Mental State, page 26
Willow Moreau’s words echoed in her mind as she made her choice, pulled out her ID, slid to Pit Bull’s right, wormed her way through the tiny gap between the man and the frame and entered the room without a word.
Sergeant Freeman had tried to entice her to Maple River before she’d received her posting. He’d shared his vision for a task squad. Big city crime wasn’t restricted to the streets of the metropolitan centers like the greater Vancouver area anymore, and with her own reasons for wanting to work the BC interior it hadn’t been hard to get Moreau’s interest initially, but it was her fallback position, and it had fallen all the way to the back of her mind when she’d been offered Burns Lake.
After years trying to make headway in her mother’s case, Moreau had earned her badge and had a chance to see her mother’s file for herself. When the clerk approached her with the thin folder she’d felt as though all the juices in her stomach were on spin cycle; her skin had tingled and for a second she almost thought she could hear her mother’s laughter, feel the warmth of her touch as she held Kendall in her arms on a warm summer day by Lake Muskoka, where they’d shared a picnic lunch just days before Mama had told her she was going on a trip.
The mix of emotions in her when she finally held that file swirled like the blur of events that had followed the social worker’s visit. House after house, school after school, it all spun together until it was hard to separate where she’d stayed when she turned eleven or thirteen or which house she’d gone to after her first day of work.
She’d tried to temper hope with reason but her knees had buckled when she’d opened the file and found a single page staring back at her. A cursory form partially filled out, dated after Willow Moreau had been missing for more than a month.
Whatever trail there may have been had already turned cold, a trail nobody had ever really tried to find. Her mother was just another forgotten woman added to a long list of possible abductions from Highway 16. There’d been one arrest and a few people were considered suspects, but that was overshadowed by the lack of concern for the victims. They were mostly Aboriginal, with a few pretty white girls sprinkled in the mix. There were those that thought that the white girls may have been innocent victims of a perpetrator who was simply taking out the Native trash. Indigenous lives held little value to some people.
She hadn’t given up and had finally located a source. One of the other missing women had a family member that was willing to talk. The woman thought she might have a lead about where her relative had been before she went missing but so far Moreau’s contact remained anonymous and only called Moreau from pay phones or disposable cells that couldn’t be traced. She’d promised if Moreau was posted near Highway 16 that she’d meet with her.
Moreau had been on her way. She was parked at one end of a lookout, near the Icefields Parkway south of Jasper, Alberta, when her phone rang.
She answered a call confirming her start date in Maple River.
“I was going to Burns Lake,” she’d replied.
“Change of orders. You’ll be getting an email about the new assignment.”
It was a cloudless, clear day, but she stepped outside into cutting air gusts coming off the mountain, the sunlight amplified by the sea of snow that had arrived early this fall and covered the earth. Snowblind, pelted by razor-sharp wind, she could almost fool herself into thinking the tears she was fighting were weather-related instead of echoes of the loss she’d felt when her mother had slipped from her life the first time.
Just when she’d thought she might not be able to hold herself back anymore and opened her mouth to scream with the wind a car had pulled over.
A happy couple. Glowing, holding hands, laughing as they snapped their selfies together.
Moreau did what she always did. She pushed her feelings down inside and told herself it was a temporary setback. Once she was back in her vehicle she checked her messages. The email covered every member of the team assigned, as well as the loose thread of cases that Freeman had strung together to push for this task force. They would be focused on tackling trafficking in the area. The more border security at major crossing points, the more cross-border crime shifted to the small towns without the resources to stop it.
A recent incident had created a vacancy and two last-minute additions had been abruptly transferred to the team. She couldn’t tell if she was replacing Willmott or if Nate Duncan was, but she gleaned enough to know that neither of them had put in for this post.
The email also indicated that Freeman was out of town at a conference, and wouldn’t be able to brief the team on her assignment until he returned.
With every mile of highway she drove she had to fight the urge to turn north and head to Burns Lake anyway. Now that she was in Maple River she wished she’d taken the weekend to meet her contact.
