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THE HOLLOW SOUND OF Riley Finch’s footsteps punctuated the soft hum from the fluorescent lights as she walked through the museum’s halls. Before heading to the archives, she waited in the small lunchroom for the kettle to boil for a mug of tea. She scanned the faded flyers—recycling reminders, fundraisers, blood drives—wondering what notices might have appeared on the walls of Detective Winston’s police station.
Tea in one hand, Riley swiped her access card at the door to the archive’s anteroom. Before crossing the threshold, she closed her eyes, reaching for a connection to the archive’s documents. She deposited her bag and tea on the work counter, shaking her head at her silliness. Despite its starkness, she found the space welcoming, familiar.
Riley checked her email while she finished her tea. Claire loved her exhibit idea but wanted her to further define the focus. Riley could deal with conditional approval, and it was enough to justify continuing to work on Winston’s case.
She moved into the archive room, using her foot to nudge a stool toward what she now considered her shelves. She stopped at a box labelled “early.” Nick had logged it last week but not reviewed its contents. It wouldn’t take long for her to do so now, and when he arrived today, Riley would ask him to keep working on these older files. Then she could concentrate on the ones related to Chase’s disappearance.
The dates on the disorganized pages corresponded with the earliest days of the force. She started by sorting everything into three piles: one relating to physical crimes, one for thefts and financial crimes, and one for other crimes. Next, she read through each document, focusing first on the physical crimes. Among the twenty pages in this pile, three referred to missing young men. The first had a note appended to his file explaining that a few years after his disappearance, the police learned he had moved south and told no one. The writer of this note speculated that the hasty departure was because of gambling or women, or possibly both. Gold prospectors found the body of the second man outside a town to the north, likely another fugitive from debt. He had died of exposure, not surprising given the climate. Riley paused when she found a reference to the third man. Her breath caught when she read that the police found his body in False Creek. Would Jack consider this disappearance similar to Huntington’s? Or merely coincidence, given the two years separating them?
Riley found nothing more to help the investigation, or the narrowing of the exhibit’s focus that Claire had requested. She returned the sorted documents to the box and replaced it on its shelf. At the sound of someone’s footsteps, she looked at her watch. It was nearing Nick’s usual start time. She’d made good progress. Riley started on another box.
“Oh hey, Riley. You’re here early!” Nick’s cheerful greeting stirred Riley.
She waved from across the room. “Hi, Nick. I already finished this box. It looked like you didn’t have time to finish it on Friday. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Nice. Thanks.” He pushed a cart toward her. “I’ll be down here part of the week. Should I start on this one?”
“Part of the week?” Riley hoped her voice hadn’t sounded too eager. She wanted to be alone the rest of the time.
“I need to prep photos later in the week. I’m just waiting for the images to come in.”
Riley’s pulse quickened, remembering the photo she’d left in the journal. She pointed at the far shelves. “Why don’t you start there. I’ll be two shelves over. I need to check something first.” Nick agreed and pushed his cart down the aisle.
She retrieved a box and set it beside her, checking to see that Nick was engrossed in his own box. She eased the journal from her bag and ran her finger along the spine before opening it. She read Jack’s incomplete message. She leaned against the work table, a spontaneous smile pulling at her cheeks. She began to write.
Dear Jack,
It seems you’ve been interrupted during your last entry. I hope you’re able to complete your thoughts later.
I’ve been wondering, if you don’t mind sharing, if you’d mind telling me about your life in the city. What street do you live on? Where is your favourite building? What is your favourite view?
I live in an area called Fairview Slopes, close to False Creek. My apartment is on West Sixth Avenue, between Granville and Hemlock Streets. The building that stood here before my apartment building was occupied by a newspaper publisher. Judging by a city map from your time, you would see little development in this area yet, but for me, it’s filled with coffee shops, restaurants, and shops.
My favourite spot in the city is Vanier Park, which sits across the water to the south of the West End. I also love the way the mountains frame the city when I look at it from Jericho Beach, which is further west from Vanier Park. My view from there must differ from yours. I see many tall towers, whereas I believe you see one or two taller buildings and many church spires. Are there trees everywhere? Does the city still smell of forest?
“What’s that?”
Riley caught her breath and turned around. Nick stood behind her, peering over her shoulder. She closed the journal and rested her hand on top, trying to look unflustered. “Were you standing there long?”
“Long enough to watch you write in your—diary? You have a diary?”
Riley flushed. “I’m just writing some notes. It helps me keep track of things.”
