Hungry Ghosts (5 page)

10

Keeping track of time wasn't something
Charlie Pike considered all that important. But from what he could see through the cracks in the curtains, it was still pitch black outside.

Miles O'Malley's Irish brogue boomed on the other end of the line. “I hope I didn't wake you up, Charlie.”

Pike pulled the sheets aside, shaking the dream from his head. Snarling dogs fought while a fox quietly watched. He envisaged his
mishomis
frowning at the bad omens. His grandfather, a trapper, had relied on signs like these to get him through winter safely. It worked pretty well, until the waters of Manomin Bay dragged him back to the Creator.

“I'm sorry, lad,” said O'Malley, “but there's another victim. She was dumped on an Indian reserve this time, way up in Northern Ontario. It's created a helluva mess.”

Pike had a pretty good idea of the kind of complications that could cause. “Let me guess. The OPP won't go in to investigate.”

“Ah, now, Charlie, that's why I called you,” said O'Malley. “You understand these things, whereas they simply bedevil me. I'm told they can't. Not without a native police officer to accompany them.”

Most Canadian police forces introduced that policy after the 1990 Oka crisis, when a Sureté du Québec officer was shot to death at a Mohawk blockade, even though ballistics later established it was police fire that killed him.

“The APF can escort them in.” Pike sat up, tucking the phone between his neck and ear as he reached for a rubber band on the bedside table. “It should be their lead anyway.” He pulled his long hair into a ponytail.

In 2003, the Anishnabeg Peacekeeping Force, or APF, was created. After that, the Ontario Provincial Police wouldn't enter any First Nation reserve covered by the APF funding agreement unless an APF member was with them. They were afraid of another Oka crisis, thought Pike. The First Nations wouldn't let the OPP in their territories without one either, but that was because they were afraid of the police.

“Normally, yes,” O'Malley said. He sounded exasperated. “But the funding agreement expired last Friday. And now the province and the feds are fighting over who's going to pay the tab. Until they sort it out, the APF can't do anything.”

Pike wasn't surprised at the political paralysis. The two levels of government—federal and provincial—always pointed fingers at each other when it came to Aboriginal peoples. Whatever the obligation, each said the other government was responsible for it. Ontario probably wanted Canada to pay up because Indians and lands reserved for them fell under federal jurisdiction. Canada would want Ontario to foot the bill because policing was supposed to be provincial.

Until things were worked out, no police officer from any federal or provincial force would enter the reserve. The government lawyers would claim that if they did, they'd be admitting liability.

“The horsemen are staying out of it,” O'Malley confirmed,
referring to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “But the feds and Ontario are at the negotiating table. They hope to get this settled quickly.”

Pike snorted. “With their track record on land claims, I guess they might be able to resolve a simple funding dispute. In a couple of decades.”

O'Malley chuckled. “Well, Charlie, the long and the short of it is that we've been asked to step in for a few days to help out. Since we're a regional police force, they're hoping that will get around the political sensitivities. I want you to go up there and handle things. Adam Neville is on his way from Winnipeg.”

“You said the body was found up north? Whereabouts?”

“Not far from the blockade.”

Pike shifted uneasily. The only blockade he knew about in Northern Ontario was at the pulp mill near Manomin Bay. “That's a long way outside our jurisdiction.”

“I know that, Charlie. But the minister thinks it could be hard to explain to the voting public why he can have dozens of OPP officers standing by twenty minutes from a crime scene without sending a single one of them onto an Indian reserve to investigate a woman's death.”

“How is the First Nation going to feel about an outsider coming in?”

“Well, that's the thing, Charlie. You won't be an outsider. I spoke to the chief up there a few minutes ago. It's a man named Bill Wabigoon. He says you two know each other. That should help move this along.”

Pike wasn't so sure. He looked at the tattoos on his knuckles and between his thumb and index finger. Billy Wabigoon had scratched them in with a pin and blue ink when they were in jail.

11

Celia Jones picked up the phone,
keeping a wary eye on her mother. There was no door in this house an elderly woman couldn't open, no deadbolt she couldn't turn. It was like babysitting an adult-size toddler.

“Celia, it's Miles O'Malley. How's the weather up there?”

“Hey, Miles. It's a balmy minus ten. But there's another storm on its way. How are things in Ottawa?”

“Heating up in our little corner of the world. Listen, Celia, Charlie Pike's heading to White Harbour to handle an investigation on the Manomin Bay First Nation. The OPP won't touch this one, and the RCMP won't have anything to do with it either. I'm worried about him trying to stickhandle this alone. I'm hoping you can lend a hand.” He described what was going on.

“I don't know, Miles. I have some family issues to deal with. My mother isn't well.” Jones lowered her voice while she explained.

“Ah, Celia, I'm so sorry. My God, you've had a lot on your plate lately. Which reminds me, Dr. Mann still wants to see you.”