When she’d arrived that night there were only a few officers in the building, at the far end of the station, near the main doors.
One of them had pointed her in the direction of the lunch room and explained that the renovations meant that the old conference area was being used for storage while things were shifted to make space for the contractors. The members of the task force were meeting in the only place that had a table big enough to seat all of them.
As she’d sidestepped boxes on her way through the building all she’d absorbed was shades of brown and shadows from the looming stacks that wobbled as she walked by. There was something about the station that reminded her of the makeshift room she’d stayed in at the Thompson’s, a borrowed space she slept in that was nothing more than a nook on the far side of the laundry room, separated with a pale yellow sheet tacked to the top of the door frame.
She’d noted a few rooms with desks that were covered with boxes and she had to weave her way around everything that had been jammed into the hallways until she reached the door, where she had to snake her way around a plainclothes officer with an attitude that needed adjusting.
The station had a restless quiet hanging over it and her forced entrance had caused an uneasy stillness in the room. To her right a wide path led to an old, white refrigerator, which was at the end of a kitchenette with basic oak veneer cabinets, a brown laminate counter with flecks of yellow in it and a pantry closet on the far side that was comparable in size to the fridge and ran floor to ceiling with a single door for access. A microwave was housed on a ledge above a stainless steel sink in the center of the counter, and the appliance was flanked by open shelves on either side. At the far left end of the counter there were stacks of trays with files and paperwork. The right end of the counter held a coffee maker, which dripped a fresh brew into the pot; sporadic sploshes were the only sound that dared to break the awkward silence. Every wall was station-issue white, judging from what she’d seen as she’d worked her way from the entrance, and the carpet was a dirt-stained gray.
There was a long table that was off center, pushed more to her left to make the access to the fridge easier, surrounded by conference room chairs with blue padded seats.
The left wall hosted a bulletin board, which had some information about drug-related arrests posted on it and the words Task Force taped at the top. They were printed in a bold Arial font on faded yellow paper the same color as the sheet off the laundry room that had separated a small space for her in the Thompson house all those years ago.
Like that sheet it felt as though this assignment represented another obstacle keeping her from the woman who’d been the only family she’d ever known.
She turned her attention to the men at the table, who she’d heard snicker at Pit Bull’s remarks before she’d entered.
If the man who’d tried to block her at the door was a Pit Bull, the fellow by the left side of the table with his forearms resting against the back of a chair was more of a Jack Russell Terrier. He was shorter than average, slight and bristled with energy. His fingers fidgeted with the folder he clutched.
Moreau couldn’t access that side of the table and Pit Bull now blocked the wider path that led to the fridge, ready for round two. Jack Russell scanned every inch of the room as he avoided looking her in the eye.
She cleared her throat and he turned instinctively before his shoulders slumped as he glanced at Pit Bull. Moreau stepped forward as Jack Russell moved back and she sat in the chair in the middle of that side of the table before anyone could stop her.
A stocky blond pulled mugs from the cupboard along the wall by the sink. He had meaty hands and the body of a bear with the bearing of a gerbil. After he sniffed a cup he rinsed it quickly, reinspected it and tried to stick his fingers inside to scratch at something. That was followed by a shrug. He set the mug down and filled it with coffee.
From the other side of the breakroom door she’d noticed his hollow eyes as he’d laughed at the remarks Pit Bull directed at her.
Another man entered. The gerbil spoke.
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” This newcomer had dark brown hair that looked like it was a breath of wind away from falling into his blue eyes. He had the kind of face that appeared chiseled, like it was etched in stone.
Pit Bull blew out a breath. “There’s a woman on the team now, Alec. No need for you to be in the kitchen.”
He clearly wasn’t interested in offering an apology or changing her impression of him. Moreau didn’t avert her gaze. She stared straight back, but otherwise ignored the taunt. The latest arrival sat beside her. His eye twitched as Jack Russell and the gerbil laughed. Something about the newcomer struck her as a man trying to follow the rules. Like a Labrador Retriever: well-trained and capable of effective socialization, but there was something else there, too. A sense that he could run with the wolves, a wildness within him.
