Cootes Paradise: A Hamilton story of mystery and murder
DETECTIVE MCCARTHY SPIED A CONTAINER ON ONE OF THE SHELVES. THE WITHERED PLANTS WERE LONG DEAD AND DRY. THE SAME FLOWERS AND PLANTS SHE SAW OUT BACK
“How do you suppose two guys had an interaction and both of them ended up dead? Are we missing something?”
CHAPTER 16 Connections DETECTIVE ANGELA
McCarthy began to browse through the pages of Danny Heath’s notebook. His subject, one Emmett Rankin, was the inhabitant of this wonderful abode. A drifter of sorts, who spent most of his time on the streets in the city except when he lived an obscure existence in the bush in Dundas. Why out here, in the middle of nowhere? thought McCarthy.
She read on. There was in fact, a reason, at least in Emmett’s mind. According to Danny’s journal, Emmett was, or believed he was, a descendant of the squatters who made their homes along the northern shores decades before. His grandfather, Willie, had been removed from his home by the authorities, and Emmett’s turn to live off this land was a homage to relatives displaced through no fault of their own.
There was more, meticulously recorded by Danny: Emmett’s rambling, sometimes incoherent thoughts on family; Hamilton history; living on the land. He was unconcerned about the fact that he regularly stole from people — “most folks got too much stuff anyway, I’m just like Robin Hood, giving to the poor — me.”
There were crude pencil sketches of the shack, and Emmett. Tucked inside the back cover, a photograph of him, staring straight at the camera. Wild hair, overgrown beard, piercing eyes that made you look, then look away.
McCarthy stared into those piercing eyes, then had a thought. She pulled out her phone, snapped a picture of the photo, and texted it to Detective Ralph Watkins with a simple message. ‘Is this your floater?’
Her phone rang immediately. “Could this day be more f **ked up? Yeah, that’s my guy. Where are you?” asked Watkins.
“Lost in the woods in Dundas. Couple of kids found a shack hidden in the trees. Place is full of stuff stolen from neighbours. I found a journal from some guy named Danny Heath. Seems like he’s been interviewing an Emmett Rankin, who splits his time between the street and the bush.”
Watkins paused. “What did you say was the name of guy who wrote it?” “Danny Heath.”
“He’s missing. His brother and father were out looking for him on the water this morning. That’s how I came to be out here working on my tan,” said Watkins. “Thing is, he might be the guy Detective Schwartz found up at the old asylum.”
“Yeah, heard about that one. How do you suppose two guys had an interaction and BOTH of them ended up dead? Are we missing something?”
“Maybe the better question is: is there someone else involved?”
“If there is, I hope they’re alive. That’d be a nice change today.”
CHAPTER 17 Parsing Clues DETECTIVE KARL SCHWARTZ
sat in his car on Kipling Road in Hamilton’s west end. He had just delivered the news to the Heaths, and made arrangements for Danny’s father, Atti, to ID the body. God, he hated this part of the job. The crushing agony of the loved ones, fresh and raw, washed over him each and every time like an ocean wave.
He had filled them in on the details, as much as he could share given the suspicious circumstances. And the Heaths, like all the other families, wanted to know the answers to the questions he still didn’t have. Even though it was still early in the investigation, he didn’t have a motive, or a suspect, or even a cause of death. To top it off, his deceased wasn’t the only one today.
He thought about his suspects, such as they were. A couple of teenagers looking for thrills stumble upon a dead body. Or so they say. Killers? In his long career, he’d seen good guys turn out to be really, really bad guys. But these two?
What about the guy who gave Danny a ride to the hospital? He seemed a tad smug for Schwartz’s liking, despite what his gut told him during their first interview. Maybe it was time to call him in for another chat.
Looming in the background remained the old asylum, and its storied past. God knows what horrors were inflicted inside those walls.
Century Manor didn’t give up her secrets easily.
“Listen, I’m heading back to the station. Me, you, and Ralph should get together. Despite how crazy this day has been, I think all our loose ends may tie together.”
Almost immediately, he began to feel weird. Head swirling, spinning. Sweating. He glanced at Emmett, sitting with his cup, grinning. Hardly touched his.
CHAPTER 18 Tea for Two
MCCARTHY CLOSED Danny’s notebook and placed it on the table near the bed. Forensics would have to carefully search this place too, just to add to an overwhelming day. She looked at the blood on the door frame and the ground below. Not much, but judging from the height of the largest smear, it appeared someone had been struck. Most likely in the head, which may have had contact with the door frame. On the ground, a few drops of blood led away from the shack in the direction opposite from which she had come. She followed this grisly trail, which led through a dense thicket of trees and opened into a small clearing on the edge of a narrow creek. The ground at the edge of the creek was well trampled, indicating there had been recent activity here.
McCarthy was interrupted by a shout from the shack. “Where’d you go, Detective?”
She turned and headed back. As she passed through the opening and came back into the clearing, she noticed a row of flowering plants nestled in the grass. The other plants in the area had been cleared, as if someone had been consciously gardening.
Nice touch, she thought, for a vagrant thief living off the land.
Inside, she met Sergeant Esther McComb, who was examining the cups on the makeshift table.
“What do you make of this, Angela?” inquired McComb.
“I guess Emmett and Danny had some tea,” McCarthy replied. “Quite civilized for two people found dead hours later.”
“Did you smell this stuff ?” asked McComb. “I wouldn’t drink this on a bet.”
McCarthy lifted the fuller cup and sniffed. A pungent, foul odour filled her nostrils. “Good Lord, that’s disgusting,” she said.
“Maybe it doesn’t age well,” offered McComb.
