And On the Surface Die (4 page)
“God, look at that.”
C
hipper pointed to an area half an inch long on one of the girl’s forearms, where tiny predators had been chewing in furtherance of future generations. He put his hand over his mouth and stumbled away, one foot tripping in the cracks that fractured the basalt.
“Who’s in charge here? I passed a few villages missing their idiots, or isn’t that phrase acceptable these days?” a jovial voice called, panting for breath around the stem of a corncob pipe. Mason Boone ambled forward, lugging a large black satchel that might have done duty at 22 Baker Street. His rice-sack gut pooched under suspendered grey work pants. Hush Puppies slurping on the wet rock, he urged his bulk toward them with surprising grace.
The B.C. Coroners Service was a unique animal, setting fast and tangled roots in one of Canada’s younger provinces, much of which was still wilderness outside of the sushi bars of Vancouver and the tea rooms of Victoria. The province employed twenty-one full-time coroners, but the approximately one hundred and twenty community coroners dispersed throughout the territory worked on an as-needed basis. Some thought that anyone of good character could qualify as a community coroner, but the preferred background was in the legal, investigative and medical fields. Retired nurses and lawyers made good choices. They did not perform autopsies, but should circumstances warrant, they authorized pathologists to take charge. They were responsible for assembling the facts in a death: identifying the deceased and how, when, where and by what means the person died. Complicated forensics were left to the medical examiner, if one were needed. Fault or blame was not the coroner’s bailiwick, though no one should be incurious.
Boone Mason had been a private investigator in Vancouver before a knee had blown on him during a handball game and compromised his mobility. At sixty-five, he lived quietly off a disability pension supplemented by his occasional coroner assignment and Texas hold’em poker winnings at the legion. His relationship with the RCMP in the Western Communities wasn’t smooth. A stubborn nature often made him a gadfly. “He’s a good man with a beak for the truth,” Reg had told her. “Pain in the ass or not, don’t underestimate him.”
“Poets are goddamn liars. Death is never pretty,” he said after introductions as he put down his satchel and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He tucked the pipe, apparently empty, into his shirt pocket. “I can see why that poor slob pulled her on shore. Natural reaction. But if anything’s hinky, Christ on a cupcake.”
Holly felt her chest tighten. She looked for Chipper, but he was still parked on the other side of a Sitka spruce. A white handkerchief had come from his pocket, as if he had given up the battle. “But how could you—”
Boone turned his grizzled face to hers. He had assumed the retired male’s habit of shaving only when necessary, but stopped short of wearing a beard like a hundred local Santas. She could also see why Reg had mentioned his nose for the truth. Large and craggy, it gave him the look of a friendly vulture. “Ninety-nine per cent of drownings are accidents. It’s up to me to make recommendations to prevent future harm. Relax. Just making small talk. Reg told me you were taking over. Figured you needed some fatherly guidance.”
He pulled away the rest of the blanket. Holly’s throat felt like she was trying to devour a four-headed balloon animal. Boone gave her a sidelong glance. “First body?”
“No, but first day in charge. Some timing.”
“Shoulda stood in bed.” He chuckled to himself and narrowed his eyes in assessment. “Craziest saying. Don’t know what the hell it signifies.”
With straightened shoulders, Chipper had returned to the periphery and was studiously avoiding any connection with the body, his dark glance following a bald eagle high overhead, its feeble peeping cry belying its reputation as king of birds. From far away, Holly could see inquiring heads in the underbrush and hear fragmented comments. Walking over, she directed Chipper to keep away the onlookers, who, now that the coroner had arrived, sensed a melodramatic story to take home to Anacortes or Kamloops. “This looks straightforward enough. Maybe we’ll get lucky and avoid complications,” she said, back at Boone’s side.
“We’re already luckier than she was. And besides, complications make life interesting. Doncha like no challenges?” Boone rotated the neck and head, then parted the hair, frowning. “Serious blow to the side of the head. From a dive or a fall. At the edges of the cove where the rocks meet the water.” Then taking out a thermometer, he positioned himself to shield the body and turned Angie onto her side with a gentle “Up we go, darlin’.” Holly followed an instinct to flinch and turned away as if to keep an eye on the crowd. Squeezing her fists until the nails bit the palm, she knelt next to him. The girl wore a bikini, and wore it well. Not an ounce of fat, and a neat six-pack revealed long-term toning, if not avid body building. An athlete? The shoulders were broad, the hips slim. Her legs and arms had been shaved. A swimmer? Odd that she hadn’t worn her hair short, but she’d probably used a cap. On her shoulder was a tasteful blue rose. How many teens didn’t have a tattoo?
