Wednesday, August 10, evening
The Queesik Bay Police Service (QBPS) served the Queesik reserve as well as six communities between Mayfair and Fort Leonard. The band force was actually larger than Port Dundas’s, despite having a smaller catchment. They were well funded and their jurisdiction was absolute: anybody who committed a crime within band territory would be arrested and charged according to the QBPS’s own statutes. It was mind-boggling to Hazel how much independence band police had. But one thing was incontrovertible: petty crime was as rampant on the reserves as it was anywhere, but major crimes were much lower, and reoffending was rare. Sometimes when the subject of band police came up at the detachment, she couldn’t tell if the resentment she heard was because Indian police were better funded and had better resources or because they closed more cases.
“Will you look at this?” she muttered to herself. She was sitting in the public area in front of the intake desk at the Queesik Bay Police Service in a comfortable plastic chair with excellent back support. It was an open-concept headquarters: intake was a curving desk with two elevated chairs behind it, each one containing a uniformed officer either taking calls or dealing with the public. Both officers were young men in crisp light-blue uniforms.
The station house stood on its own beside the concentration of buildings at the heart of the reserve. There was also a hotel, a large convenience store, the social services office, a hospital, a garage, and the casino. She knew that a minor network of roads snaked off the two-lane blacktop that cut through the middle of the reserve, and that more than ten thousand people lived here. There was a community centre and a skating rink, and the Triple-A team that played in that arena a couple of times a week in the winter provided the best live sport in the county. None of the buildings were more than twenty-five years old, and from what Hazel could tell, the HQ had been built within the decade. Inside, it bustled with activity: behind intake the whole operation was visible within a generous atrium. Thick orange light poured down into it as the sun set behind the building. There were officers seated in ergonomic chairs at semi-circular desks on which sat new computers. She noticed a few officers walking around with electronic tablets in their hands, which they tapped on with plastic styluses.
She waited ten minutes and then was shown into Commander LeJeune’s office. It was a compact room behind a glass partition, with a native woodcarving on the desk and a drum hanging on the wall. There was another officer present: this was Reserve Constable Lydia Bellecourt. Both she and LeJeune stood when Hazel entered and she shook their hands in turn. Bellecourt was a very tall, young Ojibway with astonishingly long and sleek black hair constrained beneath her cap. LeJeune gestured for them to sit, and then she handed both Bellecourt and her guest file folders on which the tabs read, “07/08/2005: Wiest, H. P. WM, DOB 06/11/1959.”
“I know RC Bellecourt already faxed a copy of this up to your Detective Wingate, but I thought we might all need a clean copy. What with the urgency of your visit.”
“That’s … thoughtful of you, thank you,” said Hazel, finding it hard to strike the exasperated tone she’d planned on deploying. “I do have to say, however, that although I admire the procedural efficiency, I was a little surprised that the autopsy was done on the reserve when the victim was a resident of Westmuir County.”
“We had permission from the victim’s wife, DI Micallef.”
“But what about us? What about the OPS? We didn’t deserve a heads-up?”
“All of the reports were faxed to your detachment as soon as they were completed. I’m afraid paperwork can take a long time. We try to be thorough.”
“Well, all I know is that a man is found dead on reserve property and before the body is even cold, you’ve done your autopsy and let people wander back and forth over the scene. There’s no evidence collection, no pictures of the site, and no witness statements. You have a pretty little police station, but I’m not sure you know what you’re doing in it.”
“Oh dear, you’re quite upset, Detective Inspector,” said Commander LeJeune. “But let me reassure you, we followed all the applicable protocols in Mr. Wiest’s death. His next of kin was notified and consented to the autopsy in our jurisdiction. Normally it’s a matter of some urgency, as you know.”
“There’s a proper hospital fifteen minutes away that could have done that and it would have been in the right jurisdiction to determine whether the death looked suspicious.”
LeJeune had folded her hands over the report. “We have a proper hospital. One, in fact, better equipped than Mayfair General. In any case, there was no evidence of foul play, no defensive wounds, no material witnesses to his death, and no suspicious matter near the site. Therefore, there was nothing to photograph – except for the dead man’s body, which we did do, please check page three of your documentation – and no reason to canvass beyond the smoke shop. And no one in the smoke shop saw or heard anything suspicious.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Hazel, working up to the desired tone, “but when a healthy man of forty-six dies in the parking lot of a native smoke stand – especially if he’s a nonsmoker – there’s a reason to canvass right there. Or do you discover bodies in the parking lots of your reserve so often that it’s normal to you?”
The commander paused before answering. “When people die of natural causes in your town, Detective Inspector, do you start rounding up the usual suspects?”
She’d decided for the time being to leave out what Deacon had discovered. “Your whole investigation presumes an awful lot, Commander.”