Jones had promised O'Malley for months that she'd speak to the departmental psychiatrist. She'd been involved in a hostage-­taking in Cuba, and only a week later was threatened by a knife-wielding man in Ottawa. But she kept cancelling the appointments.

She wondered if she was afraid of what Dr. Mann would tell her. She didn't have time to deal with post-traumatic stress, not with a young child to look after. She looked at her mother, still fixated on the television.
Make that two of them.

She grimaced. “I'll call him when I get back, I promise. I'm only here until Sunday. Alex took a week off to stay with Beatriz so I could come. But sure, tell Charlie to get hold of me if he needs anything.”

“How's she doing, that little girl of yours?”

“Her colour is a lot better. The good news is they don't need to do a heart transplant. Alex says they can replace her mitral valve. But we're running into all kinds of problems with the bureaucracy. We'll work it out.”

“When it comes to bureaucrats, nothing surprises me anymore. Let me know if I can do anything to help. Well, listen, Charlie won't be up there much longer than that himself, Celia. The deputy minister has assured us that, one way or the other, the OPP will take the investigation over this weekend.”

“That sounds ominous,” said Jones. “Have they already forgotten what happened at Ipperwash?”

The police had moved in during the dead of night during a protest at Ipperwash Provincial Park. An unarmed Aboriginal man, Dudley George, was shot by a policeman and later died. The policeman was convicted of criminal negligence.

“They're treading lightly this time, but the media is probably going to get hold of the story soon,” said O'Malley. “Someone has to tell them to fuck off so Charlie can do his job. Nicely, of course.”

“And you thought of me?” Jones smiled. “That would make it my favourite assignment to date.”

Before she went to law school, Celia Jones was a hostage
negotiator with the RCMP. Negotiations required a certain measure of diplomacy. She'd learned the controlled aggression of lawyers as an articling student. She recalled her principal's written correspondence with another solicitor that said simply, “Fuck you. Strong letter to follow.”

“You said Charlie's on his way up here now?” she asked.

“He's probably still at the airport waiting for the flight. Those planes stop at every little whistle stop on the way. It could be dinner before he gets there.”

“My parents' place is less than a kilometre from the Manomin Bay First Nation. I drive by OPP vans at the blockade every time I go into town. They're parked at the side of the highway, monitoring the traffic.”

“I knew you were close; that's why I called. Keep an eye on things, will you? There are a lot of politicians at Queens Park hoping like hell this doesn't blow up.”

“Why the sudden interest?” Jones asked. “They didn't care much about these victims before.”

Oh sure, she thought, the Ministry of Public Safety had created a cross-jurisdictional task force, but the Highway Strangler Task Force was grossly under-resourced. Charlie Pike didn't even get all the case files he needed until a group of national Aboriginal organizations held a press conference accusing the task force of racism. First Nations were quickly discovering that reporters trumped lawyers and were a whole lot less expensive.

“Ah, Celia. I forgot to tell you. This victim is white.”

Oh crap, thought Jones, as she hung up the phone. It was going to be a political nightmare. If the Ontario government provided more investigative resources to the task force than it had in the past, First Nations would say it was because of the victim's race. If it didn't, the government would be criticized for being indifferent to a serial killer who targeted Aboriginal women. The Ministry of Public Safety wanted a scapegoat, not an investigator.

BFI, she thought, as she walked back to the living room to make sure her mother was all right. That's what the RCMP used to call them whenever a call came in involving an Aboriginal person: Big Fucking Indian.

But the racial slur could just as easily be turned into Blame the Fucking Indian. And that would be Charlie Pike.

12

The air was already muggy outside
as the morning sun began its slow creep over the ruins of Vedado. Inspector Ramirez passed a tractor-­trailer hauling a container, with barred windows, stuffed full of tired passengers on their way to work.

He pulled his car in front of the three-storey stone building where Fernando Espinoza lived with his parents. He was careful to avoid parking too close to the sidewalk in case any chunks of stone fell from the crumbling exterior.

Espinoza bounded out the front door, oblivious to danger. Despite the time of day, he was as alert as a ground squirrel. Almost too chipper, thought Ramirez, stifling a yawn. There was a reason why ground squirrels were extinct on the island.

The young detective handed Ramirez a battered metal thermos as he climbed into the passenger side. “
Hola
, Inspector. Here, fresh coffee. My mother made enough for both of us.”

“That was kind of her.” Ramirez balanced the thermos on his knee as he pulled away from the curb. A yawn finally escaped him. “Thank her for me, will you?”

“She values our work. She says she feels safer at night knowing we're here.”

“I wish she felt a little safer during the day. My wife finally ran out of patience with me working so many late hours. She took the children home to her parents.”

“She left you?” Espinoza sounded shocked.

