The Oceanside Murders

Chapter 1

Tuesday, September 26/17, 09:40

With my feet planted on the edge of the bluff, I carefully scan the edges of Beachcomber Bay, which spreads out below me, its cold Pacific water glistening in the sun. My eyes avoid the beach; I need to get hold of my emotions before looking down at what I know I will see on that rocky shore.

After a few moments, when the pounding in my chest has returned to a normal rhythm, I allow my gaze to drop and my eyes settle on a man’s dead body propped upright against a group of beached logs. From this angle, all I can see is his back, the top of his head, and his legs stretched out in the direction of the water. His shoulders are slumped and his head hangs forward and slightly off to the right. For someone who didn’t know better, he might be mistaken for a passed-out drunk rather than a corpse. Luckily for those of us investigating his death, he’s situated above the current high tide line.

It will take some time for the specialty crime scene team from Vancouver to arrive. Glancing at my watch, I’d guess they were already on the ferry heading over to Vancouver Island. We can’t wait for them, though. The incoming tide will wash away evidence, given the chance, so our local law enforcement search team has sprung into action, moving in a grid-like pattern from where the body is located and combing the beach as thoroughly as possible before that happens.

I’m still standing on the bluff observing the activity going on below me when Maria, our coroner here in the mid-island community of Nanoose Bay, waves her hand to get my attention.

Hey, Sergeant Costa, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come down? Maria calls up to me. It’s odd that she uses my formal title given that she is one of my best friends.

Good morning, Maria, I call down to her. Is there a path down you can recommend?

Nope, just start walking—and try not to land on your butt, she warns me with a smile before she begins examining the body.

Good thing I changed my shoes this morning, I mutter to myself, then I start down the bluff, trying not to slip as Maria thoughtfully suggested.

Slowly I make my way down the rocky face, thankful that the shoes I chose today are sturdy—at least compared to the pair I originally intended to wear. The breeze has picked up again, making it a bit chillier than it’s been in while. The return of the sea lions to the bay and the arrival of cooler weather are yearly reminders that fall has arrived.

Looking around at the woods that line the bay, I admire the view. The rich green of British Columbia’s many species of fir trees is constant, but at this time of year it’s offset by more vibrant tones. This year’s hot, dry summer has left a larger range of colour than Nanoose Bay has seen in previous years and the yellow, orange, and red of changing leaves lines the shoreline along with Vancouver Island’s trademark peeling Arbutus trees and twisted Gary Oaks. The combination of colours is breathtaking.

As I make my way across the rocky beach, I can’t help but notice Maria’s expression. The way she shakes her head and frowns informs me that this is no ordinary dead body. If I am not mistaken, she may even be talking to herself—or the body—and neither option is a good one. Maria always tries to stay unaffected while working in public, so when she acts like this, I know things are going to be disturbing.

Maria and I met a few years ago, shortly after I moved to the Parksville-Qualicum area of Vancouver Island. I grew up in Toronto and joined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police after college. After living in big cities, I was ready to make a new start in a small community. I was lucky to get a posting at our Oceanside detachment in Parksville. This is where I had always wanted to move, and I couldn’t believe how fortunate I was when a position opened up.

Maria and I are close in age and we both work in jobs that are still more than sixty percent male. It’s lucky for me that we hit it off right away; I like to make friends as soon as I move to a new location. It helps me feel settled.

Growing up, my family moved around a lot, and I quickly realized that my looks were what people focused on when they met me. I am five feet, four inches tall, curvy, with dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and an exotic look that comes from being part Hindu and part Portuguese. When I move to a new community I try to make a true friend as soon as possible. In Nanoose Bay, Maria was that person for me. We have the same sense of humour, respect each other’s work ethic, and we both have a slight addiction to coffee.

As I cross the beach toward her, I note that this beach is made up largely of small loose pebbles, bigger and more polished than gravel, the kind you can get away with walking on barefoot. This beach is typical of the east coast of Vancouver Island; along the shore, you can see evidence of high tides where the line of seaweed, logs, and bark mulch stops. I wonder about the mulch. It must have floated over from the log sort across the bay where the sea lions live.

