BY DONNA KIRK

This is a novel excerpt. Copyright is held by the author.

Monday, 5:00 p.m.
THE JANUARY dusk pulsed with the flashing red lights of half a dozen cruisers. Ahead of me, a crime scene van swerved and parked. Two uniforms jumped out and opened the back doors. A night scanner on top of the van rose into position, ready to bring vivid clarity to what looked like an ordinary frozen mud field at the edge of a developing subdivision. For a journalist, this was like winning the lotto.

What do we have here? I felt my excitement building, forgetting about the cold beer I’d be cracking right about now if I were at home. Please God, a murder.

After parking my car at the side of the road and assembling my wheelchair, I approached the gathering of officers. Lack of snow this year made the short journey easier, my wheels bumping over frozen ground instead of getting stuck in ornery drifts and ridges of ice. Earl, a reporter from a competitive newspaper,stood twenty feet away. We seemed to be the only journalists amongst the officials. Crime in a suburban town like Lakeville was usually minor stuff and not worth the trip, particularly for the big dailies in Toronto. A cop I knew walked toward me. Out of respect for protocol, I held up my press card.

He waved it away with a smile that was more bared teeth than grin. “We can always count on you, Marsh.”

“Evening, Jerry. Looks like this is a big deal.”

“Body. We’ll be here a while. Where’s your sidekick?”

I tried to hide my joy at the news. “Munro’s taking a few days off. Renovating his bathroom.”

Jerry nodded. “Stay within the usual boundary. Hope you don’t freeze your ass off.”

I grinned. “I always obey orders, you know that.”

There was no designated area for the press, but I knew what he meant. Don’t wheel around and be a nuisance or you’ll be turfed. He stepped aside, giving me permission to join my fellow scribe, then hurried away to deter some late afternoon walkers who had arrived at the scene. I was tempted to follow him, knowing he’d ask if they’d seen anything. But that meant leaving the allocated circle and risk learning nothing, so I headed over to the restricted area, a reasonable distance away. People at the scene were talking, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I balanced my camera ready to take pictures. Earl and I nodded to each other.

“Fucking cold,” he said.

“Yup,” I answered. Journalists weren’t the most communicative bunch, especially when a story was unfolding.

Christ. A body! And for the first time, a big story was all mine. Munro would be mighty pissed to miss this. I yanked off my gloves, unzipped my jacket, and dug my cell from a shirt pocket. I’d smashed a few phones attempting to text in frigid weather, so this one was attached to a cord around my neck. I texted Don, my editor, to let him know what was developing. My fingers were numb by the time I finished. More than my ass would freeze before this wrapped up.

The scanner flashed on, casting a glow that intensified the scene. Ahead of me, yellow police tape flapped in the breeze, encircling a small area beyond an embankment. A woman I recognized as the local pathologist-coroner crouched inside the enclosed area, half-visible behind a slight incline of frozen dirt.

Detectives and police stood in a haphazard circle, staring down at what I presumed was the dead guy. Or woman. Crime scene officers moved around, cameras poised, snapping pictures from different angles and gathering evidence into bags.

I glanced at Earl. “Wonder if the people who tipped off the cops are still here?”

He shrugged. “Dunno.” He wouldn’t tell me even if he knew.

My editor had old crony insiders who kept him informed of any local police investigations. He always passed any info on to his reporting team. I assumed Earl’s editor did too.

We fell silent, focusing on the scene about 25 meters away. I raised my Canon 6D Pro Lens, an instrument I was proud of but still paying for, and took some shots. It was so cold I had to keep blowing on my hands. Later, Earl and I would be contacting the cops, trying to pry information loose. They were always guarded about releasing anything that would be of interest to journalists — instructed from day one of their training not to talk to the press.

 “Couple of thugs reported missing in Hamilton two days ago,” said my fellow scribe from behind his camera. “Maybe this is where they’ve been hiding.”

