FIFTH IN A SIX-PART SERIES
Cootes Paradise: A Hamilton story of mystery and murder
CHAPTER 13 School Daze
JASON HEATH
WALKED from Princess Point back to his parents’ Kipling Road home. Victoria, now frantic with worry, was nearly incoherent. “Anything?” she asked hopefully.
“Sorry, Mom. Nothing. Yet.” Even in his glum mood, he chose his words carefully. And Danny really hadn’t been missing very long, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe he was still out there in Cootes Paradise, somewhere. They’d gotten a little sidetracked, discovering a dead body and everything. Maybe they had missed him.
He slumped into a chair, feeling tired and defeated and angry at himself for failing. The Heaths didn’t fail. They also didn’t quit, certainly not now. He pulled out his phone, checking for messages, or calls, or a sign — any sign — of his brother. Nothing.
The screen lit up. Jason jumped. It was Dominique, Danny’s girlfriend.
“Did you hear from him?” he asked quietly, stealing away to the dining room, out of earshot of his mother.
“I was hoping to ask you the same question,” she replied.
Jason filled her in on how his morning had gone.
“This is getting truly bizarre,” she said. “Danny had something going on in Cootes Paradise.”
“What do you mean, going on?” asked Jason.
“As you would know, Danny wasn’t one to brag, or spill details willingly. But he said he was working on a project for school that, if it all came together, would score him some top marks. Maybe even make The Hamilton Spectator.”
Jason thought about that for a minute. Danny was the most low-key, out-of-the-limelight guy he knew. He had taken dozens of fantastic nature photographs, but rarely posted one to social media. He only ever exhibited a passing interest in the local paper, despite it being spread across the kitchen table every morning. What could he be working on?
“Thanks for the info, Dominique. I’m gonna go poke around in his room. Probably should’ve done that already. Just thought we would’ve found him by now,” he said.
He hung up the phone, checked it again for messages, made sure the ringer was turned up full, and slid it back into his pocket. He slipped quietly down the hallway to Danny’s room. The door was slightly ajar.
Jason stepped inside. It hadn’t changed much in the years since he had left home and, at first glance, looked much like any other young adult male’s room. A few random posters on the walls. A mishmash of furniture — a large oak desk, IKEA bookshelves, an older comfy chair from God-knows-where that had seen better days. TV, video game system, laptop. An assortment of books, from novels to textbooks. The Heath boys had always been encouraged to read; rewarded, as kids, with tasty summer treats for completed books.
Jason perused some of the textbooks on the desk. With school starting in a couple weeks, Danny had begun preparing and, according to
his girlfriend, he had been getting a little jump on the year. Jason saw titles like The Sociology of Families; Introduction of Sociological Theory; and Sociology of Deviance. Pretty gripping stuff. He spied something else, leaning next to his desk light. A literary work with bits of paper sticking out, making bookmarks for several pages. The War on the Squatters: 19201940.
He picked it up and began leafing through the pages. Nearly a century ago, the shores of Cootes Paradise were home to dozens of families. Squatters. A community of the disadvantaged. Theirs was a robust life, to say the least: living hard, carving out a meagre existence as the city began to flourish and prosper. Eventually, they were pushed out, and their homes razed. Over the years, they have been all but forgotten.
Fascinating stuff, thought Jason, but it didn’t explain Danny’s interest in such obscure history, and it sure as hell didn’t help find him. Struggling to fit together the pieces, he shuffled to the window, sunlight washing over his face. He looked outside and saw his dad leaning against the wall of the shed, staring at his phone, willing it to ring.
Jason wilted, the enormity of the day washing over him.
“This is getting truly bizarre,” she said. “Danny had something going on in Cootes Paradise.” “What do you mean, going on?”
Where are you, little brother? CHAPTER 14 Home Sweet Home CONSTABLE KUMAR PATEL ’ S trail riding excursion and initial search of the shack in the woods led to yet another full blown police investigation. Detective Angela McCarthy watched as ATVs and the mounted unit were unloaded on Hopkins Court. With three separate ongoing incidents, resources were getting stretched.
McCarthy hitched a ride on one of the vehicles, a convoy led by Patel. They made their way down Hopkins Trail, coming to a halt near the thick bush where the boys had dropped their bikes earlier.
“Here?” asked McCarthy.
“Not exactly,” replied Patel. “Follow me.”
“Jesus, that was a pain in the ass,” said McCarthy as they finally reached the clearing. She surveyed the area, and the ramshackle structure nestled among the trees. “Pretty well hidden, actually, although no one is gonna traipse through all that crap to end up here.”
“Except a couple of kids,” added Patel.
True enough. But if someone did live here, it was pretty clear they didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat.
