Читать книгу Cut to the Bone - Joan Boswell - Страница 6

The homicide office was stifling. Toronto was experiencing an early season, late April mini heat wave, and Rhona Simpson wished the department would turn on the air conditioning. Sweat dripped down her back, and she worried that the dye in her new black-and-white silk blouse would run.

She should be grateful for the weather bonus. But she wasn’t grateful — she felt grumpy and unpleasant as she finished up the paperwork on her current case. Again, she and her partner, Ian Gilchrist, had fingered the perp, and she felt confident they’d lined up the evidence and would be a match for any overenthusiastic defence attorneys.

But it wasn’t the heat or the tediousness of her task making her cross. Rather it was an article in the morning paper reporting that the Sisters in Spirit, a Native women’s organization devoted to uncovering and drawing attention to the numbers of missing and murdered Aboriginal women, had published an update on their previous year’s report. She’d gone online and read their 2009 report. The statistics shocked her. How could so many women, more than five hundred, have disappeared or been murdered without being found or their killers apprehended? The Sisters in Spirit charged that mainstream society regarded First Nations women as dispensable throwaways and the police devoted minimal time to finding the missing women or their killers. The Sisters in Spirit had amassed statistics clearly showing that the solution ratio for crimes involving Aboriginal women and non-Aboriginal was heavily skewed. They demanded that police forces take action.

If there was an upside, it was that Ontario had not figured largely in the report. Nevertheless, Rhona knew opposition members of the legislature would raise the issue and journalists would join them in demanding a provincial investigation. Although the Toronto Police maintained an upfront website where they identified and detailed both current and unsolved cold cases, Rhona didn’t want to be paranoid but suspected that if her department launched an inquiry, she’d be front and centre. As a woman of colour, even if the colour was only one quarter inherited from her Cree grandmother, having her in charge of an investigation would look good.

Rhona believed she’d find cases where the police had paid perfunctory attention to an investigation. In her dealings with other officers she’d seen evidence that prejudice existed against Aboriginal women, prostitutes, and drug addicts. She had heard officers articulate their feelings that these men and women got what they deserved. No senior officer condoned this attitude, but it existed.

She asked herself if she shared the feeling that low-life wiping out low-life saved the taxpayers the cost of incarceration. She hoped not, but often she found it hard to defend First Nations and their problems. In fact, she avoided all such discussions, as she didn’t want to become a “spokesperson” for Native affairs.

Partly she wondered if she felt both sad and guilty because in another life situation she could have turned out like these women. Again, in her heart, she thanked her loving grandmother who’d brought her up to be the strong woman she was.

Her feelings shamed her, particularly her refusal to proudly claim her Aboriginal heritage and her desire not to have genetics given as the reason for assigning her to any case. It was hard to acknowledge, even to herself, that she felt that way, but she did. She had to face the fact that she was prejudiced and move on.

Rhona stared at the computer. Her acknowledgement of her feelings shocked her. For years she’d half-heartedly considered volunteering in the Aboriginal community, thinking that she could be a role model, a woman who’d pursued an education and joined the police, but she hadn’t done anything about it. Now she decided that the time had come. Moreover, contact with others in the community might help her deal with her issues.

Time to act.

She went online and found a health unit on Queen Street and a centre on Dundas where homeless First Nation people received help and counselling. She felt a faint shudder of distaste. Not the way to go. Her professional dealings with the down-and-out First Nation people had shown her that this wasn’t the way to counteract her prejudice. Rather, she’d begin her search for a role in the community at the Native Friendship Centre. Located on Spadina Road north of Bloor Street in the heart of the Annex and the student ghetto, this meeting place pulled in students and newcomers in the city looking for other upwardly mobile Aboriginals. Perhaps she could act as a mentor, a support for bewildered young people making their way.

Ian Gilchrist, her partner, touched her shoulder and made her jump. He looked at her computer screen. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Rhona held out the morning paper. She tapped the article about the Sisters in Spirit and their need to receive promised federal funding. “I think the boss is going to respond to this.”

He scanned the article. “How so?”

“I read their report. Most of the missing and murdered women came from western Canada, but Ontario is not exempt.”

“So?”

“There’s sure to be an investigation. Sometimes our reports identify women by race, but I suspect the chief will want us squeaky clean as far as unsolved cases go. I bet he puts us on this right away, since I’m the token Aboriginal and a woman.”

As Rhona spoke her phone buzzed. She picked it up. It was their superior, Frank Braithwaite.

“Frank wants to see us in his office. Boy, that didn’t take long,” Rhona said.

Ian shrugged. “Unless you’re clairvoyant, we really don’t know why he wants us.”

“You’ll see.”

In his office Frank stood by his window lifting weights. He set them on the floor when the two officers entered.

“Getting the biceps in shape,” he said. “Juno and I are going on a two-week wilderness canoe trip following old fur trade routes in the barren lands, and I need to toughen up.”

Considering that he went to the gym as often as he could, rode his bike to work from his condo in the Distillery District, and watched his diet and weight obsessively, Rhona thought it must be an “extreme sport” trip.

“I didn’t know you could take dogs on trips like that,” Ian said.

“Juno isn’t just any dog. I thought after my ex-wife hijacked Bailey that I’d never find another dog like him, but Juno is remarkable.” He smiled. “I’ve cleared it with the tour leader. Even have a backpack for Juno so he can carry his own dehydrated food.”

“Sounds great. When will this happen?” Rhona asked, thinking it would be absolutely horrible, and she couldn’t even imagine the mosquitoes, the rain, the discomfort.

“July, but it takes a while to get really fit.” Frank moved behind his desk and picked up the newspaper.

Rhona resisted the urge to give Ian an “I told you so” look.

“Did either of you read this article on the Sisters in Spirit report?” Braithwaite asked, waving the paper in the air.

“I did and told Ian about it,” Rhona said.

Frank tried a “cute” or perhaps a “coy” smile, which he didn’t do well. “So you figured out why I wanted to see you?”

Rhona played dumb. She didn’t want this assignment. Sifting through files, following up on cold cases, talking to families who had lost hope, was not what she wanted to do. She shook her head. “No.”

Wisely, Ian said nothing.

Frank waved the paper. “To follow up on each and every Toronto case which involved an Aboriginal woman and make sure we’ve done everything possible to find them or the perp that killed them.” He slapped the paper on the edge of the desk. “According to this, there aren’t many cases in Ontario, let alone Toronto, so it shouldn’t take you long, especially with two of you working on it. I want to be able to tell the police commissioner and the mayor that we have a perfect record, that we do not neglect any of our citizens.”

He must be hoping for a promotion or at least a commendation from the city.