worth
of meat and dog chow. When Stevie had asked whether Silliq had actually seen
the dogs himself, he said he'd dreamed about them.
'So
you told him there was a principle in law called burden of proof.'
'Sure.'
'And?'
'He
called me something unrepeatable.' Stevie shook his head. 'Sometimes I don't
know why I do this job,'
'Maybe
it has something to do with the fact that there aren't any other jobs for about
a thousand kilometres in any direction?'
'Not
true, D.' Stevie perked up. The two of them spent many happy hours fantasizing
about jobs they might have had in some parallel universe in the south. 'They're
always needing someone to drive the night-honey truck.'
'Oh,
how could I forget the opportunity to wade around knee-deep in Tom Silliq's
shit.'
'We
both got the experience, boss.'
Stevie
disappeared into the kitchenette.
Derek
went over to the fax machine and flipped through the pile of faxes. The High
Arctic Police Service was the smallest of several indigenous forces,
independent of the RCMP, but licensed to use certain centralized RCMP services
like supplies and police labs. Once a quarter the Royal Canadian Mounted Police
headquarters in Ottawa sent out routine faxes requesting various administrative
forms and reports, which the Kuujuaq detachment routinely ignored. The current
pile dated back three years. No one at RCMP HQ seemed to notice. From time to
time Derek went through them to make sure he hadn't missed anything urgent. The
act of flipping and scanning the pages gave him thinking time.
Whoever's
dogs had broken into Tom Silliq's shed, the complaint called for action. In his
new, more forthright guise, Derek felt motivated to take some. Make a stand.
People couldn't be allowed to leave their sled dogs untethered at night. The
animals weren't house pets. On more than one occasion huskies had got out and
mauled young children. Derek was damned if that was going to happen on his
watch.
When
Stevie reappeared with the tea, he instructed his constable to post a couple of
notices at the mayor's office and at the store pointing out that, with
immediate effect, all dogs allowed to roam free in the community at night would
be mistaken for wolves and shot.
Stevie
nodded and switched on his computer. Moments later he looked up. 'Hey, boss,
remind me how to create a new file?'
Derek
raised his eyes to heaven and went over. After years of petitioning he had finally
persuaded the RCMP supply centre to send up a couple of computers. He'd
immediately fallen in love with them because they cut the time he spent doing
administration in half, which gave him more time for his beloved wildlife
patrols. After Misha left, he'd set up a satellite internet connection and
discovered a world of lemming research at his fingertips: Finnish surveys of
population cycles, a paper from Norway on snowy-owl predation, some US stuff on
the implications of global warming on subniveal wintering. That was when he'd
realized that his interest in lemmings wasn't simply a personal quirk. There
were plenty of others interested in them too, proper scientists, people with
more qualifications than he'd ever have. Aside from being fascinating in
themselves, the hardy little rodents were a barometer of climate change. People
could snicker, but lemming research was on the cutting edge.
Derek
had tried to encourage Stevie to share in his new love for technology, but,
despite being younger than Derek, Stevie had never really got it. In his view,
computers were basically sinister, like the spirits of rogue ancestors.
Constable Killik understood they were part of the police landscape now, but it
wasn't a part he was keen to frequent.
Derek
brought up a blank page and returned to his desk.
'By
the way,' he said, 'what did Tom Silliq call you?'
'You
won't like it.'
Derek
gave him a look that
of meat and dog chow. When Stevie had asked whether Silliq had actually seen
the dogs himself, he said he'd dreamed about them.
'So
you told him there was a principle in law called burden of proof.'
'Sure.'
'And?'
'He
called me something unrepeatable.' Stevie shook his head. 'Sometimes I don't
know why I do this job,'
'Maybe
it has something to do with the fact that there aren't any other jobs for about
a thousand kilometres in any direction?'
'Not
true, D.' Stevie perked up. The two of them spent many happy hours fantasizing
about jobs they might have had in some parallel universe in the south. 'They're
always needing someone to drive the night-honey truck.'
'Oh,
how could I forget the opportunity to wade around knee-deep in Tom Silliq's
shit.'
'We
both got the experience, boss.'
Stevie
disappeared into the kitchenette.
Derek
went over to the fax machine and flipped through the pile of faxes. The High
Arctic Police Service was the smallest of several indigenous forces,
independent of the RCMP, but licensed to use certain centralized RCMP services
like supplies and police labs. Once a quarter the Royal Canadian Mounted Police
headquarters in Ottawa sent out routine faxes requesting various administrative
forms and reports, which the Kuujuaq detachment routinely ignored. The current
pile dated back three years. No one at RCMP HQ seemed to notice. From time to
time Derek went through them to make sure he hadn't missed anything urgent. The
act of flipping and scanning the pages gave him thinking time.
Whoever's
dogs had broken into Tom Silliq's shed, the complaint called for action. In his
new, more forthright guise, Derek felt motivated to take some. Make a stand.
People couldn't be allowed to leave their sled dogs untethered at night. The
animals weren't house pets. On more than one occasion huskies had got out and
mauled young children. Derek was damned if that was going to happen on his
watch.
When
Stevie reappeared with the tea, he instructed his constable to post a couple of
notices at the mayor's office and at the store pointing out that, with
immediate effect, all dogs allowed to roam free in the community at night would
be mistaken for wolves and shot.
Stevie
nodded and switched on his computer. Moments later he looked up. 'Hey, boss,
remind me how to create a new file?'
Derek
raised his eyes to heaven and went over. After years of petitioning he had finally
persuaded the RCMP supply centre to send up a couple of computers. He'd
immediately fallen in love with them because they cut the time he spent doing
administration in half, which gave him more time for his beloved wildlife
patrols. After Misha left, he'd set up a satellite internet connection and
discovered a world of lemming research at his fingertips: Finnish surveys of
population cycles, a paper from Norway on snowy-owl predation, some US stuff on
the implications of global warming on subniveal wintering. That was when he'd
realized that his interest in lemmings wasn't simply a personal quirk. There
were plenty of others interested in them too, proper scientists, people with
more qualifications than he'd ever have. Aside from being fascinating in
themselves, the hardy little rodents were a barometer of climate change. People
could snicker, but lemming research was on the cutting edge.
Derek
had tried to encourage Stevie to share in his new love for technology, but,
despite being younger than Derek, Stevie had never really got it. In his view,
computers were basically sinister, like the spirits of rogue ancestors.
Constable Killik understood they were part of the police landscape now, but it
wasn't a part he was keen to frequent.
Derek
brought up a blank page and returned to his desk.
'By
the way,' he said, 'what did Tom Silliq call you?'
'You
won't like it.'
Derek
gave him a look that
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