From an investigative standpoint, one of the best things about this bay is that it’s protected from open water. All that lies between the bay and the mainland is the Strait of Georgia and an assortment of beautiful islands. This means there is a lot less pollution here as the flotsam and jetsam of the open sea doesn’t make its way around the point into the much calmer waters. It also makes the area a great home for the sea lions, and the clean shorelines are a popular place for scuba divers and kayakers.

Maria stands as I approach. It’s about time you got here, she says with mock seriousness. I try to smile, but my cop mind is already engaged. I want to know what Maria has found out so far.

The body is sitting up with the help of some logs, legs outstretched in front of him, his hands resting palms-down on his thighs. He really could be a drunk person who went for a walk then sat down to enjoy the view, if it weren’t for his clothing—and the blood.

The dead man wears a nice pair of brown leather oxfords—not a good choice for a walk on the beach—with slim-cut, navy wool dress pants paired with a white shirt and a pink-patterned tie. His outfit is definitely not that of a person who intends to spend time outdoors. Added to the fact that in this cool autumn weather he is missing a sweater or a coat, and it’s clear he didn’t come to the beach of his own accord.

What’ve you got? I ask, my eyes firmly fixed on the body.

Well, clearly nothing good, she says. He has a contusion on his skull, so he either fell or was hit on the head. Without an autopsy, it’s hard to say what the cause of death is.

I nod. It’s early still. She’ll figure it out.

I really don’t have time for this, what with the dead teen up at Qualicum River on Saturday and the two in the car accident near Errington yesterday, she sighs. I nod again. I know she’s understaffed, and I know there has been a spate of accidents on the Island Highway recently, all within her territory. She’s getting run off her feet.

Maria is only slightly older than I am. At fifty years old, she’s lucky to have a nice complexion that doesn’t need a lot of makeup. There are wrinkles just starting to form around her eyes, but the rest of her face is still very much unlined. Her brown hair, highlighted by the sun, frames her face as she looks at me intently. It is cut in a straight bob to her shoulders and the morning wind makes it fly madly around. She is dressed for the weather in a raincoat in her signature colour of purple, dark-gray wool pants, and what looks to be floral gumboots.

Do you know if he’s been identified yet? I ask. I don’t want to rush her or piss her off.

ID? No, not yet. But I do have a time range for death. Judging by his liver temperature and that he is still in rigor mortis, I would say he died sometime between 16:00 and 17:00 hours yesterday. But due to him being in full rigor at the moment, and the fact that I am a bit backed up with bodies, I won’t get to his autopsy or be able to confirm until Thursday.

Shit, that long, Maria? I ask, quickly realizing that I sound angrier than I actually am.

Yeah, well, can’t really do an autopsy on a body in full rigor, she informs me, eyebrow raised, giving me a look like you should know this by now.

Sorry, good point, I apologize. I just want to get rolling on this.

Well, Elle, she says, forgiving me and letting me know by using my first name. I do have something for you to get started with. She offers what I consider a rather scary smile.

A little taken aback by that look, I say carefully, Okay, what?

Nope, going to wait for your sidekick to show up.

Really? You are such a brat. No coffee for you on Thursday! I tell her, bantering. Then I look around. Now that you mention it, where is Chris? I am a bit shocked he didn’t get here before me like usual.

Did someone say my name? I turn to see my partner of the last two years smiling and holding two large coffees. He’s wearing a heavy black dress shirt under his vest, black jeans, and sturdy black boots. The outfit is striking against his blond hair.

Coffee, Elle? he asks with a raised eyebrow and a seductive voice as he hands me a cup from Tim Horton’s. I take it and roll my eyes; number one, I would never say no to a coffee and number two, there is nothing remotely sexual between us, no matter how much he pretends.

Yes, thanks. Man, you are good. No wonder Lynn married you, I reply. Then I take a big gulp of the sweet, creamy ‘double-double’ that Tim’s is famous for.

