That’s all he had left in this world.
He opened the folder and prepared to make the call to notify the Tarvers’ next of kin. Being the bearer of news that destroyed worlds was also part of the job.
The worst part.
As a traffic cop, Graham had been punched, slapped, and had people collapse in his arms as he stood at their door, cap in hand, to tell them what no one should ever have to hear.
Ever.
At times they’d see his police car pull up, watch through the living-room window as he got out and approached their home. They’d refuse to let him in. Because they knew. They knew that as long as they never heard what he was going to tell them, their world would remain intact. If they didn’t hear the words then their daughter, their son, sister, brother, mother, father, husband or wife would not be dead.
No one knew how much he feared the day it might happen to him.
Then it did happen.
“We couldn’t stop the bleeding. We did all we could for her. I’m so sorry.”
After five rings, a woman answered the phone in Maryland.
“I’m calling for Mr. Jackson Tarver.”
“One moment please, he’s in the yard.” Footsteps on a tiled floor, a back door creaked. “Jack! Phone! I think it’s that salesman again!” A man far off grumbled something as he approached the phone. Graham squeezed the handset, grateful he was alone in his office.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Tarver? Mr. Jackson Tarver?”
“Yes?”
“Sir, Corporal Daniel Graham with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Calgary.”
“Police?”
“Yes. Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but it’s important that I confirm your relationship to Raymond, Anita, Tommy and Emily Tarver of Washington, D.C.”
Silence hung in the air as realization rolled over Tarver and he swallowed hard.
“Anita’s my daughter-in-law. Tommy and Emily are my grandchildren.” Tarver cleared his throat. “Raymond is my son. Why are you calling?”
When Graham delivered the news, Jackson Tarver dropped his phone.
10
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Dental records confirmed Anita, Tommy and Emily Tarver as the victims.
Ray Tarver’s body had still not been recovered.
The tragedy landed on the front pages of Calgary’s newspapers with the headlines RIVER HORROR CLAIMS FOUR AMERICANS and U.S. FAMILY DIES IN MOUNTAINS. The Calgary Herald and Calgary Sun ran pictures of the Tarvers, the scene and locator maps. Through interviews with shocked U.S. friends of the Tarvers, the papers reported that Ray Tarver was a freelance journalist, Anita was a part-time librarian and that Tommy and Emily were “the sweetest kids.”
Not much more in the Web editions of the Washington Post and Washington Times either, Graham thought before he met Jackson Tarver at the Calgary airport. From the passport and driver’s license photos, Graham saw the father and son resemblance, except the elder Tarver had thin white hair parted neatly to one side.
Jackson Tarver was a sixty-seven-year-old retired high-school English teacher. His handshake was strong for someone whose world had been shattered. He insisted on “taking care of matters right away,” so Graham drove him to his hotel where they found a quiet booth in the restaurant. Tarver never touched his coffee. He sat there twisting his wedding band.
“Since your call, I’ve been praying that this has been some sort of mistake,” Tarver said. “I need to see with my own eyes that this has happened. I hope you understand?”
Graham understood. He opened his folder to display sharp color photographs of Anita, Tommy and Emily Tarver, on autopsy trays.
Pain webbed across Jackson’s face and he turned away.
After giving him time, Graham took Tarver’s forearm to ensure he was registering their conversation.
“Our services people have contacted the U.S. Consulate here. They’ll help you with the airline bookings and the funeral-home arrangements and they will assist you in getting them home with you,” Graham said. “They’ll also help you get the belongings shipped home later when we’ve finished processing them. Here’s some paperwork you’ll need.”
Graham slid an envelope to Tarver who took several moments to collect himself.
“Do you know how it happened?”
“At this stage, we believe their canoe capsized in the Faust River.”
“And they weren’t wearing life jackets?”
“No.”
“I just don’t understand. Ray was so careful. When things were good, he’d taken Anita and the kids to Yellowstone. He was no stranger to the outdoors. For goodness’ sake, he’s an Eagle Scout.”
“You said, ‘when things were good.’” Graham was taking notes.
“Ray used to be a reporter with the Washington, D.C., bureau of World Press Alliance, the wire service.”
“What sorts of stories did he do?”
“He covered everything before moving to investigative features.”
Graham nodded.
“Then he began clashing with his editors. About a year ago he’d had enough and decided
