poles, each one of the mythical giants now shrouded by crystalline snow.
What they didn't find was a body.
2:22 a.m.
It was Detective Al Flood of the VPD who first caught the squeal. Because the call came into his building. Because it was a possible murder. And because he was catching up in Major Crimes.
Flood was thirty-eight and stood six feet tall exactly. He was large-boned with broad muscular shoulders. His fair skin was a backdrop for freckles surrounding sharp blue-gray eyes. His hair was strawberry blond. Whenever he walked to the water cooler—as he was doing when the squad room phone rang—he moved like a natural athlete.
"Major Crimes," Flood said, catching the phone call on the third ring.
"It's Jenkins in Dispatch, Detective. We got a possible 212. Caller says the totem poles in Stanley Park."
Flood moved a pad into place. "Where's the caller now?"
"At a phone booth."
"Which phone booth?"
"Uh . . . I forgot to ask him." The dispatcher's head was still pounding.
"Well, if he's still on the line, do it now. I'll wait."
The phone went dead.
For about two minutes Flood remained standing wherehewas. It was now 2:25 a.m. on a snowy graveyard shift and the squad room was practically empty. It felt like a deserted cavern of unmanned desks and stilled typewriters. One ofthe fluorescent lights was failing and it softly strobed the floor space about him. In some other part of the building a telephone was ringing. It wasn't answered. As he stood by the desk biding time until the dispatcher came back on. Flood picked up a circular put out by the RCMP. It was a Coordinated Law Enforcement Unit request for any information remotely connected to either of two deaths. Both bodies, CLEU said, had been found without a head. Flood was still reading when the line reactivated.
"Detective. It's Jenkins again. You still there?"
"Of course. Where is he?"
"Out at UBC. Guy says he's phoning from the Museum of Anthropology, a phone booth nearby."
"That's at least five miles from Stanley Park. How does he know of the body?"
"Well, it seems it's not Stanley Park. It's the totems at UBC."
"I thought you said that he said that it was Stanley Park."
"I made a mistake."
"Uh, huh. Didn't I see you, Jenkins, yesterday, surrounded by empty bottles in the Athletic Club?"
"Uh . . . yeah, maybe."
"Well get onto the Mounties. The stiffs in their jurisdiction."
"Right. Thank God it's not in ours. The body's got no head."
Flood almost dropped the phone. As with most people in this city who could read, he had consumed the front page story on the headless bodies in one of the two major newspapers. And he had seen it on TV. He had just read the RCMP flyer on the crimes sent out to the private municipal police forces—and then to top off all this, here he had a hungover police dispatcher telling him there was yet another headless body around and that for those most important moments in any police investigation—namely the first few minutes when the force reacts to the squeal—they, the VPD, had been fumbling the ball. Flood did not need to remind himself of the police response equation: that for every initial minute lost the chance of a case being ultimately unsolved went up by mathematical proportions.
"Well, go on! Move it, man! Get the Mounties on the line!" Flood almost shouted the words into the phone. It was out of character, for usually he was an easy gentle-mannered man.
"Right!" the dispatcher said, and the line went cold.
2:31 a.m.
Constable Ron Mitchell stood among the tumbling flakes and stared up in disbelief. The scene was almost surreal: it was that weird. The body nailed to the Dogfish Burial Pole was now illuminated not only by the light at the base of the totem but also by the headlamps of Mitchell's patrol car. He had driven the vehicle down the access road off Chancellor Boulevard and right out onto the plaza in front of the Museum of Man. Then, careful not to get too close and do damage to the scene,
What they didn't find was a body.
2:22 a.m.
It was Detective Al Flood of the VPD who first caught the squeal. Because the call came into his building. Because it was a possible murder. And because he was catching up in Major Crimes.
Flood was thirty-eight and stood six feet tall exactly. He was large-boned with broad muscular shoulders. His fair skin was a backdrop for freckles surrounding sharp blue-gray eyes. His hair was strawberry blond. Whenever he walked to the water cooler—as he was doing when the squad room phone rang—he moved like a natural athlete.
"Major Crimes," Flood said, catching the phone call on the third ring.
"It's Jenkins in Dispatch, Detective. We got a possible 212. Caller says the totem poles in Stanley Park."
Flood moved a pad into place. "Where's the caller now?"
"At a phone booth."
"Which phone booth?"
"Uh . . . I forgot to ask him." The dispatcher's head was still pounding.
"Well, if he's still on the line, do it now. I'll wait."
The phone went dead.
For about two minutes Flood remained standing wherehewas. It was now 2:25 a.m. on a snowy graveyard shift and the squad room was practically empty. It felt like a deserted cavern of unmanned desks and stilled typewriters. One ofthe fluorescent lights was failing and it softly strobed the floor space about him. In some other part of the building a telephone was ringing. It wasn't answered. As he stood by the desk biding time until the dispatcher came back on. Flood picked up a circular put out by the RCMP. It was a Coordinated Law Enforcement Unit request for any information remotely connected to either of two deaths. Both bodies, CLEU said, had been found without a head. Flood was still reading when the line reactivated.
"Detective. It's Jenkins again. You still there?"
"Of course. Where is he?"
"Out at UBC. Guy says he's phoning from the Museum of Anthropology, a phone booth nearby."
"That's at least five miles from Stanley Park. How does he know of the body?"
"Well, it seems it's not Stanley Park. It's the totems at UBC."
"I thought you said that he said that it was Stanley Park."
"I made a mistake."
"Uh, huh. Didn't I see you, Jenkins, yesterday, surrounded by empty bottles in the Athletic Club?"
"Uh . . . yeah, maybe."
"Well get onto the Mounties. The stiffs in their jurisdiction."
"Right. Thank God it's not in ours. The body's got no head."
Flood almost dropped the phone. As with most people in this city who could read, he had consumed the front page story on the headless bodies in one of the two major newspapers. And he had seen it on TV. He had just read the RCMP flyer on the crimes sent out to the private municipal police forces—and then to top off all this, here he had a hungover police dispatcher telling him there was yet another headless body around and that for those most important moments in any police investigation—namely the first few minutes when the force reacts to the squeal—they, the VPD, had been fumbling the ball. Flood did not need to remind himself of the police response equation: that for every initial minute lost the chance of a case being ultimately unsolved went up by mathematical proportions.
"Well, go on! Move it, man! Get the Mounties on the line!" Flood almost shouted the words into the phone. It was out of character, for usually he was an easy gentle-mannered man.
"Right!" the dispatcher said, and the line went cold.
2:31 a.m.
Constable Ron Mitchell stood among the tumbling flakes and stared up in disbelief. The scene was almost surreal: it was that weird. The body nailed to the Dogfish Burial Pole was now illuminated not only by the light at the base of the totem but also by the headlamps of Mitchell's patrol car. He had driven the vehicle down the access road off Chancellor Boulevard and right out onto the plaza in front of the Museum of Man. Then, careful not to get too close and do damage to the scene,
Similar Books