Chris is only a few years older than me but his close-cut, almost-shaved blond hair makes him look much younger than he is—that is, until you start talking with him and hear his deep, masculine, mature voice. He is one of those guys both women and men find appealing because he has a way of making people feel safe when they are around him. He’s also a family man with three children and a nice, outgoing wife who is pretty but not flashy. He’s an upstanding guy and a great partner.

As attractive as he is, I have never really thought of him in a sexual way; I go for the tall, dark, sexy and—more importantly—not-in-our-profession type. But I can honestly say that at this point in my life, he is one of my best friends. He and his wife and kids have more or less taken me in as part of their extended family, so I really do love the guy.

Dr. Wallace, did I hear you say you have something for us? Chris asks Maria casually. And oh, by the way, I love the boots. Good call, he smiles.

Well thank you, Sergeant McKay! Maria beams. Yes, I do have something for you, and it’s well … it’s rather interesting. That scary smile creeps back onto her face.

Okaaaay …? Chris replies. He’s as uncertain as I am about that smile.

Let’s just hope they find his package before the tide comes in.

I am sorry, whaaaat? Chris almost shouts at her and spits his coffee out at the same time, nailing me in the process. I was glad I had taken the time to put on my raincoat before I headed down here.

Chris, Maria’s not the one who’s lost it. Give her a break. I turn to Maria, You didn’t lose it, right? I ask while trying to shake coffee off my dark blue raincoat.

No, of course not, she said. It was missing when I got here; don’t be stupid, Maria glares at us. Great, Chris and I have pissed her off.

Your killer removed the victim’s penis and testicles shortly after killing him, she says. That would explain the amount of blood. It was not the first thing I noticed, due to his dark-coloured pants.

Chris clears his throat and shifts his stance; it’s obvious the dead man’s plight has made him more than a bit uncomfortable. "You’re sure that this happened after he was dead?" he asks, a slightly higher pitch to his voice than normal.

Yes, the blood wasn’t flowing when they were removed, Maria says. Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of blood here, but I can tell from the amount that his heart was not pumping when they started cutting.

But still, that’s a lot of blood! Chris says as he moves to stand in front of the body, staring morbidly at the dark spot between the corpse’s legs.

I move over slightly to give myself a better view of the damage inflicted on him. There is a blood stain spreading out from the crotch of his pants that is bigger than it seemed at first, and there is also an appalling crimson blotch on the left side of his white shirt. I take note of the trail of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

Yes, Sergeant McKay, it’s a lot of blood. But there would have been a lot more if his heart had been pumping. I’ll be able to give you more information after I do his autopsy.

That blood on his shirt—was he shot? Chris asks, giving a slight indication in the direction of the body’s torso.

That’s what I thought at first, Maria replies. Only there’s no bullet wound, so he wasn’t shot. It looks like he was stabbed in the chest, she says, pointing to a rip in his shirt that, when she prodded it open with one gloved hand, revealed a dried and deep-looking wound in the area of his heart. As I said to Elle, there is also damage at the back of his head, but in all likelihood, it’s this chest wound that killed him.

Why do you say that? Why couldn’t the injuries at the back of his head have killed him? I ask.

Logic, Elle. If you stab someone in the heart, it will most likely kill them, so there would be no reason to hit them in the head after they are already dead—unless you are really raging and angry and want to abuse the corpse, I guess. It’s possible he could have been knocked out with the hit to the head, and when that didn’t kill him the murderer stabbed him for good measure.

It’s pretty obvious he wasn’t killed here, Chris said flatly.

You’re right about that, Maria confirmed. "I will know more when I get him back and take a look at the lividity. It is fair to say he was moved, though I’m not sure at this point how many times he was moved. I’ll get you more details on that once I take his clothes off him and get a better look."

What about the removal of the genitals, Maria? I ask.

I’m not a hundred percent sure at this point, but I can tell that it was not done with any professionalism. The wound is too ragged; it wasn’t performed by someone with much knowledge or a steady hand.