McCarthy was about to set the cup down when she spied a container on one of the shelves. Spilling over the edge were a couple of flowers. She moved in for a closer look. The withered plants were long dead, dried up in the intense summer heat. The same flowers and plants she saw out back.
“Do you know what this is?” she asked.
“No clue,” said McComb. “I’m no botanist. I know enough not to touch poison ivy. But if this guy, Emmett, lived out here, chances are he knew what he could eat.”
McCarthy left the shack and traced her steps back to the plants. She snapped a pic, then did a quick search in the app store: Identify plants, she typed.
She scrolled through a few images in the app, picked one, and downloaded it. The image revealed the name of this beautiful summer plant. Datura Stramonium. Jimson Weed.
She read the accompanying description. “Highly toxic, may induce hallucinations, extremely dangerous if consumed…”
“Dammit,” she said aloud. “Not only did this guy know what to eat, he also knew what NOT to eat.”
She phoned Schwartz. “Karl, Angela here. I think I might know what happened to your victim.” “Shoot.”
“Not shot. Poisoned.” “What?”
“Listen, I’m heading back to the station. Me, you, and Ralph should get together. Despite how crazy this day has been, I think all our loose ends may tie together quite nicely. In the meantime, is your victim — Danny, I believe I was told — in for autopsy yet?”
“Soon. His father was headed down to make a positive ID. Once that’s done, we can get started.”
“Make sure they do toxicology screening.”
CHAPTER 19 The Encounter
DANNY FELT he had struck gold when he stumbled upon Emmett while out canoeing one day a few weeks earlier. The pair had struck up a conversation, bound by a love of the outdoors and the paradise they paddled in. Emmett had made a convincing argument that his ancestors once inhabited these shores, citing names and connections that made sense. Danny had fastidiously taken it all down, keeping meticulous notes. This would make a fantastic paper for his sociology class, and he could get the bulk of the work done before he even hit the books in September.
Emmett was a hard nut to crack — he waffled between being totally stoked for Danny’s project, and being nervous about the publicity that was bound to follow. Danny had agreed to keep things under wraps, for now at least, promising his vagrant subject that he’d tell no one else, at least before school began.
But on a beautiful late August day, after Danny had arranged to meet him in the woods to continue telling his story, the well crafted plan suddenly fell apart. Emmett seemed off, even by Emmett standards: wary and difficult. He challenged Danny, said he was only interested in getting a good mark at school, didn’t give a shit about some dude living in the woods. Staying calm, Danny was able to talk Emmett down, convince him he only wanted to tell his story. Shed light on the folks, including his ancestors, who made their homes on the far shore decades before.
They sat for tea, which Emmett had brewed for their visit. He poured two cups, offering sugar and cream substitute, even used a couple of decent cups. Danny wondered who he had stolen them from.
Danny had been thirsty, and he was nothing if not polite. So he drank that ‘tea’ quickly, even though it was bitter and needed a couple heaping spoonfuls of sugar to make it palatable.
Almost immediately, he began to feel weird. Head swirling, spinning. Sweating. He glanced at Emmett, sitting with his cup, grinning. Hardly touched his.
“What the f **k did you do? You son of a bitch!” Danny yelled. He stood to leave, feeling unsteady on his feet.
As he neared the door, he spied a battered old canoe paddle leaning beside it. In a flash, he grabbed it, turned and swung hard, catching Emmett by surprise. The paddle struck the side of Emmett’s head with a thud, sending him flying into the side of his shack. Emmett lay on the ground, moaning, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead.
Seeing what he had done, Danny dropped the paddle and ran — out the back, through the bush, to his canoe. He grabbed his paddle, pushed off in the shallow water, headed away. Away from this place, this lunatic who had given him some heinous potion to drink. Screw him. He’d probably report him to the police once he got back home.
In the end, McCarthy’s hunch had been bang on. Toxicology tests on Danny showed high levels of the toxins associated with Jimson Weed, a plant found widely throughout Southern Ontario. He had been poisoned by Emmett, who had recovered enough from the surprise attack to set off in his own canoe in pursuit of Danny.
Into Cootes Paradise to find that bastard and make him pay. Pay a little something extra for that whack across the head. As Emmett struggled to launch his canoe, he wiped his forehead, wiped the blood that was running into his eyes. That rich college boy had made his head bleed.
Inside, too.
CHAPTER 20 Eagle Eyed
JASON HEATH
walked the beaten path along the shore, near where Danny’s car had been parked, when he spotted Danny’s canoe. Nestled in the weeds, blown there days earlier after it had been abandoned by his brother. How had he missed this?
He eased himself down and sat in the stern, just as Danny had done so often in this simple little boat. Everything was as it had been left, as Danny had left it, ready for any emergency. Extra paddle. Lifejacket — whistle attached. Bag with throw rope, flashlight, bug spray, sunscreen. Ropes fore and aft.
Jason, eyes moist, untied the spare paddle and pushed off from the shore. He closed his eyes and drifted, the sunlight warm. He wished he could just float, let the wind carry him away, to a place where random dumb shit didn’t happen and his brother would be here, with him and his family, where he belonged.
He heard a sound from above. Opening his eyes, he saw a majestic bald eagle circling overhead. He’d heard Danny talk of it before, how it had taken up residence in the treetops. And was keeping an eye on these waters and those creatures bound to it. It circled, coming low, landing in a tree nearby.
Jason drifted past. The bird followed his progress, silent, watching.
He dipped his paddle, pulled hard, J-stroke at the end. The blade was silent as it emerged from the water, droplets falling onto the glassy surface. He turned to the eagle, and allowed a small smile to crease his face.
“Did I do it right, Danny?”