Seaweed in the Soup (7 page)

“Lord a mercy!” I said, in mock astonishment.

“Once you've got a birth certificate, acquiring a driver's licence or a passport is a piece of cake. In spite of that, forensics hasn't been able to find Chew's driver's licence, his passport or a BC Medical card. Not a single scrap of paper with Ronnie Chew's name on it. That leather notebook we found is written in Chinese characters, but it's some kind of code. Our brains branch can't figure the goddamn thing out. But, there was fifteen thousand dollars' worth of clothing in Chew's closet. His BMW is worth sixty thousand, at least. Ronnie Chew, gardener, didn't exist. He was a sham, an impostor.”

“A John Doe?”

“Not quite.” Bernie grinned. “We put Ronnie Chew's fingerprints on the wire. Vancouver got back to us promptly. Chew's prints are on file. The name Ronnie Chew is an alias. The murdered man that we saw on Collins Lane is a Big Circle Boy. His actual name is Raymond Cho.”

Bernie looked at me. Instead of asking the question that immediately sprang to mind, I remained silent.

Bernie said, “I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that not only did Ronnie Chew never exist, it's more than probable that Raymond Cho never existed either. What exists, in all likelihood, is a mystery man with several aliases.”

“So we might never know his actual name?”

“We know enough to be going along with,” Bernie said, rubbing his neck. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

Bernie hit an intercom button on his desk, spoke sweetly to Mrs. Nairn, leaned back in his chair and cupped both hands behind his head. He said, “I attended a Combined Law Enforcement Unit conference in Vancouver last month. Their east side is an ungovernable disaster. It's a drug supermarket awash in crime and violence. The CLEU told us that in Vancouver's east-side district, five percent of newborn babies emerge from the womb addicted to crank. Little League games get cancelled because junkies don't give a fuck. They dump their used needles in parks and in playgrounds where kids can pick them up and stick them in their arms to show off. Cartel enforcers are running the streets in armour-plated SUVs, popping each other with AK 47s.” Bernie wasn't telling me anything new. I let him vent. “Since last year, at least four gang battles have been raging in the Lower Mainland. It's like prohibition-era Chicago over there. Innocent bystanders are getting killed as well. It's a mess. The way things are going, Vancouver Island will soon be in the same boat. Things are reaching the point where police forces are losing control using normal methods. The ordinary man on the street has no idea how weak our security system is, but we know. We know and we're worried. Victoria is worried all the way up the food chain to the mayor's office. Even Superintendent Mallory is worried.”

My thoughts turned to Cynthia Leach, worrying about a damaged bumper. I said, “Are you worried, Bernie?”

“Goddamn right. I'm worried because I'm worried. It used to be I didn't take stuff personally, I didn't give a damn either.” Bernie's scowl deepened. “Two months ago, on a quiet Sunday morning at about 3:00
AM
, near the intersection of West Boulevard and 41st Avenue in Vancouver, an SUV boxed in a black Bentley driven by a recent Southeast Asian immigrant with gang ties. A masked man got out of the SUV and opened fire through the Bentley's windows. Two of Vancouver's finest, who were drinking coffee in a nearby McDonald's, heard gunshots and took off in pursuit. The killers got away. When the coffee drinkers went back and checked, the man in the Bentley was dead. He was Devander Raj, aged 23. Raj's assassination brought to 12 the number of gang-style killings in Metro Vancouver this year. Since then, there have been 11 more gang-style assassinations. Vancouver's serious crimes squad thinks that Raj's death and many other violent killings are linked to the murder of Ivor Wright, another gangster. You probably remember that case; it was front-page stuff for weeks. Ivor Wright was a member of Twinner Scudd's Vancouver crew. Now it's no-holds-barred open warfare. Vietnamese gangsters are involved. The Triads are involved. Gangs from Richmond and Surrey and Vancouver's Chinatown are involved. Big Circle Boys are involved.”

“You mentioned Twinner Scudd, and I know the way your mind works. Do you think that Scudd is involved in Cho's murder?”