“Only for a few days.” Ramirez said. “There's a boys' baseball tournament in Santa Clara. Edel is playing shortstop. They'll be back on Monday, around dinnertime, if the trains run on time.”

All Cubans were entitled by law to one government-paid holiday. Since they couldn't easily leave the country legally, that meant visiting another part of it. It was like getting new underwear, thought Ramirez, and discovering you had received your neighbour's used ones.

“You never know,” said Espinoza. “Miracles can happen. At least you
have
a wife.” Espinoza was looking for one himself. “Sleeping in the same room as my mother and father doesn't make romance easy, trust me.”

“It probably doesn't do much for theirs either.” Ramirez chuckled. He turned the small car down Airport Road. Several new billboards had appeared overnight, including one that announced,
TO DIE FOR MY COUNTRY IS TO LIVE
! The dead woman shook her head in the side-view mirror as if to disagree.

President George Bush grinned maniacally on another poster. Trails of blood ran from the corners of his lips.
EL ASESINO
was the caption, the letter
L
formed by a black gun.

The angry words would never be seen by most Americans. It was illegal for
americanos
to travel to Cuba from the United States without a special licence. The war against capitalism had become a childish one, thought Ramirez.

“Don't be too anxious, Fernando. You have to make sure you find the right person. You don't want to take chances, believe me. Otherwise, you could end up living with someone you don't like. At least you get along well with your parents.”

Seventy percent of Cuban marriages ended in divorce, but half of all divorced couples were forced to live together anyway because of the housing shortages.

They drove past a
camello
. It was on its way in from the countryside, spewing clouds of black exhaust. The buses
were made of old bus parts, wagons, and recycled train compartments welded together, the centre portion raised in a hump. They were hot and uncomfortable, and crammed with hundreds of passengers.

Ramirez looked in his side-view mirror at the dead woman. The glass was stained with rust, discoloured from salt air. His cracked rearview mirror had disappeared a week or two earlier, no doubt recycled by the same thief who had discovered that Ramirez's car doors no longer locked. It was almost easier to travel to China than to find a replacement part for a Chinese car.

Degrees of impossibility, thought Ramirez. Like the dead woman sitting in the back seat, looking out the window, and the dead man he'd found in the washroom admiring himself. They were impossible too. And yet they seemed so real.

The dead woman tapped a cigarette on a gold-coloured compact and put it in her mouth. She opened the compact and rubbed her fingers in the pressed powder. When she noticed Ramirez watching, she turned her hand slowly from front to back, making sure he saw the chalky smudges on her fingertips. She snapped the compact shut and winked at him. She pointed to the interior light and shook her head, holding her index finger to her full red lips.

“I was at a concert last night at Revolution Square,” said Espinoza. “The statue of José Martí had a piece of grass stuck on its head like one of those bristle haircuts.”

“Really?” Ramirez chuckled. “Someone was brave. Or very
drunk.” The statue was at least seventeen metres high, and the square was always packed with tourists.

“There are rumours that a famous graffiti artist has come to Havana for the hip-hop festival. His name is Banksy. That's the kind of thing Banksy would do.”

Ramirez raised his eyebrows. “There are famous graffiti artists?”

“Celebrities all over the world collect his work, Inspector. Actors, like Brad Pitt. They pay millions of dollars for it. When he paints something on the side of a building, people will pull down the walls to get at it.”

“No need for that here,” said Ramirez, and snorted. “A little patience and they'll come down all by themselves. What does he do that's so special?”

“Well, for one thing, he gets his art into places that no one else can. He once spray-painted graffiti inside the Vatican—an image of the Pope being patted down by riot police. Even his private parts. The Pope's, that is. And he went into the Louvre in broad daylight and hung up one of his own paintings. It was a conquistador being burned at the stake while a group of Indians watched.”

“So he's a subversive,” Ramirez said. “Are the rumours true? That he's in Havana?”

Espinoza shrugged. “There's no way of knowing. No one knows his real name or what he looks like.”

They drove past the largest of the anti-Bush billboards. It towered over the exit leading to the Palacio de Convenciones. It was erected the previous year, in 2006, just before the convention centre hosted an international conference on terrorism that focused almost entirely on Castro's obsession, Luis Posada Carriles. A simple mathematic formula linked the caricatures of the three men it vilified: “Bush + Hitler
=
Posada.”

The U.S. Special Interests Section had retaliated by putting up an electronic ticker tape that displayed continuous human rights messages. Over a hundred thousand pro-Castro demonstrators had
been bused to the Plaza Anti-Imperialista at the end of January to protest, but the electronic ticker display continued. This week's message attacked Fidel Castro's dictatorship: “The people best suited to running the country are those driving taxis and cutting hair.”

Given the number of doctors, architects, and engineers driving cabs, Ramirez thought it was probably a fair comment.