Fall from Grace (2 page)

People always assume that newspapers are keen to print the truth, but that’s wrong. The first goal of a news story is to be accurate. There’s a big difference between accuracy and the truth. There was no need to make any corrections now unless Whitford or one of the other police in the tent said something before I left.

With my lead written and a couple of follow-up sentences instinctively falling in behind, I realized that as I was looking at the body, I had been holding my breath. A common affliction, I had learned over time, that strikes everyone when they come upon a dead body, whether they’ve seen several or it’s their first experience. Since they aren’t breathing, you don’t either for several seconds. So when I finally exhaled a large gust, the two forensic cops stopped and looked at me. Both of their faces showed the same questioning expression, nothing harmful, just wondering if I was a piece of evidence important to their case.

There was nothing to do except shrug, because since I was a guest, a civilian one at that, in this tent, it wouldn’t be proper for me to speak. In fact, because I had seen enough, I would have much preferred to leave. But I was unable to because there were now questions in the air about me. It was Whitford’s responsibility to answer them, and he did.

“Don’t worry about it, he’s a media contact and I thought it wouldn’t be a problem if he came into the tent for a few seconds. Anybody got an issue with that?” He phrased it as a question, but the slowness of the question and flatness of his tone was in fact telling everyone that they really shouldn’t have an issue with it. And since he was the homicide detective on site, he was the ranking police officer, so allowed to make such a comment.

One of the forensic cops replied by turning back to his work while the other frowned and squinted to look me over more closely. He took a deep breath. “He’s not a shooter, is he?”

Whitford shook his head. “Nope. Just a print journalist, nothing more.”

The frown didn’t leave the forensic cop’s face—I could tell he didn’t like having me there—but he finally nodded. “Okay, as long as he stays where he is now, keeps his hands in his pockets, and leaves within the next thirty seconds.”

Whitford nodded, not being the type of cop to shove his weight around. He, like me, knew that although he was the ranking cop in the tent, Forensics also had the right to overrule anyone and anything they thought was contaminating the scene. “And if anything comes up because of this,” the Forensic said, jerking his chin in my direction, “you deal with it. Understand?”

Whitford nodded again. “Actually, he’s just leaving,” he said, placing a hand on my forearm, the classic “Is there a problem?/Come with me” move that they teach all police as their initial tactic when someone needs to be removed from a location. I had about three seconds before the grip strength would increase and about six before my arm would be twisted behind my back. I didn’t need any encouragement; I had seen enough and was keen to leave the tent.

I nodded at Whitford to signal that I understood. Simply pulling out of his grip and turning away would have been not just impolite, it might also have triggered Whitford’s policing instincts, and I would have found myself face-first on the ground with a knee in my back. When he let go of my arm, I turned and left the tent with Whitford directly behind me.

We walked back to the fence, back to the spot where I had parked the car from the paper. Before I turned away and we went back to our respective jobs, I asked him the question that had been in the back of my mind for the last few minutes. “Why did you let me into the tent? And don’t give me that crap about helping me with my story or making amends for what happened last year.”

He looked around me, taking his time before answering. I wondered what he thought about in that time, wondered if he was thinking about the eternal optimists that settled this land, whether this event would get him into trouble in the end, or maybe he was just reminding himself to wear gloves tomorrow. “I know we’re both experienced enough to realize what I’m going to say will not be part of any story or anything. But it’s just something that has to be said, you got it?”

I gave him the confirmation he asked for. “Most of my story’s already written in my head so there’s no need to add anything else,” I told him. “I’m just personally curious to know why you let me in the tent, that’s all.”

“I let you in because I wanted you to get a true look at the body. And when I mean you, I don’t mean you personally, just someone like you. If someone else from another media outlet had arrived first, someone that I knew would do a good story, not just anyone, mind you, but someone similar to you, then I would have let them in, you understand?”

“Yeah, but why? What you did goes against every single media relations procedure the Police Service has. I’ll do my best not to make it look like you did anything wrong, but people are going to talk, most likely one of those forensic cops in there.”

“Don’t worry about those guys. I can handle those guys. They won’t turn in another member, no matter what he does.”

“Yeah, but that still doesn’t explain it.”

“Let’s just say I have my reasons. Some I won’t share with you because I can’t and I won’t. But the real reason is that I wanted to give her a face, to make you and maybe the people who read your story understand that there was a real person there. Everywhere we go, every newspaper we read, every TV show or movie we watch, there’s a victim, usually a female, and it’s all part of the scene, to be expected in many ways. By letting you into the tent, and seeing what you do with that experience, I’m reminding everyone that these people are human beings just like the rest of us, and to file them under the heading of victim so we don’t have to deal with them on a more real basis isn’t the right thing to do.”

I could only shake my head. It was such a naïve attitude for these times, especially coming from an experienced homicide detective. And I told him so.

“Maybe so,” he said with a shrug. “But as a homicide detective with experience, maybe I’ve earned the right to be naïve in such matters. Maybe it’s a good thing.”

“Like I said before, people say that I’m the one with mental problems, but you, my friend, should get yourself looked at.”

Whitford kept his hands in his pockets and offered a sad smile. “See you around, Leo,” he said, and then turned to head back to the tent. I watched him for a few seconds and walked toward my car. I was parked behind a series of police vehicles, a couple of cruisers, Whitford’s unmarked car, and the Forensics van. The buffalo emblem on the first cruiser showed me it was from the RCMP, not the local Edmonton Police Service. In it sat a lone Mountie, sipping from a Timmie’s cup and writing in his notebook. I walked over to him—slowly, so he would see me coming. He set down his pen and notebook when he noticed me and rolled down his window.