He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. We watched the proceedings in frigid silence punctuated by texting, ringing phones and stamping feet. My prosthetic feet and steel lower legs never felt anything of course, but my thighs had started to tingle. It took hours to scour a crime scene, so God knows how long the cops had been here. Long enough for word to get out. And long enough to have looked the scene over and place plastic markers randomly, wherever they suspected relevant evidence might be.

About forty-five minutes later, though in the cold it seemed much longer, forensics guys unloaded a stretcher from the van, a folded body bag on top. They ducked under the tape, pushing the gurney toward the coroner.

There were certain times when using a wheelchair had its advantages—like now. I got clear shots through the spaces created by officials shuffling around in front of me. Earl bobbed up and down, pointing his camera over their shoulders.

What looked like a man’s body — judging by the size — wearing dark clothing and Doc Marten type boots was loaded into the black bag and heaved onto the stretcher.

“He’s either in full rigor or frozen stiff.”

Earl ignored my great pun.

Moments later, the two forensics guys pushed the gurney and its occupant to the van and guided their cargo inside. The scanner was switched off and lowered, the loading door clanged shut, and the men got into the front and drove away. Jerry and another cop got into a cruiser and followed. No need for sirens and flashing lights now.

“C’est tout,” I said. Earl tucked his camera into a shoulder pouch and walked away.

Police dispersed, and those with flashlights switched them on—the field now in darkness. The coroner walked to her car, removed the protective clothing, stashed it in a bag and put it into the trunk.

Sporting a friendly smile, I wheeled over to her. She’d held her position for decades and had a reputation for ignoring any journalist who didn’t treat her with deference.

“Hi, Dr. Carruthers. Anything you can tell me?”

“Good evening, Marshall. Police report will be out soon. That’ll have to do for now, I’m afraid.”

“You have my number just in case there’s something you can share.”

She smiled. “Yes, I have a drawer full of your cards.”

“Have a good evening, Dr. Carruthers.”

The police report would say dick. I’d wait until the autopsy was completed before visiting her office, if nothing solid turned up before then. Carruthers would be surprised if someone from our paper didn’t show up.

Earl was talking to the police as they walked back to their cruisers. From his expression and the cops’ headshakes, it was obvious they weren’t in a receptive mood. I decided not to return to my car and stopped at the side of the road, pretending to be on my cellphone.

Two cops I didn’t recognize approached and strode past, deep in conversation. The one speaking nodded. “Christ! Gotta be what, four, five shots to the chest?”

“Yeah. Maybe he’s one of the local guys who was reported missing a few days ago.”

They got into the closest cruiser and drove away. Multiple gunshot wounds— someone wanted that guy really dead. It should be fairly easy to find out who’d gone missing and if he was a known criminal. My gut told me I’d know his identity before long, and my gut is usually reliable.

Soon only two cops remained to guard the scene. I wheeled over to my car and transferred into the driver’s seat. In thirty-five seconds, my chair was dismantled and stowed behind me. Since I got the new wheelchair, I kept trying to beat the twenty-nine seconds suggested by the manufacturer. Today’s time wasn’t worth recording.

I sat behind the wheel and voice-recorded the names of the uniform personnel and the designations of others who were unfamiliar to me. I’d also recorded the conversation a few moments ago between the two cops, then sent the lot to Don. I started the car and headed back to the office — my editor needed to see my pictures of the crime scene, and he’d want to discuss the conversation I’d recorded just now between the two cops.

At the main intersection of the subdivision, I took a picture of the large sign advertising an idyllic lifestyle at Whispering Pines. The acres of property were bare of pines, or trees of any description, and no construction had begun. Places like this made me glad my wife Ann and I lived in an established part of Lakeville — even if my in-laws referred to our war-time neighbourhood as blue collar — a world away from their ritzy lakefront street, populated by bankers and lawyers.

There was a long night ahead, so I phoned Ann on the drive back to work. The call went to voicemail which meant she probably hadn’t left the hospital.

“Hi, babe. You working overtime? One of the perks of being promoted, I guess. Call me when you can. Been a murder in Oakville. I’ll be at work for a while.”

Five minutes later, my cell rang.