“It's possible, why not? Twinner Scudd is a Native Indian who also happens to be the biggest villain on Vancouver Island. I'm not jumping to any conclusions yet, I'm just pointing out that there's another possible Native involvement in this case. And don't forget, Silas, that Nicky Nattrass' mutts found that slavekiller club near the Echo Bay house. Face it. The Native connection is getting stronger all the time.”

I thought that Bernie was talking crap, but kept that opinion to myself.

Looking down his nose at me, Bernie went on, “I just had a long phone conversation with Harry Bryce, in Vancouver. He's an inspector with BC's Integrated Gang Task Force.”

Bernie had my full attention. He went on, “According to the BCIGTF, these guys are battling for turf and Raymond Cho was an assassination target. A lot of gangsters stand to benefit from Cho's death, and several attempts were made on his life before somebody finally nailed him.”

“So that's why Cho moved here, to escape the heat?”

“Right. Cho moved here and masqueraded as a gardener. It was a clever ruse. Too bad for him that it didn't work. Whatever. For me, it's a serious development. A quarter of Vancouver's crimes squad detectives are tied up with gang-related issues. Victoria is already stretched to the limit, so the last thing I want is Asian hit men and stickup crews coming over here from the mainland. Knocking people off and thinking they can get away with it.”

“I think I know where you're going with this now. Twinner Scudd stands to benefit from Cho's death. That's what you've been getting at. You think Cho was bumped off by a Native hit man.”

Bernie took his glasses off, laid them on his desk, scratched his head and said, “Hit
man
? No, I don't think he was killed by a hit
man
. Because forensics says that there was dried semen on Cho's penis and on his lower belly. Shortly before his death, Cho was involved in sexual activity with female partners, and we know who they were because we have photographs to prove it. We don't even need DNA evidence. It's simple. Two Native girls killed Cho. Afterwards, as a little bonus to themselves, the girls helped themselves to some jewellery. For us to think anything otherwise stretches credulity beyond the breaking point. Face it. The girls might have been taking orders from somebody else. Twinner Scudd maybe. But they did it all right.”

The door opened. Mrs. Nairn came in carrying a tray and put it on the desk. I poured two cups of coffee and helped myself to three chocolate chip cookies. Bernie moved the remaining three cookies beyond my reach before adding sugar to his own cup.

He put a cookie in his mouth and crunched into it. Broadcasting crumbs, he tapped the binder on his desk and said, “The Murder Book is filling up nicely. Dr. Tarleton's estimate, based on rigor and temperature, is that Cho bled to death and died two or three hours before Mrs. Milton found him. The back of Cho's head was caved in first by a single blow from a heavy object, and I'm betting that the DNA on that slavekiller club is a match for that blood in Cho's bedroom. Tarleton found a partially digested Chinese dinner in Cho's stomach. And there's more evidence, because Cho grappled with his killer. At the autopsy, foreign human skin tissue and blood was found under his fingernails.

“In addition, we have Inspector Manners' account of an interview with Tudor Collins, the guy who made that 911 call. He is a steady seventy-year-old man who has lived in Victoria his whole life. Collins knows the difference between a Native Indian and a Chinese. According to Mr. Collins, the two women that he dimed
were
Native Indians. I keep going over the same ground, Silas, because you are a hard man to convince sometimes. Look at it this way: that slavekiller club is Indian. Twinner Scudd is Indian. One might assume, given the time frame involved, and after sexual intercourse with Cho, the aforementioned Indian sex partner turned around and murdered him. So who do you think the finger is actually pointing at?”

“A giant female spider?”

My flippant remark rolled right off him. “The finger is pointing at two Native Indian girls.”

“Women,” I corrected him. “And that's another giant leap, Bernie . . . ”

Bernie butted in. “It's a working hypothesis with a very high probability of being proved accurate.”

“Do you want me to go up against Twinner Scudd?”

Bernie looked at the coffee grounds inside his empty cup as if for an answer, but apparently didn't see one. “Frankly, if Twinner Scudd is involved, I'd like to dump this whole case, but that's not an option. Because of the Native angle, I'd like to get you involved in the case. Interested?”

I felt a huge surge of relief; Bernie's insistence that the two girls had killed Cho bothered me greatly. I said, “Sure, I'm glad you asked. I'd be happy to get involved, as long as I can work out of my own office instead of headquarters.”

