Corporal Roxanne Calloway drove along the lakeside road towards Fiskar Bay. It was the scenic route, pretty even in winter, but it wound along the shoreline, a road that took its time. At this rate she wasn’t going to make it to the RCMP detachment by 10:00 am, as she had planned. The highway further to the west was fast and straight, but today it was blocked by an accident, a collision between a semi and a car with passengers. There were injuries and the semi was in the ditch. It would take a crane to haul it out. So probably most of the RCMP were busy with that. Roxanne had wanted to debrief with most of them present. Maybe that wasn’t going to happen.
She hadn’t expected to be assigned to this case. Another corporal had been asked to investigate, but now he was sick, down with pneumonia, probably caught while working at Cullen Dump at minus forty with the flu. So he was off the case and it had defaulted to her. Roxanne couldn’t believe her luck. A murder investigation? She hadn’t expected this kind of responsibility so soon after transferring to the Manitoba Major Crimes Unit from Saskatchewan. So she’d parked Finn, her son, at her sister’s for a couple of days and headed up to the Interlake.
She had spent some time with one of the Fiskar Bay constables, in Winnipeg for the weekend, training to be file coordinator on the case. Constable Izzy McBain had shown up in uniform, a trim figure with blonde hair braided and tucked up above her collar. She had left the day before, Sunday, to head back to Fiskar Bay with a carload of goodies, computer equipment, office supplies, and wearing newly bought street clothes. Her hair had swung behind her in a pony tail.
“All I ever wear off-duty is jeans and an old sweater,” she had said. Roxanne thought it was funny how eager young constables were to don the uniform and how soon after they were happy to get out of it. Roxanne had asked Izzy to get an office prepared for them. She hoped the accident hadn’t put paid to that. Maybe Constable McBain was now out on the highway, redirecting traffic.
Roxanne had heard about the lake but she hadn’t been out here before. She caught glimpses of it through gaps in the trees. It really was huge. She was used to the wide vistas of the prairie, the massive sky, the long horizon where you could see the curve of the earth. The flatlands started east of the Rockies and ended here, in Manitoba. One hour east of Winnipeg, she had been told, you hit the Canadian Shield, solid bedrock and lots of fir trees. She’d have to take Finn for a look someday. And maybe bring him up here for a day at the beach in the summer.
She pulled up in town ten minutes past her deadline. She saw a typical RCMP detachment building, red brick, half of it single, half two-storey. Usually there would be a row of white police cars and trucks, all emblazoned with RCMP insignia, parked outside but today they were reduced to one. She pulled a briefcase from the back seat of her car and marched up to the door.
A shirt-sleeved sergeant, burly and grey-haired, came to greet her. Had he been watching out for her? A constable looked out from a doorway behind the counter, obviously sizing her up. A woman in civilian clothes sat behind a computer screen, typing. Roxanne introduced herself to the sergeant. The woman gave her a thin smile. The constable appeared studiously indifferent, but the room buzzed with an undercurrent of interest. A young blonde woman appeared on a staircase at the back of the office.
“You’ve met Izzy,” said Sergeant Bill Gilchrist. “She’s got a room set up for you upstairs.”
Roxanne was relieved to see that Constable McBain hadn’t been sent out to the accident site to direct traffic. She looked at the sergeant. He must be close to sixty, approaching retirement. She hoped he wasn’t too much of an old-school cop.
“How many of your constables are out there on the highway, Sergeant?” she asked. “I’d hoped we could get together. They could tell me what they’ve observed so far and I could provide you with an update from Winnipeg. Get us all up to speed.”
“No problem,” said Bill Gilchrist. “Accident’s all cleaned up and they’re on their way in. Except for one that’s still at the hospital taking down statements. You can go upstairs and see what Izzy’s been up to. Glad the MCU’s paying for all that gear she’s got. Wouldn’t want her having to raid Kathy’s supply cupboard.” The woman at the computer—evidently Kathy—raised an eyebrow but carried on typing. “You can go up and have a look and I’ll get all the guys into the lunchroom as soon as they’re all back.”