“Hi!” said Ann. “I was in a meeting. What’s this about a murder — or is it your idea of chit-chat?”

I pictured her perfect smile, and the flawless Trinidadian skin that had knocked me out when we met seven years ago. “You’re in a jolly mood! Guess your first day as charge nurse went well.”

She laughed. “Today was one meeting after another. Tomorrow I can start to work on the changes I’ve been thinking about … tell me about this murder.”

I gave her a brief summary of my sixty minutes at the scene. “I’m saving the graphic details for later.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. But a body in Lakeville! Great story for you right now.”

“My big chance.” But I had more important things on my mind. “No period yet?”

“I took another test today. Second positive in a row.”

My heart did a little flip. After a miscarriage three months ago, we were both on edge. I wanted a kid just as much as she did and was afraid to get my hopes up again.

“Let’s talk about you taking leave this time, Ann.”

“I’d probably be better working.”

No point in arguing right now. It wasn’t as though I was going to win this one anyway.

“I’m seeing one of the gynecologists tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you, if I can get away from work.” The Halton Register’s neon sign loomed ahead. “I’m just pulling into the parking lot. Let’s talk later. Love you, babe.”

I turned off the car and opened the door. It took thirty-two seconds to set up the chair, back to my average time, but still not good enough. If I got below twenty-nine, maybe I could appear in one of Medi-Chair’s advertising videos. Marshall Keene, wheelchair wizard.

I propelled myself into the building, pulled up to the elevator and pressed the button. My chances of being able to go with Ann tomorrow were slim. We’d be working full bore on this story, plus finishing others that were already in the works. I’d practically be living at the office for a while.

What the hell was going on with the elevator this time? I stabbed the button again. And again. Why did the Register have to locate in an ancient building with one unreliable elevator? It wasn’t as though I could bypass it and race up the stairs like most people in my office.

I kept thinking about the doctor’s appointment. If I couldn’t make it, Ann would go alone rather than ask her parents. Although my loyal wife had never said as much, her mother, Eileen, was a pain in the ass. Her appointments with various beauticians, fitness classes and social committees took priority—even above Ann. And His Honour Burton Young would have a full list of cases to preside over and could never take time off on short notice—although he’d probably love to accompany his daughter.

The elevator landed on the first floor and the door creaked open. I wheeled in, spun around and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Two people entered the building, rushed forward and squeezed in before the door closed. I recognized them as having an office on the same floor as the Register. We nodded and wished each other a good evening.

If Ann was pregnant, Burton would offer her money to stay home and take it easy, which would piss me off. He’d done that the last time and still insinuated the miscarriage might not have happened if she’d taken his advice. Maybe I could talk my wife into keeping our news from her parents for a while.

After visiting every floor on the way up just for good measure, the ancient device finally stopped with a bump and the doors jerked open. My two companions headed to their office and I spun down the hall to the news room.

Don, waiting at his office door, beckoned me inside. “Let’s see those pictures, Marsh.”

He had his hands on his hips. Don rarely congratulated anyone on a job well done, but you sure got a kick in the ass if something went wrong. The trick to a smooth relationship with him was ignoring his quirks, obeying orders and giving him what he wanted. I started by repeating what I knew.

He nodded. “We’ll print those pictures in tomorrow’s paper and hopefully we’ll know more before then. Like if the dead guy’s local or an import.”

He also wanted the identity of the dead guy. Don smelled murder and so did I. The police report would be out soon. If it was murder, the cops would want to solve this rare local occurrence asap. There’d be an urgent appeal for information.

“I’ll call the station and see if anyone’s in the mood to tell me anything,” I said.

Don nodded, but his eyebrows knitted together. I’d worked at the Register for four years and accompanied the senior reporter, Munro, on crime for the last two. Even though I’d learned to listen, leave my attitude at home, and record facts precisely, I had the feeling my boss was nervous about me handling a big story.

“Good idea. Munro’s not here and you’ve made friends with some of the cops,” he said.

He’d remarked on many occasions that he preferred not to deal with active-duty police. The force today is just a bunch of youngsters playing cop. Don had been in the newspaper business before today’s batch of uniforms was born. He’d croak on the job before he’d retire.