It’s that bad? I ask.

Either the knife wasn’t sharp, or our surgeon’s hand was shaking; right now, both are possibilities. Either way, it wasn’t a clean amputation. Maria shakes her head and frowns. Though she has been doing this a long time, she can be counted on to show respect and pity to the deceased.

Thanks, Maria. If you find anything new before Thursday, give me a call. Chris and I are going to check in with the search team now, I say.

Well, there’s no way anyone could say that this wasn’t personal, Chris says, a tone in his voice I think only a guy could truly appreciate and understand.

I have to agree with you on that. That guy really pissed someone off.

Across the beach, I notice the contingent of RCMP has increased, but there are also some civilians in attendance. A tall, good-looking officer checks our credentials then introduces us to a couple in their thirties, both of whom are looking curiously at the action up and down the beach. They are dressed in what could have been sleepwear but are wearing running shoes. The woman looks as if she was is annoyed and wants to get out of here, even her disheveled hair seems crazed and looking for escape.

This is Mr. and Mrs. Green, they are the couple who found the body this morning and called it in, Corporal Yates introduces us.

Good morning. I am Sergeant Costa and this is my partner, Sergeant McKay, I say formally as I extend my hand.

Good morning, Sergeants, says the man. I am Patrick Green, and this is my wife, Courtnay. We live in the townhouses over here, he says, pointing up and to the left behind himself. Then, after taking a deep breath, he starts with, This is a hard thing to see first thing in the morning.

Yes, it is. I’m sorry you had to see it and that it happened close to your home, Chris offers.

What time did you first see the body? I ask, looking back and forth between the two. I get the feeling that Patrick is going to do most of the talking.

I take him in. He is about five feet, ten inches tall, of average build with dark hair. He looks relaxed but tired. I’m not sure if his weary demeanor is due to lack of sleep or if he got a bit too up close and personal with the body and knows what happened to the dead man’s genitals. Perhaps he is reacting to the idea of missing pieces in the same way my partner did.

His wife is a tiny little thing, about five feet, with long dark hair and big brown eyes. She is agitated and twitchy; you could say she is wound a bit tight. Her eyes dart back and forth from Chris to me, making me a bit nervous. It looks like she is close to losing it.

"We came down to the beach after watching Breakfast Television, the man says. We watched from five until six while we had our coffee, like we usually do. Then we had breakfast until around six-thirty. It was probably close to six-forty when we got down here with Dexter for our usual morning walk. We come down here and walk out along the pier." He points to the man-made rocky breakwater jutting out into the bay.

We were on the pier when Court saw the guy sitting there. At first, we thought he was a just guy who had too much to drink last night and passed out on the beach, he says. He shifts his stance slightly and pushes his hands into his pockets as if squelching a memory. But when we said good morning he didn’t flinch, so we thought something might be up.

Sorry, did you say ‘Dexter’ was with you? I interrupt.

Just as I say that, an eighty-pound dog comes out from behind Courtnay. I actually jump back. How had I not seen this dog? He is almost the same size as the woman he is hiding behind. What is wrong with me? I look over at Chris, and see that he’s not even fazed. Clearly, he’d already spotted Dexter.

This is Dexter, our black lab, Patrick says, scratching the dog’s head affectionately. We take him out for a walk down here every morning, he explains.

So, you saw the body around six forty-five? Chris asks, getting us back on track. "Did you go over to him to see if he was okay? Or did you just assume there was trouble and call us?

Yes, we went down there to double-check that he was okay. We thought he might need some help or that he was just deaf or still passed out or something, you know? So that probably happened a little after six forty-five, or six-fifty.

Don’t forget the white SUV we saw from our deck. Courtnay finally speaks up.

Right, but that was last night, not this morning, Patrick says.