Roxanne was halfway up the stairs when she heard a low male voice. “There they go, up to the henhouse.” She glanced over the banister. The constable had turned back into his office. Bill Gilchrist shrugged, as if to say: what am I supposed to do? Guys will be guys. The woman at the computer kept her eyes on the screen, but the corners of her mouth turned down in a disapproving curve.
“Hey, Kenny!” Izzy McBain called to the disappearing back of the constable. “How come you’re not sucking up to the corporal? Thought you wanted the other MCU job?”
Constable Ken Roach ignored her. Bill Gilchrist laughed. “You behave yourself, Izzy,” he said. It was no secret that another of the Fiskar Bay constables was to be detailed to the murder investigation. It was one of the reasons Roxanne wanted to see them all together. She had to make a recommendation by the end of the day.
Izzy had done a decent job of setting up the office. Two big tables were pushed together in the centre with chairs ranged around them. There was a computer station in one corner and a large whiteboard fastened to a wall. Supplies were laid out on shelves: paper, toner, Post-it notes, pens and markers. A telephone sat in one corner, a desk in another. “That’s for you, Corporal,” said Izzy. “We can change it if you like.”
“It’s fine. Who’s the woman downstairs? The civilian at the computer?”
“Kathy Isfeld. Been here forever. She really runs the show. Sergeant Bill wouldn’t have a clue what to do without her.”
Izzy had provided a coat rack and a tray for boots. Under her coat, Roxanne was wearing a crisp white shirt, a black V-neck sweater and black pants. It wasn’t uniform but it was close. Her hair was reddish, cut short, a sleek cut that hugged her head, easy to manage. She glanced out the window. It looked onto the parking lot. Across the street was a Tim Hortons coffee shop, like those to be found in most prairie towns, once a beloved Canadian franchise, now owned by an international syndicate.
“I didn’t set up a coffee machine,” said Izzy. “We usually just pick up from the Tim’s. Want me to run over and get some?”
“Sure,” said Roxanne, reaching for some cash. “I take mine black.” She was glad to have a few minutes alone in the room to get a feel for the place that would be the hub of the investigation.
By the time Izzy got back, another two constables had returned from the accident site. Roxanne walked into the lunchroom to find them and their sergeant seated at tables near the back of the room, facing forward, waiting for her to speak, coffee cups in hand. Ken Roach sat back in a chair, arms folded, waiting.
“Let’s pull two of these tables together,” she said. “There’s only going to be five of us. There will be room for all of us around them.” The constables reluctantly got to their feet and started moving furniture around. An order was an order and in the RCMP rank was respected, even when the corporal was a skinny redhead in city clothes. She looked more like a business manager than one of them.
“We’ll be six,” said Sergeant Bill Gilchrist. “Matt Stavros just got in from the hospital.”
Izzy was already setting up her laptop on a table. The second constable was introduced as Sam Mendes. He pulled a small notepad out of his pocket. A third watched her through hooded eyes. The door opened. Matt Stavros entered, coffee in hand. He was about six feet, solidly built, olive-skinned, dark-haired. He took a seat next to Izzy.
“Right,” said Roxanne. “You should know that I have been appointed as primary investigator on this case. Sergeant Brian Donohue is team commander. I think most of you met him last week, when he was out at the search of the murder site. Brian is working from Winnipeg for now but I’m sure you’ll be seeing him out here before long.” They noticed that she used the sergeant’s first name. “The Ident crews are busy examining evidence and Stella Magnusson’s body is in the care of the medical examiner. I am going to be here for a few days conducting interviews.” She had booked herself into the Fiskar Bay Hotel online. It was off-season. They had plenty of rooms available. She’d scored a suite, cut-rate.
“Constable McBain here has been appointed as our file coordinator. She is at the centre of this investigation. All reports go to her, and she feeds information back to us as needed, but Izzy also will get out in the field at times. We share responsibilities.”
Izzy’s spine straightened. Roach and Mendes glanced sideways at each other. There was a day when an officer got on with the job himself. Bill Gilchrist remembered those days very well. Now it was all teamwork. Accountability. Transparency. He sipped his coffee and kept his mouth shut.