She knew who he was. Moreau had read everything emailed to her that day her life detoured away from Burns Lake and the answers she sought. After she’d finished digesting the files she’d googled each member of the team.
Nate Duncan. If his history and her initial impression were accurate, Duncan’s transfer to this team had likely been as welcome to the other constables as her own. They were the new additions, neither of them there by choice.
Freeman entered. She’d seen a picture of him with an article he’d written about overcoming racial bias as a black officer in command. He reminded her of Wayne Brady, but without the dance moves or quick grin. The elegance and authority of a Doberman were present in his movements, and when he sat down at the end of the table the others filled the rest of the seats without a word.
“The number of drug-related arrests are up all throughout BC’s lower interior. What’s connecting the cases is the batch of product retrieved, but we have no information about the new drug source. The first thing we’re going to focus on is identifying the source. Let’s start with you.” He turned to the man who’d blocked her entry. “Give us the run-down on your progress.”
“You know all of this.”
“Pretend I don’t,” Freeman snapped. “I want to make sure that we aren’t overlooking anything, and that every member of this team is up to speed, otherwise you’d still be at home, jerking off in the comfort of your own bed.”
Moreau saw a few sets of eyes turn her way. So much for team spirit.
Had they known she’d compared them to animals they might have thought her sexist, but from what she understood her people believed everyone had a spirit animal that revealed their character. Most canines were held in high esteem, which was why she couldn’t think of comparing Alec to an Irish Setter; she hated to infer the breed lacked intelligence.
Freeman opened his mouth to say something when he looked at her and paused.
“Constable Moreau,” she said.
“You weren’t due until Monday.”
“I arrived early and wanted to check in.”
“At eleven at night?”
Moreau could see Freeman had a knack for subtle shifts on his face that hinted at his thoughts. There was a mix of amusement along with approval, although she felt certain he didn’t believe she’d shared the whole truth. She offered a thin smile. “I heard the meeting was going to be late this evening because of the renovation work.”
Nate Duncan turned to her. “They’ve been cutting down drywall and it’s the only time we can talk without shouting.”
“Yes, well, it’s good you checked in.” Freeman tapped the stack of papers in front of him. “There’ve been some developments. First, this is the team.”
Scott Saunders was the short one that overflowed with energy and suffered from restless leg syndrome.
He’d moved to the other side of the table and sat beside Alec Chmar, the gerbil, who still seemed more interested in studying his coffee mug than acknowledging her presence.
The man beside her, Nate Duncan, was the curiosity. Nate Duncan came with rumors of a past that was in the public domain. The information she’d found when she’d googled the other men was standard issue; a history of education and arrests with no personal details. Duncan was originally from Maple River and she’d pieced together some of his past. His family was alleged to have numerous criminal enterprises that stretched back to Prohibition, and he’d left town after being arrested years ago.
The wildness she sensed lurking beneath the surface.
The reason the rest of the team might not be eager to have him back home.
She found it curious that Freeman had chosen a constable with a questionable history and a family connection to trafficking and inserted him on a task force focused on taking down the local drug trade.
After Corporal Phil Willmott had been injured in a suspicious accident the transfers for Duncan and Moreau had been approved. Moreau’s start date was delayed, because she was transferring from out of province. Duncan had been transferred abruptly, with no time to prepare. He’d finished his shift one day, been given his transfer papers and told to report in thirty-six hours, leaving one day for him to pack up his life and move hundreds of kilometers back to the hometown he’d been forced to leave years before.
That left the man with the attitude who had dug himself into a hole with a backhoe instead of a shovel, with both her and Freeman. Levi McIver winked at her when their boss said his name.
A knock at the open door gave her an excuse to look away from McIver.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Zadecki, the uniformed officer who’d directed her to the breakroom when she’d first arrived, stood at the entrance. “There’s been a report of a body found on Holt Hill.”
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M. Todd Henderson, Mental State