Boone then placed the thermometer in the water for a short while, retrieving it with a nod. “Nearly water temperature. Not surprising. Plays hell with rigor and time of death. Not as bad as being in an air-conditioned or heated room, though.” He looked up, breaking into Holly’s thoughts. “You and the rajah could give a gander to the area. We’re not going to be able to hold this scene for long. Wind and waves wait for no man.” Holly bristled at the unexpected racial jibe, nor did she appreciate the directives. They were more or less equals, each with a job. “How about watching your language, Mr. Boone?”
He grinned and poked her leg. “Just kidding. Lighten up. My late wife of forty years was born in Bombay or Mumbai, whatever. One hell of a cook when it came to pilafs and curries. And it’s plain Boone to my friends.”
Holly looked down and toed away a string of kelp affixed to her boot. Now she’d alienated the coroner. Things had been so different when Ben Rogers called the shots. “So, does there have to be an autopsy? Is it at the discretion of the parents?”
“Not always, but no to your second question. It’s my call. Vic Daso at the Jubilee will probably take this one. He’s a crackerjack. Help if we could find some witnesses so we could figure this out,” Boone added, rocking back on his bulging haunches. In the distance, a siren was wailing.
Holly had seen a couple of drownings in The Pas, when snowmobilers had gone down crossing the narrows on fickle Cedar Lake. March was the worst month. People got cocky about conditions, especially when alcohol was involved. Men in their twenties were the prime offenders, thought they were invincible and rejected flotation suits and hand picks as sissy gear. She searched her mind for the few training classes on autopsies.
“He’ll check for water in the lungs, though there is such a thing as a dry drowning.”
“That seems like a conflict in terms.”
“Not really. Ever jumped into icy water? Shock makes the throat constrict. So the victim dies from lack of air. Suffocation, to be exact. He’ll run a toxicology report. It’s fair to believe that there’s been drinking at this party, if not drugs. Pot. Cocaine. Meth, I doubt.”
In the recesses of the tidal pool flats, a round, pinkish shape shimmered in a half inch of water. Anemone. She touched it with her finger, and it shrank into itself. Odd that it knew exactly where to move and where to stay. Up nearer the tide line, it would find itself dry, if only for a few hours, and die. But then, perhaps some of the fairy-like creatures had done just that and exited the gene pool.
“Penny for ’em. Make that a loonie. Flying higher than the eagle these days.” Boone stared at her in some amusement.
“Wool gathering, as my grandmother used to say. What was that about meth?” A rare frown cut the space between her eyebrows.
He stuck out his lower lip in cogitation. There was a slight scar on one end. “In more urban areas, we’re starting to assemble a nice mix of stats on meth overdoses, but Notre Dame Catholic Academy? Probably not.”
Notre Dame. Ann hadn’t passed on such specific information, and why would she? Holly felt the beginnings of an ugly trip down memory lane. Fourteen years ago, she’d said a joyous goodbye to that private school in Sooke and its snobs and cliques. She’d been a maverick and proud of it. The only faculty member she’d respected was the crusty librarian, Sister Dympna. How often she’d hidden out there and buried herself in books on trees, flowers, birds and animals of the island. At that time, the school had been all-girl, a deadly species, gatekeepers to a private hell. Her one friend Valerie, a natural comic and troublemaker, had joined the army and hadn’t been in contact since.
“How did you know which school it was?”
He rubbed his chin, making a rasping sound. “Ann said when she called me.”
Two paramedics made their way down with a stretcher. “Sorry to take so long. Hydro was taking a leaning tree at the Shirley curve. About time, but traffic was backed up for miles.”
“That’s all right, boys. She’s in no hurry.” Boone packed away his kit and motioned for the stretcher. “Good to go. Time of death’s not going to be easy. First in the water, then in the sun. Sure hope someone saw her somewhere sometime. Stomach content will be a helpful factor.”