“We will need one of you to join the investigative team as support staff,” Roxanne continued. “This case is attracting media attention and we need to get results as soon as we can.” One or two heads nodded. TV crews had shown up at the dump. Reporters had been hanging around, asking questions. Sergeant Donohue had taken care of them until news of the coming storm had sent them all back to the city. “So let’s talk about what we know. Any questions so far?”
“How was she killed?” Sam Mendes raised his pencil, ready to write it all down.
“They’re still doing lab tests, but she suffered a blow to the back of the head that caused serious injury.”
“There was a wood stove with fire irons at the house, and an axe and a maul in the woodshed.” Constable Mendes was flipping back through his notes.
“They’ve been examined,” said Roxanne. “They’re clean. The body was frozen and then cut up into several parts, head, both arms and legs, each of which was also severed above the knee. The torso was cut into two parts horizontally across the midsection. The pieces were stuffed into black plastic garbage bags, strong ones, each one padded with newspaper, old copies of the Winnipeg Free Press from between December 30 and January 10, the outside pages missing. The ones we found had no prints. Ms. Magnusson’s clothing and boots were also stuffed into the bags. Different ones. Two rings had been left on her fingers. Theft does not appear to have been a factor in this murder. We believe the bags were collected by the garbage truck in Cullen Village on Monday, January 22, as part of the regular curbside pickup and deposited at the Cullen landfill site. The truck driver and his assistant noticed nothing unusual.”
“She’d been left out at someone’s curb for the weekly garbage pickup?” Matt asked.
“Or outside several houses. She had been frozen then cut up, probably with a band saw. That could help us narrow things down.”
“The butcher will have one of those,” said the sergeant.
“There was that break-in at the school during the holidays, just after New Year. There might be one in the shop there,” added Mendes.
“Could be one at Cullen Village.” Matt Stavros was leaning forward on his elbows, his coffee between his hands. “There’s a men’s group gets together once a week to do carpentry in someone’s workshop. Want me to find out?”
“You do that, constable. The car was found yesterday, in the long-term parking lot at Winnipeg airport.”
“Surveillance cameras?”
“Yes. But the video’s not much use. You’ve seen it, Izzy?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Izzy had viewed it in Winnipeg as part of her training. “It was snowing and dark when the SUV was dropped off and it was left at the far end of the lot. The picture’s fuzzy. There’s just a blur. It looks like it was just one person, though. Someone not very tall.”
“The vehicle was locked,” Roxanne continued, “but the keys were in the glove box, as were the insurance papers. There was a packed suitcase and a travel bag in the back. Stella Magnusson’s wallet was in the side pocket of the bag. All her credit cards appear to be there, with two hundred dollars in cash. There are plane tickets, for Dublin then London, Milan and Paris, and a passport. There’s no sign of a cellphone, a tablet or a personal laptop. The vehicle appears to have been wiped clean of all fingerprints. It’s still being examined.”
“When was it dropped off?” Matt asked.
“Saturday, just after 1:00 am. She was seen the Thursday evening before by a couple called Smedley, so we believe that for now death happened between late Thursday night and Friday, January 19. Probably sometime that Friday, since the car wasn’t dropped off until early Saturday morning. Has anyone reported anything suspicious?”
“Not much. No one saw anything or heard anything. A couple and two sons live next door, on a farm. The Andreychuks. There’s been some friction between them and the victim before.” Mendes again.
“Let’s call her by her name—Stella Magnusson,” Roxanne said firmly. At least one constable shifted uneasily in his chair. It looked like she was one of those politically correct types.
“We had complaints from both sides, Corporal,” said Sergeant Gilchrist. “Stella does this StarFest thing, every year, in June, on her land. Concerts. Big crowds. John Andreychuk’s a farmer. Complained about the noise, people tramping over his fields, disturbing his cows and calves. Traffic. Cars parked everywhere. You could see his point. He tried to get her closed down. Didn’t work.”
“And what did she complain about?”
“She thought he was trying to scare her off, to get her to sell and move out. Said she found a dead fox once, on her doorstep. Got some funny phone calls, hang-ups. A skinned coyote was left, hanging on a tree at the edge of her wood. A cat disappeared. Andreychuk swore blind it wasn’t him. That was all about four or five years ago, though. And it stopped. There’s been nothing since.”