“May I help you?” he asked, in that polite and efficient police voice that they probably teach all police at the academy.

I first introduced myself, name and media affiliation, and then asked if he was the first on the scene. He nodded.

“Did you find the body?” I asked, quietly noting his name on the badge above his right pocket.

He shook his head. “Farmer did. He made the mistake of calling us.”

“Mistake?”

“Yeah. You see that range road back there?” He gestured with his paper cup to the gravel road behind us. “That is the proverbial county line. City’s on this side, county of Strathcona’s on the other.”

“Right,” I said, drawing out the word. “Out of your jurisdiction.”

“You bet. As soon as I saw that, I called the EPS boys, so they could handle it.”

“So you didn’t see the body or touch it.”

“Didn’t even step into the field once I realized where it was, thank God.”

“Why
thank God
?”

He paused, his face showing concern. “You’re not going to quote me, are ya? I mean, if you want to know something about the case, you should talk to your friends in the tent.” This was his way of saying he had seen everything that had transpired.

“Naw, the EPS guys gave me all the information. I’m just naturally curious. Can’t help it, comes with the job description. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.” I let the sentence fall but didn’t move. I waited to see if he would answer. He might have, but since he was a cop, he would realize what I was doing and wish me a good morning, in that nice polite and efficient way the Mounties have of saying, ‘It’s time for you to get the fuck out of here now.’ All other cops try to emulate that tone, and while a few can do it pretty well, only a Mountie can pull it off with such ease.

But it didn’t come. “
Thank God
means I get to go home and watch the hockey game after my shift is done today instead of filing the paperwork on another one of these.”

“You mean there have been others?” I said, smelling a bigger story than just a body in a field.

“Only a few in the last bunch of years since I’ve been stationed here. Three, four tops.”

Three or four could be a lot or not much, depending on how long this Mountie had been stationed in Strathcona. If it had been just a couple of years, it was a lot; if it was five to ten, it was pretty average. “So you’ve been here long?”

He shrugged. “Five years, I guess. But this is my second time. My first happened right out of the Depot and that was, what, fifteen years ago, so I’m including that in there as well.”

I deflated, realizing that three to four dead bodies in a field over a twenty-year period was nothing; there was no larger story, just the one I had written in my head.

“Oh, well, thanks for your time. I better head back to the city and file my story.”

“You have yourself a nice morning,” the Mountie said, without any hidden meaning.

3

I was expected back at the paper, but instead of heading into downtown, I took a left on Fiftieth Street and followed it until the industrial zone faded into residential. I trolled through the neighborhood until I found a 1960s-style strip mall that housed your typical neighborhood shops such as a place that sold knitting supplies, a butcher shop, a bank, one of those payday loan spots, a pizza delivery spot called Double AA Pizza, plus an independent convenience store, originally run by a family of Chinese immigrants in the sixties, then passed on to the Lebanese for the seventies and eighties, and was probably now in the hands of some family from the Indian subcontinent. There was also a possibility that the Punjabis had moved on and immigrants from the Sudan or Eritrea had taken over.

Also in the mall was the ubiquitous liquor store, one that no doubt popped up during the Klein revolution of the nineties in which the selling of liquor was taken out of the hands of the provincial government and given over to the private sector.

Probably the only good decision ever made during King Ralph’s fourteen-year reign over the province, because instead of being able to buy liquor at one of only twelve Alberta Liquor Control Board (ALCB) stores, with hours limited from noon to 10
P.M.
and no sales on Sundays, you could now buy it from one of countless small corner liquor stores that popped into existence the instant the legislation was signed. Nothing like an ex-journalist in power to make booze more readily available. Don’t even ask me about the legal gambling options, because I could go on.

But of all the stores in the strip, it was the bank I was looking for. I was still feeling a bit jittery from seeing the body in the tent so I felt the need to take care of a bit of business to get myself back into the world before filing my story. Even though the actual news deadline was midnight, I knew I would have to write a few paragraphs for the online edition of the paper.

I had a couple of hours before that deadline, and in the paper business, two hours before deadline is an eternity. I could write and file the full story about the body in the field, highly readable and factual, in twenty minutes, even less if I was pushed. So writing a few paragraphs for the online edition was peanuts. I had plenty of time. Still, one of the city editors would be on my butt the instant I walked in the door, so I knew I had to be quick.

There were plenty of empty parking spots right outside the front doors of the bank but I parked a ways away, snuggled in between a large, burgundy pickup and a late-model domestic sedan, an old-man car ’cause the only ones who seemed to drive those things were men sixty years old and over.

After stepping out of my car, I waited a bit by the car, letting my glasses darken to the outside light. One good thing about having a regular job again was the availability of benefits. As part of the strike settlement, the paper gave each staffer five hundred bucks a year as a benefit top-up, for items not covered under the basic plan. Even though I had been a scab, I got the same deal, pretty much covering the cost of my new glasses.

It had been almost three years since I had had new glasses and the world looked pretty wonky the first time I put on my new lenses. Everything was beautifully clear, in perfect focus, but it was a little disconcerting. It took me only a week or so to get used to the new glasses, but it had been only about six months since I had become a solid citizen, with a real job and a real place to live, and I still was not used to it. Every time I took a walk downtown, I had to consciously remind myself not to ask people for spare change. I would adjust, I knew that, but it was a gradual process.