“Right. Looks like a nice book just for notes.” He patted his pocket, revealing the outline of his phone. “I keep everything digital. In the cloud, so it’s always available. I’m heading upstairs to get a cup of tea. Do you want to come?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Relief flooded her as Nick left the room. His digital-only preference robbed him of the pleasures of a physical book, but it saved her having to explain why she was writing in a journal that she’d found in the archive. Still, she had become too wrapped up in it. She would finish this message. After that, she’d have to stick to writing in the journal at home.
I need to keep this brief. Will write again soon.
Cheers, Riley
RILEY FISHED CHOPSTICKS out of her kitchen drawer. Her mouth watered as the sweet smell of rice reached her nose. Good, cheap sushi was immensely satisfying, and the family-run place near her apartment made some of the best in the city. She dipped a piece in soy sauce—both sides, for extra coverage—and closed her eyes, savouring the first bite. If she ever visited Japan, she’d find out if its sushi was any better. Doubtful.
Riley leaned over to grab her work bag from the floor and pulled the journal close enough to read without risking errant splashes of sauce.
Continued from May 14 ’97
Dear Riley,
I apologize but had to interrupt my message at Doctor Cole’s. I am now at home and have just read your message, to which I am happy to reply.
First, my observations about Cole. I have only worked with the man on a few cases, and I am curious about his work with the constabulary before I arrived in the city. Do you have access to any records of his previous post-mortems? I’d be much obliged if you could discover how many of his former patients he has performed autopsies on. I wonder if the constabulary might be well served to have another doctor available for situations when the medical examiner knows the deceased.
Riley felt around in her bag for a notebook and lay it open beside her. She scribbled Cole, post-mortems, then popped another piece of sushi into her mouth. Before returning to Winston’s message, she took a second to inspect her fingers.
After my visit to Doctor Cole, I took a long walk with no destination in mind. I find it helps me think. I crossed the Granville Bridge. The afternoon was warm, and a few children braved the cool waters, jumping from the low span over False Creek into the water below. I walked up Granville Street and looked back at the city. I realize now that I stood in the area you say you live in.
Houses dot Sixth Avenue and the streets to the east, all of them built in the decade since the railway cleared the land. Granville Street cuts a path through forest to the south. I plan to enjoy walking in those woods this summer. It’s a pastime I miss.
Today I also met with Mr. Sharp, a tailor who supplied Huntington with suits. He claims Huntington showed some interest in the trade and was even considering pursuing it himself, yet nobody else I’ve spoken with has shared that information. Nor have I found any papers from Huntington’s home that indicate such an interest. Another secret Huntington kept from his mother?
Chase also visited Sharp’s to order shirts and ask if Sharp might be interested in working together on a clothing venture—a shop selling ready-made articles of women’s clothing. Sharp was not keen on Chase’s plan, but neither did he seem overly threatened by it.
When I met with Doctor Cole, I asked him about Chase. Initially, he claimed he only saw Chase a few months ago, after Chase arrived in the city. With some prompting, he remembered that Chase had an appointment two days before his disappearance that was rescheduled to a few hours before he was last seen. It troubles me that he forgot about that visit, though I suppose it is understandable given Cole’s personal situation.
Cole has a daughter who is rather ill. He must have much on his mind. I spoke with a member of the household staff, who said they see almost nothing of the daughter. Cole could hardly bring himself to speak of her. He carries his concern for her visibly, yet silently.
With that, I must end my note. I trust you are keeping well.
Faithfully yours,
Jack
Riley closed the journal and imagined Jack walking among the trees in her neighbourhood where buildings and restaurants now sat. The image made her smile.
Just as he would struggle to identify the Vancouver she lived in, the same was true for her. But she had the benefit of archival photos to guide her. She opened her laptop and called up the archive’s public online resource to search for pictures of the city when most of it was still forested. The woods must have seemed unending, so thick, so dark. She was relieved to see that the original Granville Bridge of Jack’s time was considerably lower than the structure currently crossing False Creek.
She closed her laptop and shifted her thoughts to Chase and Cole. She hadn’t yet seen anything else on Chase among the records at the museum. She could ask Nick to keep an eye out for Chase’s name, too. And it wouldn’t hurt to also look for other cases Cole had worked on, as Detective Winston had asked. As Jack had asked. She had to get used to the still-new informality.
Riley slid her makeshift case poster boards out of their tube. She’d brought them home to avoid the risk of Nick finding them in the archive. The living room didn’t have a logical place to hang them, and they’d only make Lucy ask questions. Riley’s bedroom had some blank wall space, and Lucy was less likely to see it there.
After she’d taped the poster board to the wall opposite her bed, Riley added becoming a tailor? under Huntington and put a pin at the tailor’s shop on the map. She stepped back and waited for inspiration to strike, like it did for TV detectives. She circled Cole’s name. Jack needed more information about him. That would be her next step.