“As soon as I have something print-worthy I’ll let you know.” I wheeled out of his office.

The last two people leaving for the day wished me a good evening as I rolled down the aisle. After pulling into my cubicle, I looked back at Don. He was already on the phone, and would spend the next few hours talking and writing. I’d be hard-pressed to offer him any information he wouldn’t dig up on his own. But he’d expect me to write the story, then he’d edit the hell out of it before it went to print. I took out my cell, called the station and asked to speak to the duty cop.

“Wilson speaking.”

“Marsh Keene calling, Hal.”

“Hey, Keener, how’s it going? Read your article last week about those portable wheelchair ramps. Hell of a good idea. Plenty of places around town could use them. What are they called again?”

“Easy Up Ramps. Thanks, Hal. I’m wearing a different hat today. Hoping you can give me some information.”

“Like what?”

“Like the body at Whispering Pines subdivision.”

“You and Munro working the story together?”

 “Any info you can toss my way, like the police report? Munro’s away. Don and I are working the story.” There was a pause. Don wasn’t popular at the station.

“Report won’t say anything you don’t already know, Keener.” said Hal. “But here’s your tidbit for the day. The dead guy was reported missing by his wife.”

“By his wife? He’s a local?”

“Could be. This might need your attention, Keener.”

I frowned. Funny thing to say. “I overheard two cops say that he’d been shot in the chest multiple times.”

“Keener, you have a keen nose for the police beat.”

He expected me to laugh and I did. “What was the dead guy’s name?”

“Nice try. You know the routine. Next of kin has to be notified.”

I nodded to myself. The cops had to speak to the dead guy’s wife. That meant they knew who the victim was—probably a local resident.

I thanked Hal again for the tip and started to construct the story. Plenty of bodies had been found in and around Lake Ontario in previous years. The cause was either suicide or mishap. But this was the first murdered body in the town of Lakeville in probably decades. I’d look up the stats and lead the article with that, grinning to myself that my colleague Earl hadn’t heard the cops talking about the shots the stiff had taken.

After the opening paragraph, I added the information I’d learned at the scene, minus the tip Wilson had given me. Didn’t want to burn my bridges. His info would remain in my back pocket until I had facts to back it up. The story would be a question mark for now, but dead bodies always fascinated readers, particularly home-grown dead bodies.

I sent my story to Don, then checked my phone. There was a message from Ann saying she’d be working later than expected. I texted back saying I hoped she wouldn’t be too late, already worried about this pregnancy. She replied saying worrywart I’m fine…

The on-line police report had landed in my in-box:

 Halton Police Service are investigating a suspicious death in Lakeville. Police attended a subdivision where a man was discovered deceased. As foul play is suspected the homicide unit has taken carriage of theinvestigation.

Just as I’d thought, the report was an appeal for information. The usual contact numbers were included after the three-liner. A local murder was a big deal. Upstanding citizens would be agitating to make sure their police force solved this asap.

I turned off my computer and wheeled past Don’s office on my way out. It was now past seven o’clock. He beckoned me into his office and began talking before my wheels stopped turning.

“The murdered guy seems to be a local. To keep our crime beat section current, I’ve kept tabs on people sentenced for serious crimes in Canada, their bids for parole, and release dates.” Don knew that I knew this. He hesitated, and looked me in the eye. “It seems that one of our home-grown bad boys was due to be released . . . you know who I’m referring to.”

I sat in my chair and stared at him . . . then nodded. Probably a month ago, Ed Alexander, my legal advisor, had called. He told me that Allan Wright, the asshole who’d driven drunk nearly 10 years ago, hit the car I was driving, killing my parents and my sister, and putting me in a wheelchair, was due to be released from prison.

***

Donna Kirk is the author of non-fiction narrative: Finding Matthew, A Child with Brain Damage, A Young Man with Mental Illness, A Son and Brother with Extraordinary Spirit, as well as her latest, a novel entitled Death in the Suburbs.