Holly stripped off her gloves. “That’s what bothers me. Was she here alone? That seems strange.” Not for herself, though. She’d spent many quiet evenings on a beach, beside a small driftwood fire, thinking her own young thoughts as she grilled hot dogs.
Chipper had assembled a collection of paper evidence bags as they joined him. “Lots of trash. An open condom foil. Probably means nothing. It’s a beach, a place for partying.”
“Cleaner than most,” Holly said. Volunteers patrolled on a regular basis to polish their world-class jewel.
As Boone walked off and the paramedics knelt to attend to the body, Holly checked the boundaries. Chipper had done well, but if something had been overlooked, now was the time to find it. She passed a clump of Saskatoon berry bushes, generously dangling their luscious, supersweet fruits. A tall bunch of innocuous-looking plants threatened to brush her sleeve, and she pulled away. Stinging nettle. Fine in soup but painful to even the slightest brush. Then under a bush she saw a loose braid of greenery. To anyone else it might have appeared natural, but Holly’s trained eye spotted the anomaly. She inhaled its pleasant herbal aroma. Common sweetgrass, used in purification ceremonies among aboriginal North Americans.
At the parking lot, she took a fresh bag from Chipper, then watched Boone drive off in his rusty Land Rover, the tailpipe held in place by wire, nodding fractious acquaintance with the gravel. “What’s that?” Chipper asked, searching her eyes in a gesture of uncertainty.
“Sweetgrass.”
He considered the bundle, wrinkling his nose. “Like weed?”
She tried not to laugh. “No, First Nations people don’t smoke sweetgrass. They burn it like incense.”
His face brightened. “My mother loves sandalwood. She has a shrine to Ganesh. So what’s your take on this?” he asked.
“A blank slate. Safest that way. Let’s go talk to everyone.
They’ve been patient...curious more than rude. If longer statements are warranted, if there’s been negligence on the part of the school, we can call them back. There could be conditions for a lawsuit here, and we might need to testify. ”
Holly introduced herself to a group at the picnic table. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Johnson here, then Constable Singh and I will get your names and addresses.”
One tall and muscular girl with a tongue ring spoke up.
“How come? Wasn’t it an accident?”
Holly kept her voice low and reasonable, a combination of seriousness and approachability. “Just routine.”
When she heard a young man whisper “raghead” to his buddy, she shot him a stern look. A study in neutral, Chipper revealed neither by face or demeanor that he had heard anything.
She and Bob Johnson took seats on a huge log twenty feet from the group. Holly was determined to take her time and do things right from the start. “Mr. Johnson, you’re probably not familiar with our procedure for statements, but this is how it works. Tell me what happened in a chronological order. I ask questions and listen. Then you tell me again, and I write it down. I read it back to you to check the accuracy. Nothing too formal at this point.” She was trying to cover all the bases but realized how difficult that was with only a staff of two to handle a crowd. Suppose she missed something important? And worse yet, someone might be lying. The basic training scenarios, domestic violence, auto accidents, didn’t match. She thought of the tricky bar-fight scenario. How to winnow out those with helpful evidence and ignore the time-wasters, not to mention the confused drunks. With the events leading up to Angie’s death possibly taking place after dark, the circumstances called for a thorough investigation, leaving no one out. As Boone had said, certain information might help prevent future tragedies.
Bob told her what he had witnessed and when. He’d arrived at eight and snorkeled for an hour. Natural underwater treasures were one of the island’s greatest attractions. Because of its stable temperatures, the Northern Pacific had the greatest number of species compared to the more frigid oceans. Ninety species of starfish against only twenty in the North Atlantic. “One of the year’s lowest tides today. One metre. You can get out to the good stuff. Plumrose anemones, red urchins, maybe even a coonstriped shrimp or a sea cucumber if you dive deep enough.” He’d come back to the beach to snack on the coffee and muffin he’d brought, then gone back in for another half hour. That’s when he’d found Angie.
“And you’re by yourself here?” Holly asked. “Where do you live, for the record?”
“Oak Bay. We have a condo.”
With that tony address, Holly pegged him as an up-and-coming executive, especially when he added that he worked in Vancouver for Dell Computers. He also said that his pictures had appeared in
B.C. Magazine
.