“Brad Andreychuk’s a nut case,” Constable Mendes contributed. “The oldest son. He’s been in a few fights over the years, but no one’s pressed charges so we haven’t been able to hang anything on him. There’s a younger boy at the University in Winnipeg. Stays in the city most of the time. There’s nobody much else out there.”
“She lived out there by herself?”
“Yep, but she was usually away for about three months in the winter and in the summer she had people around her place a lot of the time. She hired staff for the festival, mostly students. And there’s a bunch of volunteers. We’ve got lists of them, and of board members.”
“Make sure Izzy has them all,” said Roxanne. Izzy glanced up from her laptop and grinned. Roach rolled his eyes.
Bill Gilchrist leaned forward. He knew local history. “She inherited that place from her uncles, her mother’s brothers. Her father was from an old Icelandic family, been around Fiskar Bay from the start, but her mom was Ukrainian. Farmers. The uncles were bachelors, lived out there together all their lives. Nice old guys, but quiet. Kept themselves to themselves. One died right after the other and there was no one else to leave the land to. Nobody expected Stella Magnusson to move back but she did. It must have been nearly ten years ago.”
“She came from here?”
“Oh yeah. Went to Fiskar Bay High School, but she cleared off right after she graduated. Got to be thirty-odd years ago,” he added. Izzy had returned to clicking away on her keyboard.
“So she would have been thirty-seven when she came back? That would have made her forty-seven now?” Matt Stavros had done the math fast. “She looked younger than that. My aunt lives out here. Delphia Stavros. She’s one of the women who were at the dump when the body was discovered. There’s a bunch of artists in the area. According to her and her friends, Stella Magnusson wasn’t much liked by some of them. And there had been a lot of guys in Stella’s life. It’s all just rumour but I’ll give you some notes, Izzy.” He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. “My aunt’s partner is Annie Chan. She paints. She did a drawing of Stella’s head.”
“The Annie Chan? Isn’t she famous?” Roxanne was surprised. She didn’t know much about art but she recognized the name.
“That’s the one.” He found the photograph and passed the phone to her.
“Well, look at this. That’s amazing.” Roxanne held it up so they could see. Except for Izzy, they appeared unimpressed. “We could use a printout, life-size, Izzy.” She checked the time. She had learned enough for now. She wanted to get started, to begin to get a sense of how the residents who toughed out the long, cold months here lived. She needed a context in which to place Stella Magnusson and the person who had killed her. “If you hear of anything that can help us, we’re right upstairs,” she said, closing the meeting.
By the time she was ready to leave, Izzy was putting notes and photographs on the whiteboard.
“Where do I find the Andreychuk farm, Izzy?”
“I’ll show you.” Izzy went to her laptop and pulled up a map on her screen. “Don’t trust GPS out here, ma’am. Doesn’t work. You’re likely to end up in the middle of a field.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Roxanne. “How about you drive me? It’ll give me a chance to look around.”
“Sure! Want me to get a car?” Izzy was already reaching for her parka. It looked like she was itching to get out.
“No. You can drive mine. It’s less obvious. I’ll see you out there.” She handed Izzy the car keys, took her coat and went back downstairs. Bill Gilchrist was in his office. He looked up from his desk as she knocked and entered.
“You guys are going to want Stavros, aren’t you?” he said. “It makes sense. He’s the smartest of the bunch. Apart from Izzy. I’m not surprised you snagged her. A bit of a whizz on all that techie stuff is our Izzy. And she’s local. Knows everybody.”
“How come she’s here, back where she grew up?” The RCMP didn’t encourage its members to work on their home turf and it wasn’t considered a good career move.
“Her mom got cancer. Right when Izzy was graduating from the Depot. She came back to help out. Her mom got better. So Izzy’s stuck here for now. Do her good to work with you,” he said, “but I’ll miss having her around down here. She’s more fun than Kathy Isfeld.”
“I’ll tell Sergeant Donohue,” she said, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “Do you want to tell Stavros yourself?”
“Sure thing.”
Roxanne looked out the front window. She could see exhaust fumes puffing from the back of her car. Izzy was warming it up. She straightened her back. Now the work really began.