Chapter 33

Darroll Missions was not observed at his Spryfield apartment that day, needless to say. His neighbours at the pawn shop said he hadn’t been around for a couple of days at least.
Sgt. Digby checked a few other leads in Halifax, but there seemed to be no sign of him in the city, which made sense, because the following morning he popped up dead in a park in Wolfville.
Digby and Agarwal went to see the body Wednesday as soon as they heard the news, in the morgue at Valley Regional Hospital in Kentville. The medical examiner for Kings County, Dr. George Eye, a 50-ish wannabe politician was in the suite already and had the body out of the cooler. It was laid on a steel coffin-shaped gurney with a square frame above it, covered over with a canvas sheet.
Dr. Eye was gowning up in the locker room preparing to conduct a standard autopsy, ordered whenever the cause of death was questionable.
Digby and Agarwal waited outside the suite for him to finish and chatted with Kings RCMP exhibits officer Cpl. Kevin Gordon, who’s job it was to witness the autopsy and sign off on evidence in case it became a criminal case.
“It looks like he died of cocaine poisoning, or asphyxiated on the plastic baggie before it got that far,” Cpl. Gordon told them.
“How do you know what cocaine looks like, eh?” Agarwal joked.
“Yeah. That’s right…” Gordon laughed. “Anyway, they’ll run the EMITs on the kid’s blood, for cocaine metabolite and any drugs-of-abuse. But at this point, the type of drug is just a technicality. Foul play’s not evident. The file’s with a Wolfville constable. He hasn’t been in the building, as far as I know, but I think he has his mind made up already on suicide. The body was found in Stile Park. Suicide Park.”
Digby kissed her teeth. She was positive the death of Darroll Missions should not be written off as suicide.
In her opinion, the young man was potentially involved in the firebombing of a jail guard’s home, attempted murder. It was possible that Darroll Missions was executed because he could implicate Glen Frederick, or others, in the firebombing. Either that or he killed himself out of fear something like that was about to happen. Certainly, there were questions that needed to be answered. “It’s too soon,” she said. “It’s suspicious.”
She took out her Blackberry and sent a missive off to Staff Sgt. Keetch, requesting the case. Then put in an email to Det. Sgt. Smith of biker squad, asking him to check if his informants had heard anything.

Digby checked out the small room off the autopsy suite where the hospital can keep potential evidence under lock and key, if anything relating to a criminal case is recovered during an autopsy.
Darroll Missions’ effects were being stored there.
Agarwal went in with her, while Cpl. Gordon went next door to watch the autopsy.
She rummaged a large cardboard box labeled ‘Darroll Mission’s effects, Jan. 2009,’ in black marker, while Agarwal took a seat at a nearby desk.
“Not much there?” he said.
She pulled out and inspected the sandwich baggie. “So, Darroll tipped this back in his mouth and sucked it in. It has some teeth impressions in the plastic. Some dregs of what sure looks like cocaine.”
“Maybe we could take the bag and match it to Darroll’s teeth, but what would be the point? Still wouldn’t prove anything.”
The baggie was zippered inside a larger Ziplock bag and labeled ‘evidence #0001.’
There was also a pack of cigarettes in the box, Peter Jackson brand.
A serrated camping knife.
A butane lighter shaped like an H.R. Geiger Alien skull. A watch. A Celluloze-brand cell phone where the casing was made out of organic cellulose. A wallet, clothing and black boots.
The clothing struck Digby as very odd.
“All his clothes are brand new.”
“New clothes?”
“Yeah. One pair of green Dickey work pants, stiff as a board, no stains. One crisp white undershirt. One pair new wool socks. One green Elite workshirt that still has the tag on it. Mark’s Work Wearhouse.”
“I dunno, look at his cellphone. The tag on the clothes is probably some ‘gansta’ thing.”
“But, all the clothes are new. I can still smell the fire-retardant chemicals they spray on in the factory. These are brand new. Why would he put on brand new clothes to commit suicide in?”
She picked up the leather wallet from the box and flipped out the cards and papers one by one into a small rubber-coated aluminum tray.
“Son-of-a… ”
“What?”
The first and second card she flipped out were Nova Scotia driver’s licences. One for Darroll Jack Missions, 09/06/88, the other for Willard Clarence MacDonald Missions Jr. 17/11/67. Pussylips. Darroll’s dad.
The third card was an Alberta driver’s license, with Darroll’s photograph, except the name on the card was ‘Ted Schriver.’
Darroll was carrying his father’s driver’s license, plus what looked to be a top quality fake ID.