It was speeding. It came out of that empty building lot all you cops are parked in. I wondered what it was doing there. That lot has been for sale for a while so I thought maybe it was a potential buyer, but who comes to look at an empty lot after dark? Plus, they sped out of there like they were in a really big hurry. Nobody from around here would speed like that. Most people live here because they like nature and quiet. Someone local would know you can’t drive like that because of all the deer around here. Courtnay starts getting huffy, even a little mad. She is winding up for a further rant.

Do you know what time the SUV left? Chris breaks in as she takes a breath.

Or what kind of SUV it might have been? I add.

It might have been a RAV4, Honda CRV, or maybe a Subaru Forester, Patrick says. I’m not that great with vehicles. And I think it was around eight-fifteen last night when we saw it. My buddy was late showing up. He said he was stopping by around eight, and Court and I were out on the deck having a few drinks, Patrick replies.

I guess if it was dark out, you couldn’t make out the driver? I ask on the off chance they might have gotten a look.

I think they had long, blond hair or light-coloured hair. I have no idea if they were male or female, Patrick says.

The driver’s window was down, but we were only able to catch a glimpse of them as they turned onto Brynmarl, Courtnay adds. Then, after a deep breath, she continues. "When you do find that driver, you should give them a ticket. No one should be speeding around here like that. It is just nuts. What if they hit a deer or someone walking their dogs?"

Chris and I exchange glances. I think it’s safe to say she is focused on the wrong thing here, but I get how it would be hard to process everything that has happened on what would otherwise be a normal morning.

Court, honey, interjects Patrick. That person might have killed a man. I don’t think a speeding ticket is what is on their minds, he says in a soft, sweet voice.

Even the calm, understanding voice can’t save him from the look his wife flashes him, nor does it stop her from snatching Dexter’s leash out of his hand, turning her back, and stomping off in the direction of their townhouse, Dexter in tow.

Thank you again for your help and for calling us right away, Chris says. If you think of anything else, please give us a call. Chris hands Patrick both our cards.

And we will need you and your wife to come down to the station to file a formal statement, I add. We’ll need you to write down your story, just as you told it to us now.

Patrick leaves and hurries to catch up to Courtnay. We see her shaking her head and hear her mumbling to their dog once he catches up.

I have a feeling Patrick is in for a long day and night, Chris says with some pity. Deep in thought, Chris adds. Elle, I’m worried about the timeline and what they saw. I am glad they saw something, don’t get me wrong. But the fact that they were drinking might call into question what time they really saw that SUV. They could have been way off. If this is evidence, we need corroboration.

I’m sure we will find someone else who might have seen something. If Courtnay was right about the speeding, then it may have been noticed by someone else in the neighbourhood too.

We decide it’s time to talk to the search team. We find the constable in charge, and he tells us the search has yet to turn up anything important except a cigarette butt that has been bagged for DNA. Chris and I decide to head back to the station.

I was kinda hoping one of them would have found his package, I remark.

I want them to find them, but not while I’m still here, Chris says with a shudder. There is a good chance some animal might have taken off with them, he adds, almost hopefully.

I guess that could have happened, I muse. If the Greens actually saw something useful to us, then he was dropped off last night, and that would provide ample time for an animal to come across the scene—in which case our John Doe’s pieces would be long gone by now.

And none of the alternatives to that scenario are particularly comforting, Chris says with a hint of disgust. This time I stay silent.

We climb back up the bluff to our cars, agreeing to meet back at the station.

As we walk through the lot where the white SUV was spotted, I get the feeling Chris has something on his mind. Usually, he thinks out loud to me, keeping me in the loop on his thoughts—but not today. It bothers me; I don’t like not knowing what is going on in his head.

I slide into my car and flop my head back against the headrest, exhaling.

What have we gotten ourselves into?

Chapter 2

Monday, September 25/17, 15:55

Driving along the tree-lined road, she is thankful the street happens to be quiet this afternoon. There are only a few houses on this road, and all of them are set back a good distance from the pavement. It’s perfect for what she needs to do. No one will see her enter or exit the house.

She pulls up the gravel driveway and parks in front of the two-car garage. She pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her head—a precaution in case she is recognized—then steps