Six Seconds. Rick Mofina

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “No. But if you’ve got a reason to be suspicious, would you share it?”

      “It’s just a feeling.”

      “A feeling?”

      “Forget it. I’m still thawing out. Did you find any ID? Items in his pockets? Clothing tags?”

      “No. Except for a little flashlight and a granola bar, nothing. Look, you guys do your thing. Get us some names and a next of kin, so we can request dental records to confirm. You know the drill.”

      He knew the drill.

      “So we’re good to move him?” DeYoung had a lot of work ahead of her.

      Graham didn’t answer. He was staring at the boy, prompting her to look at him with a measure of concern.

      “Are you okay?”

      DeYoung knew something of Graham’s personal situation and took quick stock of him, blinking at a memory.

      “Dan, you know the only time I ever met Nora was last Christmas. We all sat together at the attorney general’s banquet. We hit it off. Remember?”

      He remembered.

      “I’m so sorry. I missed her service. I was at a conference in Australia.”

      “It’s okay.”

      “How are you doing? Really?”

      His gaze shifted from the boy’s corpse to the river, as if the answer to everything was out there.

      He stood. “You can move him now.”

      DeYoung closed the bag. Her crew loaded it onto a stretcher, strapped it in three areas, then carried it carefully up the embankment to their van. Graham watched the van inch along the trail, suspension creaking as it tottered to the back road. Then it was gone.

      For a moment, he stood alone in the middle of the scene.

      It had been cordoned on three sides with yellow tape. He was wearing latex gloves and shoe covers. Nearby, members of the RCMP Forensic Identification Section out of Calgary, in radiant white coveralls, looked surreal against the dark rocks and jade river, working quietly taking pictures, measuring, collecting samples of potential evidence.

      All in keeping with a fundamental tenet known to all detectives.

      A wilderness death can be a perfect murder. Treat it as suspicious because you don’t know the truth until you know the facts.

      Graham resumed studying his clipboard, paging through the handwritten statements and notes he’d taken from the people who’d found the boy. Haruki Ito, age forty-four, photographer from Tokyo, was first. He’d flagged the women on bicycles. Ingrid Borland, age fifty-one, a librarian from Frankfurt, and Marlena Zimmer, age thirty-three, a Web editor from Munich. They all seemed to be pretty straight-up tourists.

      Nothing unusual regarding their demeanor.

      The guy from Tokyo was a seasoned news photographer, having covered some terrible stuff like wars and tsunamis. He was fairly calm, philosophical, Graham thought. It was a different story with the women, who were left shaken by their futile attempt to revive the boy. “That poor child. That poor, poor child.”

      Static crackled from a police radio, pulling Graham’s attention to the man approaching. He’d emerged from the tangle of emergency vehicles atop the riverbank where members from the Banff and Canmore general investigations sections were with the witnesses. He stopped at the tape. A wise decision.

      “Corporal Graham?”

      Graham moved closer to the new arrival. He was in his midthirties. Maybe six feet tall, wearing jeans and a checkered shirt under a black leather bomber jacket.

      “Owen Prell. Inspector Stotter sent me.”

      “Got here pretty quick.” Graham shook his hand.

      “I was already in Canmore.”

      “Mike said you joined Major Crimes from Medicine Hat.”

      “Worked GIS. They just set me up by your desk at the office. I’m looking forward to working with you.” Prell looked back to the patrol cars and uniformed officers. “The other members want to know if you’re done with the witnesses. The people would like to go.”

      “We’re almost done with them.” Graham flipped his pages. “Get them to surrender their passports. We’ll run them through Interpol. Just say it’s procedure and we’ll return them soon.”

      “Will do.”

      As Prell turned, a helicopter throbbed overhead, skimming the river. The RCMP’s chopper out of Edmonton. The instant it disappeared, Graham heard his name. The FIS member processing the canoe was waving for him to come and see something.

      Something important.

      Wedged in the rocks where the canoe crashed was a small metal plate displaying the label Wolf Ridge Outfitters. The screw holes aligned with those on the canoe. It was a rental. Number 27.

      Rental agencies kept records.

      “Prell!”

      The constable returned with his radio. An urgent request was made to the telecomms dispatcher to contact Wolf Ridge and cross-reference its rental agreement for Number 27 with the park’s permits and wilderness passes.

      It took twenty minutes for the information to come back.

      The canoe was rented by Ray Tarver, of Washington, D.C.

      Park permits showed Ray, Anita, Tommy and Emily Tarver as the visitors registered to drive-in campsite #131.

      6

       Faust’s Fork, near Banff, Alberta, Canada

      Campsite #131 was upstream, deep in the backcountry, secluded in a dense stand of spruce and pine, offering sweeping views of the river and the rugged cliffs of the Nine Bear Range.

      When Graham arrived with the others, he saw no movement.

      A late-model SUV was parked near a large dome tent. It was a typical campsite: propane camping stove, lawn chairs, four life jackets stacked neatly against a spruce tree, food kept a safe distance from the tent, and other items, including shirts and pants, hanging from a clothesline tied between two pine trees. Shouts for the Tarvers were answered by the river’s rush and the thud of the search helicopters.

      The site was silent.

      Lifeless.

      Graham declared it a second scene and as Prell and the others taped it off and radioed for a request to run the SUV’s Alberta plate, he entered the tent alone.

      Inside, he detected the pleasant fragrances of soap and sunscreen. There was also the sense that something had been interrupted but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Time had stopped here. To one side, was СКАЧАТЬ