Chapter 32

“Constable Keith,” Cst. Matt Keith picked up after a couple rings.
“Matt-hew,” Rawle said, in a bad impersonation of a homosexual. “Matt… Rat… Faaaat…”
The Constable didn’t even chuckle anymore at Rawle’s humour.
“What do you want, bud-ay? Fishing this weekend, right? Okay, let me just see….”
Cst. Keith was an officer in Wolfville Detachment. One of his duties was to serve as RCMP liaison to Valley Search and Rescue, a volunteer ground search and rescue squad funded by the province’s Emergency Measures Organization.
Rawle had joined it when he moved to the Valley and Cst. Keith became a good friend.
Rawle called him often for general background on what police were up to.
“Fishin’ this weekend?” the officer was talking away. “Sunken Lake’s got ice cover, at least according to the intelligence in town. Everywhere’s else is open water. Open water on Meadow Pond and same with that lake out in Lakeville. Can you believe that? Open water, in January-”
Rawle interrupted him.
“Matt! I don’t care! C’mon, I need to ask you something. It’s five thirty.”
Five thirty was first deadline for provincial edition, although it could be pushed back if necessary as late as nine or ten and midnight for Metro.
“Sure bud, sure. Sure. I get it. Rawle’s workin’. Listen, I just better see you’re asshole on the ice-hole Saturday morning bright and early. Am I right?” He sputtered out laughter.
“Can I ask you something or not? I don’t have all night.”
“Go ahead.”
“I am definitely going fishing,” Rawle said, “but I’m calling about the dead gang member in Stiles Park this morning, inspector. The same kid who burned the jail guard’s place in Ellershouse.”
“Yeah, we saw that. We were wondering where that name came from in your story? Where’d you get that? He wasn’t even a suspect until we saw your story come out. Who told you that?”
“Jesus, I have no idea, man! That was Jack. Jack wrote like half that story. Now I can’t even get a hold of him.”
“His name wasn’t on the story, ‘though. Jack’s. I don’t think, right?”
“No, I know. But Jack added all that stuff about Darroll Missions and Perry Spalding to my story and then left his name off it.” Suddenly, Rawle had a thought that made sense. “Maybe he wanted to keep his name off on purpose! Because his last name is Lee, know what I mean? Maybe Dee Lee was his source, and he knew if his name was there, people would know. Certain people might make that connection, right?”
“Ahhhhh, I see. Tricky. So, Dee Lee made Jack keep his name off.”
“Maybe. Now the guy’s dead. I don’t know what to do about it.”
Cst. Keith cleared his throat. “Well, let me tell you what you ought to do about it, Rawle. Here’s an official RCMP statement: The Royal Canadian Mounted Police is not commenting on the cause of death, but foul play is not suspected.”
It was a canned police response to any media inquiries about suicide cases.
“Suicide,” Rawle said. “How come his death isn’t suspicious? If there’s a more suspicious person to die right now I don’t know who it could be. The guy was just connected to Perry Spalding and he may have firebombed a jail guard’s house. Where’s the autopsy?”
“No,” Cst. Keith insisted. “No.”
“-It takes weeks….”
“-No. You got it wrong, Rawle, as usual. Now, listen to me. I’m not the Member assigned to the file, but I know it’s been ruled suicide. The RCMP know who Darroll Missions is, dumbass, better than you’ll ever know. And yeah, he’s had some involvement. That’s probably why he killed himself. Did you ever think of that? Don’t you think its stressful leading the kind of life he led? I read your story, Rawle. Darroll brought a ton of shit down on his head pulling shit like that. Attacking someone in law enforcement? That would be stressful on anybody. And this is a kid already addled and paranoid by living a gang life with probably a serious drug addiction. And even if an autopsy was being done, the results will just say he died of ‘cocaine ingestion leading to heart attack’ or whatever. What difference would it make? In the absence of other factors, you rule it like it is. This is Stile Park for Christ sake. You don’t walk there late at night and get high all by yourself and look up at the moon. You go there to eat coke until your brain pops. You go there to commit suicide.”
“Alright,” Rawle conceded, remaining unsatisfied. Sometimes, as a reporter, he knew his desire to connect things up was not entirely realistic. Everything wasn’t always like the movies. Sometimes biker wannabes killed themselves.
“Alright. I’ll see your ice-hole Saturday.”