“What's wrong with working out of headquarters?”

“Nothing. I've got responsibilities to my neighbourhood, is all. Irons in the fire that need watching.”

“Fine, you are co-opted into this mess as of now. I'll square things with the front office. Poke around generally, but don't go poking yourself too far up Twinner Scudd's ugly nose. Or up Nice Manners' pretty nose. As a first priority, I need to find out who the other Native woman is and what really went on at Echo Bay.”

Bernie pressed a button on his desk intercom and asked Mrs. Nairn to send Ricketts in.

The young constable looked miserable. The dark half-circles under his eyes suggested that Ricketts hadn't been sleeping much. He also appeared to have lost a little weight.

Instead of acknowledging Ricketts, Bernie opened the murder book. After scanning a couple of pages to refresh his memory, Bernie said matter-of-factly, “You look nervous, Ricketts.”

“Sir? I am nervous. I'm suspended from duty, but I hope that my suspension is only temporary. I want you to know that I love my job and that I'd hate to lose it.”

Bernie shook his head. “Yeah, I suppose you would,” he said unsympathetically. “How long have you been with us, Ricketts?”

“Six months, sir.”

“For some guys, policing is a soft option. Sit on your ass for 25 years. Then retire with a nice big package. Cultivate dahlias and rent yourself out on weekends to concert promoters.”

Ricketts straightened even more and swallowed, his Adam's apple jerking.

Bernie went on gruffly, “This is a routine matter. A question-and-answer session to clear up some loose ends. It is all part of a murder inquiry that the department is pursuing. It is not, repeat not, a disciplinary hearing. All the same, Ricketts, if you feel threatened or uncomfortable you're entitled to have a union rep present, or a lawyer.”

“I don't want either, at the moment.”

“Do you have any objection to this session being taped?”

“No, sir.”

“Let me know if you change your mind, okay?”

“Okay, sir.”

Bernie looked at me.

I got up from my chair, went across to the filing cabinet where Bernie keeps a battery-powered recorder ready and took it to the desk. I turned the recorder on and sat down again.

Bernie shut his eyes for a long moment. Opening his eyes, he pointed a finger at Ricketts and said, “This is serious stuff, Constable. I want to go step by step through a few incidents and I want the truth. No bullshit and no omissions. The whole truth and nothing else, okay?”

“I will cooperate in every way, sir.”

“Good. All right. You and Constable Bradley were in a police cruiser on routine patrol. Somebody called headquarters and reported seeing a couple of suspicious characters on Collins Lane. Correct?”

Flustered initially by Bernie's severe tone and manner, Ricketts said, “Yes, sir. When the dispatcher radioed the call, we were on Haultain Street.”

“Who is ‘we'?”

“Me and Constable Bradley.”

“You responded immediately, you told us. What time was that, Constable?”

Ricketts reached into one of his pockets. Bernie stopped him by saying, “Don't consult your notes. I want you to answer my questions from memory.”

“It was between eight-thirty and nine in the morning when we got the dispatcher's call. Maybe twenty minutes before nine. We were told to be on the lookout for two First Nations women. A pair of alleged suspicious prowlers.”

“What happened next?”

“We were heading west on Haultain at the time. I did a U-turn and we ended up on Richmond Road. We winkled our way onto Echo Bay Road and spotted two women standing near a bus stop. They answered the descriptions we'd been given. When I stopped the car, the women fled into the bush.”

“Fine, you're doing okay, Ricketts. Then what?”

“We gave chase, but it was hopeless from the start. The bush is so thick along there you can't see twenty feet ahead. It was broad daylight on the road, but in some places underneath those trees it was dark enough for a Maglite. We never saw either woman again. Constable Bradley and I figured our chances of catching them were minimal. He decided to return to the car while I continued the chase.”

With rising confidence, Ricketts went on, “At that time, of course, we didn't know there'd been a murder. We thought the women were at worst just a couple of suspicious prowlers. As Bradley pointed out, what were we going to do even if we did catch up with them? Deliver a stern warning?”

“True enough, that's a very good point,” Bernie said formally, as if that thought had never occurred to him. “You couldn't have known that those two women would become the prime suspects in a particularly vicious murder inquiry.”