Constable Bellecourt stepped in. “Detective Inspector, there was nothing at the scene to suggest anything more than a tragic, but accidental, loss of life. I did take names when I was on the scene and I was ready to do follow-up, but the autopsy confirmed that he’d died of a heart attack brought on by an anaphylactic reaction.”
“Well, maybe you needed to dig a little deeper,” she said, brandishing her copy of the police report. “Henry Wiest lived in Kehoe Glenn. He was a well-known businessman in the area, owned a hardware store, and had, literally, hundreds of personal relationships through his store. No enemies, no troubles, in perfect health.” She was going to keep the information about the old gambling problem and that little packet of cash to herself for the time being. “Yet he collapses and dies in a parking lot down the road from here when he has no reason to be there. Do you think the Eagle Smoke and Souvenir Shop would have called Henry Wiest down from Kehoe Glenn to change a lightbulb?”
“Maybe he did smoke, Detective. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Then why not stop at the first shack outside of Mayfair on his way back home? There’d have to be a dozen places to turn off on Highway 41 for cigarettes before entering the reserve, and there are four other smoke shacks before the Eagle. Maybe they were selling something special or unique.”
“Like what?”
“You would know that better than me, Commander.”
LeJeune appeared to be looking at her in a pitying fashion. “Am I … missing something here, Detective?”
“No,” said Hazel flatly. “I just want to be sure you’re completely confident that your investigation was thorough.”
“I’m beginning to understand you think differently.”
Hazel opened her portfolio and took out a copy of Deacon’s autopsy and passed it to the commander. LeJeune began reading it slowly. After a moment, she muttered, “Goodness” and passed it to Bellecourt. She put her finger on what Hazel presumed was the salient detail.
“Oh gosh,” said RC Bellecourt.
“So my next question is, where would a person in Queesik Bay come across a Taser? Or something like it?”
“I doubt that’s what made these marks on Mr. Wiest,” said Bellecourt.
“Well, unless you have electronic wasps here, it had to be something that could pierce a person’s skin and give them a lethal shock.”
“Tasers aren’t lethal, Detective Inspector.”
“I know they’re not supposed to be. But fifty thousand volts is an unpredictable amount of electricity, don’t you think?”
“Do you not have Tasers on your force?” LeJeune asked.
Hazel shifted in her seat. “We don’t need them.”
“Everyone needs Tasers. And they don’t kill people unless you bash someone over the head with one. And it’s not volts that kill, anyway. It’s amps. Current, you know? How many Taser deaths were reported in North America last year, Lydia?”
“There were none, Commander.”
“Detective Inspector Micallef thinks it’s possible Henry Wiest was killed by a Taser.”
“I must admit,” said Bellecourt, “I do think it very unlikely. A Taser barb stays in the victim. It shoots out what are little more than two miniature jumper cables. They really get in there and they can leave a significant wound. These ‘sting’ wounds in Mr. Wiest weren’t made by a Taser.”
“I didn’t think of that, Lydia,” said LeJeune. “That’s excellent.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Hazel. “The point is, he was murdered. He was electrocuted.”
Commander LeJeune’s eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you,” she said.
“Thank you?”
LeJeune was accepting a tray of tea from one of her administrative assistants, and she put it on her desk and poured each of them a cup. “Try this,” she said. “It’s cranberry tea. It’s excellent for a lot of things.” This woman was so poised it was unholy. She reminded Hazel of Chip Willan, but where his stance was one of self-possessed malice, LeJeune was being genuinely professional. Her attention was still on someone standing in the doorway behind her. Hazel finally turned and caught another constable, this one a man of about twenty-eight, mouthing something to his commanding officer.
“What is going on here?” Hazel asked.
“I’m sorry,” said LeJeune, waving the man away, “it’s just that we’re planning a small party for Constable Bellecourt here –”
“I’m getting married.”
“Congratulations,” Hazel muttered.
“We won’t be disturbed again.”
“It’s fine, I understand.”
“Let’s get back to the matter. So, it wasn’t an insect sting that killed Henry Wiest. And you need to reopen the case. I understand that now. You will have our full cooperation.”
“Thank you,” said Hazel after a moment spent digesting the strange aura of honesty and warmth in the room. These people needed to be 40 per cent more cynical than they were. She turned to Bellecourt and tried to act gracious. “Honestly, my heartiest congratulations, Constable.”
“Are you married, Detective Inspector?” Bellecourt asked.
“Not anymore,” she said, and the glow in the constable’s face guttered slightly. “Look, if you really want to help me, make me an introduction to your pathologist.”
“Of course,” said LeJeune. “I’ll have Lydia tell Dr. Brett you’re on your way over.”
