Chapter 5

It was still dark and cold out when Det. Sgt. Smith arrived at Dawson Road in Ellershouse. The houses along the dead-end road were dark, dull and Kentucky-fried, save for one bungalow on the left which was all lit up like a plastic Christmas scene.
Eliptical red and blue siren lights spun slowly on top of two Windsor Rural RCMP cruisers, mixing with the flashing oranges from Brooklyn Volunteer Fire Department pumper and tanker trucks. There was even a ladder truck on scene, Smith saw as he made his way closer up the secluded road, despite the fact that the fire took place in a single-story house.
Bored are we? Smith chuckled at the two dozen or so volunteer firefighters standing around in the driveway and front lawn, all decked out in their puffy yellow nomex flame suits.
The burned house was also illuminated with several emergency lights which were hooked to a generator running in the driveway.
A couple of elderly neighbours, still in their pajamas and housecoats were standing out in the driveway speaking to a uniform constable. The old people looked frazzled and terrorized.
Two more uniforms with flashlights were tying plastic police tape across the lawn of the house. They had created a long pathway in the snow protected by two rows of police tape held up like a tiny fence by twigs. What’s that now? The pathway began from a ditch on the neighbour’s lawn and travlled right up to the front of the burned house.
A path. Footprints?
The house had been reduced to a charred gyp-rock shell. Three huge gaping holes smoldered where the front windows and door used to be. It looked like Dick Cheney had fired a giant shotgun at the house’s face. Plus there was another square hole cut in the roof by firefighters to vent the smoke. It was not a pretty sight.
Sgt. Digby was standing in the gravel driveway with what looked to be Cpl. Ross Agarwal and Aubrey Microys, an arson investigator with the Fire Marshall’s office. And also Brooklyn District Fire Chief, Percy Burns, a man who probably grew up feeling like he had no choice but to become a firefighter, Smith thought. Either that or a reggae singer.
“Heh!” Smith said out loud. He crowded his bulky Chrysler in behind a white cruiser at the end of the driveway.
“Constable,” he boomed, getting out and speaking to a Windsor Rural uniform manning a line of police tape.
“Detective Sgt. Smith, Biker Squad.” He flashed his CFIU Halifax badge. His colours. “Talk to me Constable.”
Smith’s style with cops from other police forces was to sound like he was the one in charge. Most of these rural Members would suck your dick for directions.
“… Yes sir, the husband and family are currently down at the VG hospital,” the uniform stammered, calling Smith ‘sir’ although they were not even in the same police force. “Uh, the wife took second and third degree burns on about 25 per cent of her body. I guess the Jesus thing exploded on the coffee table, right in front of her. A Molotov cocktail. The EMT’s were pretty worked up when they got here. She was walking around in the street with her arms burnt bad.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. The two girls were sleeping upstairs. The mother was in shock and just left them. Anyways, the kids took in a whack of smoke and they had to go down for oxygen treatment, but they’re okay, I think. Two girls, 11 and 9, both at the IWK.” The Constable looked up from his notes. “Not critical, but serious condition.”
Smith was so pissed off his jaw hurt.
The fact that children were injured made him want to scream. Like most parents, he had a soft spot for children in general, especially when they were thrust involuntarily into the ugly bullshit of the adult world.
Having kids was a weakness in police work, especially biker squad. It literally hurt him when kids got hurt. And what was to stop a high-level gang member from having Devin and Josh kidnapped or killed? Not much. An unlisted phone number.


“Alright. Talk to me about the burnout itself,” Det. Sgt. Smith continued. “Do we have any witnesses? Have you heard any rumours? Anything on the jail guard? Did you have anything good for breakfast this morning?”
The uniform stared blankly. He looked to be about 21 years old.
Sgt. Digby’s eyes meanwhile fell on Smith across the driveway.
She stepped down the porch and began to walk over, leaving her partner, Cpl .Ross Agarwal, and the fire chief and Aubrey Microys behind, probably to their great disappointment.
The woman moved silently, like a Geisha girl, with two fingers looped into the black fabric of her police belt which held her holster underneath a puffy winter jacket.
She had a dark red velvety chenile sweater pulled loosely over her big breasts and a black stylish pair of dress pants.
Her short hips moved side to side when she walked.
Man she must be amazing…
Smith noticed to his shock that Sgt. Digby had cut off all her long hair since the last time he’d seen her.
Noooooooooo!
She used to have very long, curly black hair that ran all the way down her back in a dense chain, but now it was all trimmed off and puffed up around her jawline.
It didn’t matter. She was still, and always would be, in Biz-ness.
A hard boner began to form again, slowly, inside his pantleg as she got closer to him, crunching on the cold gravel of the Purcell’s driveway.
Her skin was a spotless, antique cream colour.
The “mixed race” thing, he thought, had a lot to do with his crush.
Or maybe he just liked mixed-race girls now, because that’s what she was?
Either way, she was part British on her father’s side and Arab or Lebanese on her mother’s, which made her a nice in-between cream colour.
Apparently, her father was J Division in New Brunswick and went over to the Middle East somewhere to give a training course on how the RCMP do commercial crime cases. He met a sweet little thing over there and never came back. Then Biz Digby came over to Canada when she was 18 to study film or something and wound up joining the Membership, just like her old man.
The RCMP was desperate for non-white recruits back then, same as now.
She did a few years in the Valley during probation period and fell in love with Nova Scotia, for some reason.
Det. Sgt. Smith on the other hand was born, raised and would die in Nova Scotia.
He was as white as any person could possibly be. Bone white.
Smith white.
His skin was a weak, porcelain, skim-milk colour and his light, reddish-brown Scot hair ran from drapes to carpet. Same as his ugly wife, same as his allergic-to-the-sun children and same as every Smith he could think of.
It was as if his white-boy genes themselves cried out for Biz Digby’s darkness.
The dangerous thing about his crush, Smith knew, was not that he wanted to have an affair with Digby- that was pretty common enough, but that he wanted to have an affair with her and not wear a condom.