She entered the shack. With an investigator’s keen eye for detail, she scanned the surroundings carefully. On one of the shelves: a razor, brush and shaving cream, none of which looked as though they had ever been used. A small radio sat nearby, surrounded by AA batteries. Oddly enough, a framed photo hung on a post, askew, containing the same picture of smiling people that it had when it left the store. A surrogate family? Whoever this guy was, he had managed to secure an impressive collection of stuff, most of it likely stolen from the residents in Dundas.
Next to the bed, an overturned wooden crate filled the role of nightstand. It was piled high with magazines and books, from men’s mags to mindless fiction pilfered from corner stores or community libraries that dot neighbourhoods across the city. On the ground behind the table, she spotted white paper, standing out against the filth. McCarthy pulled it out. A notebook, spiral bound, folded open. She flipped it closed. On the cover, it read:
Emmett Rankin: A Return to Cootes Paradise
A Dissertation
By Danny Heath
CHAPTER 15 A Fare to Remember DETECTIVE KARL SCHWARTZ
slumped into his chair in his central station office, alone except for the extra large Tim Hortons he grabbed on his way back from Century Manor. He still needed confirmation on his deceased, needed to follow up the lead that Detective Ralph Watkins had given him. He had a name — Jason Heath — and a number. He took a swig of coffee, and turned to the phone on his desk. Before he could lift the receiver, it rang.
“Karl. Simms at the front desk. Some guy just walked in here to hand over some property. I think he might have information about your mystery man.”
Schwartz grabbed his coffee and headed for the stairs.
“Can I help you?” he asked the young man waiting at the counter.
“Just turning over some property.” Pascal Lopes dropped a cellphone and wallet onto the counter.
The detective studied them. The waterlogged wallet was twice its normal thickness. He picked up the phone and pushed a few buttons. The display remained dark. Probably water damaged as well. He opened the wallet. Inside the front fold, a driver’s licence. There, staring him in the face, was his victim. Danny Heath.
“Where’d you get these?” Schwartz asked.
“I drive for Uber. I got a call around 9:30 last night, to pick this guy up in Dundas, just off Olympic Drive. GPS took me right to him. He flagged me down and jumped in the back. He was wet, and kinda out of it. Like he was hallucinating. Said he wanted to go to the hospital,” began Lopes. “Which one?” said Schwartz. “That’s the thing. He wanted to go to the psych hospital up near Fennell and West 5th. Said there was something wrong with his head.”
“And you took him?”
“Hey, a fare’s a fare. I drove up there, turned in off Fennell Ave. I stopped briefly, trying to figure out the best place to let him out, but he opened the back door and jumped out. Took off running. I lost him in the darkness,” continued Lopes. “So, he ran off without paying?” “It’s 2018, man. Paid by his phone. Easy-peasy.”
“And you weren’t concerned for the safety of someone that obviously didn’t seem well?”
“I was concerned. Like I said, he ran off quickly, and it was a busy night. Figured he’d make it inside. I guess I should’ve done more,” Lopes added.
“Did he say anything to you during your ride there?” asked Schwartz.
“Not really. Just some moaning and mumbling. Talking to himself more than anything.”
“But he definitely told you where he wanted to go?”
“Yup. Was pretty clear on that. Even got ‘Mohawk College’ typed in as his destination.” “Mohawk College?” “Maybe he didn’t know the name of the hospital up there, but knew it was across the street from the college.”
“And when did you find the wallet and phone?”
“Not till this morning. He must’ve dropped it and kicked it under the front passenger seat. I always give the car a quick cleaning and inspection before I go out for the day. Gotta keep my reputation up.”
Schwartz smirked. “You might lose a couple stars for not making sure a psychotic guy in medical distress got some help.”
The comment stung, and Lopes’ face turned sullen. The detective looked him over. Was he a killer with
a car? Wouldn’t that be convenient , he thought. Probably too convenient. Even though there was no one to corroborate Lopes’ story, Schwartz had developed a pretty good sense of when someone was bullshitting him. This guy seemed legit.
The detective asked a few more questions, took down some personal contact info.
“Make sure I can find you if I have more questions,” he said.
“I have my phone with me 24/7,” Lopes replied.
Just like all the young kids nowadays, thought Schwartz. That’s part of our problem. We’re so focused on that little screen, we don’t see the big picture.
He dropped by forensics on his way back to his office. “Give this wallet the once over, see if anything unusual pops up,” he said to the technician at the desk. “I’ve got a dead cellphone too. Probably soaked inside. Any chance you can resurrect it?”
“Probably not, but we’ll have a look. Depends how damaged it got. I’ll let you know if I find anything,” replied the technician.
Back in his office, Schwartz thought about this most recent development. He now knew who his guy was. The missing canoeist from Cootes Paradise. He also knew how he got from Dundas to the central Mountain. Seeking medical aid, maybe delusional, he must’ve wandered toward the old Century Manor instead of the newer facility, and got himself inside.
What remained was the most pressing question.
Why?
“Pretty well hidden, actually, although no one is gonna traipse through all that crap to end up here.” “Except a couple of kids.”