“And then I want to poke around a bit.”
“Would you object to a chaperone?”
“You mean a carefully guided tour?”
“You may want to go into the casino,” Bellecourt said.
“Do you think I should?” she asked. “What’s it like in there?”
“Well, if you’re going to poke around, you might as well have a look in there. Lots of people in the casino. But if I accompany you, I can smooth the way, you being in non-reserve uniform and all. Or are you going to go plainclothes?”
“I’ll go see your doc first,” Hazel said. “And sure, you can meet me at the casino in half an hour, Constable Bellecourt. I suppose I might as well have a gander.”
“You could meet Lee,” she said.
“Lee?”
“Her fiancé,” said LeJeune.
“As long as I don’t have to witness too much joy.”
“Lee’s the manager of the casino,” LeJeune continued. “You’d probably want to make his acquaintance anyway. Maybe you can stand a few feet back, Constable, to cool your ardour.”
That was agreeable to Bellecourt, and Commander LeJeune placed a call to the hospital and arranged Hazel’s visit. She gave her a map of the reserve and circled the hospital. “It’s a two-minute drive,” she said.
“I’ll walk it.” Hazel took the map and rose and the other two women stood and watched her out. She felt eyes on her as she retraced her steps to the front of the detachment and left the building.
It was still more than twenty degrees outside and the sun hadn’t set. It was Wednesday night, but cars were streaming into the front parking lots of the casino just down the road to her left.
The main road – which was called Queesik Bay Road locally but was officially RR26 – ran directly in front of the building and she turned right, following the map. The hospital was visible from where she was, a large, low building with a roadside post topped by a large H. Church Bay Road, the one that ran behind the casino, met RR26 just before it. She got to the hospital in ten minutes and got directions to the morgue from the information desk. The man who met her, Dr. Brett, brought her into his office. He was a handsome man in his fifties with a short, red beard. Commander LeJeune had already faxed the Mayfair autopsy. “Looks like we screwed up, Detective,” he said.
“Do you even know what a wasp sting looks like?”
Brett opened a file folder that was sitting at the edge of his desk. “Yes. It looks exactly like a hard, swollen, raised welt, white in the middle where the venom has been injected and ringed with red.” He slipped out a couple of 8 x 10 photos and slid one of them across to her. He laid the tip of a pen on the image of Henry Wiest’s cheek, where there was an angry red dot. “Here’s an excellent representation of one.”
Wiest’s body had lost its lividity by the time Deacon had seen it on his slab, and it had looked completely different than what she was seeing in Brett’s picture. Here, Wiest had been dead for less than ninety minutes. He still had colour; his flesh still looked alive. She realized, perhaps with some disappointment, that there had been no cover-up here. Any doctor, even a particularly talented and discerning one, probably would have concluded Wiest had died of anaphylaxis due to an insect sting. Probably a bee or a wasp. Any hope that this Dr. Brett was involved, somehow, was already vapour. “Fine,” she said now. “I’m gathering that, knowing what you know now, you’re not of the opinion that there was any way to arrive at Dr. Deacon’s interpretation when you looked at the body?”
“Likely not.”
“Then tell me this. Do you agree with Dr. Deacon’s report?”
“Well,” he said, “I’ve already made the mistake once of not seeing everything in front of me, Detective. I’d better not make it again. It certainly sounds reasonable, but I’d have to do my own autopsy over.”
“And say you did, then. Keeping a completely open mind, what other possibilities would you be considering?”
“I wouldn’t consider any other possibilities unless new evidence presented itself.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I would confirm Dr. Deacon’s autopsy, with the understanding that if I made any other findings, they could have an effect on my interpretation.”
“Is it likely that after a third autopsy, meaningful new discoveries could be made?”
“Anything is possible.”
“But is it likely?”
Brett’s tongue worked the space behind his upper lip. “You are trying to get me to say I agree with Dr. Deacon’s findings without redoing my own autopsy, Detective Inspector. That’s not cricket.”
“But it sounds like Henry Wiest was electrocuted, yes?”
She saw a faint look of irritation cross the doctor’s face. “Look, I was trained at the University of Toronto. I did my rotations at Mount Sinai Hospital and Sick Kids. I have a subspecialty in infectious diseases. I’m not a country bumpkin and I’m not even a native, but I’ll tell you something: if you’ve come up here to catch us out, you’ll be sorely disappointed. This is a working community, with experts, mostly Indian, at every level of the municipality. I didn’t do further tests because I didn’t think it was necessary, and almost every pathologist faced with a body that presented as Wiest’s did would have stopped where I did, too.”
“But. Given everything you know now, being a trained doctor and everything, it really does look like he was electrocuted. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Dr. Brett.”