David said, “They’re called Moai, aren’t they?”
In the moment before she realized he was talking
to her and looked up, David saw a red dress crammed into her open backpack.
From across the waiting area, he had been watching the girl—this young
woman—read a small, photocopied publication.
“I’m sorry?”
“Those sculptures. They’re called Moai, I think.”
David smiled.
She flipped back a page. Her hands were venous and
boney. Strong looking. She read the caption under a different photograph of a
different Easter Island figure. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“What’s that book?”
“It’s a zine a friend of mine gave me. It’s
called, ‘Saying Aliens Did It Is Racist’.” She flipped the book closed. The
cover had a picture of the pyramids.
David chuckled. “Great title.”
“You’re not one of those douche-bags who think,
How could Africans or Polynesians or whatever non-Europeans possibly have done
something we can’t figure out, are you?”
He didn’t think douche-bag was really the right
type of language for the VIA Rail passenger area, so he asked quietly, “Do I
look like a douche-bag?”
“No, you don’t,” she whispered, maybe mocking his
embarrassment.
“I try not to.” David looked at his watch.
“What time is it?” The girl asked.
“Almost three.”
She sat up in her seat and looked towards the
entrance.
“Expecting someone?”
“Yeah. My friend and I are heading to Montreal.
We’re going dancing.”
“Is your friend Skye Ryan?”
“What the fuck?” She was mad and frightened and
confused and it made her sit up straighter.
David reached for his badge.
The girl jumped out of her seat, knocking her
backpack over and spilling her red dress.
David held his free hand out to reassure her,
“Shh, it’s okay.”
“Other hand,” she said.
“Alright.” He held both hands out to her and
backed away.
A woman in a hijab stared at David and clutched
her Nike gym bag to her chest.
“I’m police,” David said. “I just want to show you
my badge.”
“How do you know Skye?”
“I don’t.” He was proud of himself for using
present tense.
“But you obviously knew she’s supposed to meet me
here.”
“Come with me. We’ll find a quiet place to talk.”
She was shaking her head without meaning to.
“Skye isn’t coming. I’m sorry. I’m going to show
you my badge now.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID.
She stared silently.
“Are we cool?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“I— I’m just gonna grab your bag.” David, still
holding his badge out to her, reached his free hand across his body to gather
her dress and backpack. “Just follow me. I’ll let you know what’s going on. I
promise.” He started walking out of the waiting room and back to the concourse.
He’d seen a liquor store and figured they would have some private space he
could commandeer. Between each step he counted one-one-thousand,
two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, and so on, so that he wouldn’t walk too
quickly. Things would work better if he appeared calm. An older man and woman
were coming the other way. When they saw Skye’s friend’s face they paused. The
man asked, “Is everything okay here?”
“I’m a cop,” David said, holding up his badge.
“He asked if everything is okay,” the woman said.
“I heard him,” David said. “I have something I
need to tell this young woman.”
Skye’s friend’s legs gave out. She lay on the hard
floor and wailed. David forced a smile. The girl started to sob. He squatted
and put his hand between her shoulder-blades where the heaving was worst.
“I’m so sorry,” the man said.
The woman opened up a fresh bottle of water and
offered it to the girl.
The girl didn’t notice.
It took a minute for the older man and woman to
silently decide to move on and another minute before David’s quiet imploring
to, “Come on, we’ll find someplace private,” finally motivated the girl to try
and stand. David put his badge in the hand holding her red dress and backpack
before he bent over, reached around the girl’s waist and instructed her to,
“Put your arm across my shoulders.”
~~~
A woman pushing a tiny, tall shopping cart holding
a few bottles of wine waited impatiently for the cashier to finish with a
skinny nineteen, maybe twenty, year-old guy buying two tallboys. The cashier
had curled a counting finger into her change-filled palm. All three looked at
David and the girl. “I need the manager,” David said.
The cashier tried to peer through the curtain of
hair that had fallen over the girl’s face.
“The manager?” David held up his badge, the dress
and the open backpack to the cashier.
The cashier was confused.
“I’m a policeman.”
“Right,” the cashier said.
“Where’s the manager?”
“He’s in his office.” She pointed up a ramp towards
the back of the store where two walls with one-way mirrors jutted out from the
corner. One wall had a black door.
David had to turn sideways to support the girl up
the narrow ramp.
“I’ve only got enough for the one,” the young guy
said.
“I still need ID,” the cashier replied.
The young guy looked at David.
David smiled and knocked on the office door.
“Um,” the young guy said. He turned to the woman
behind him, whose impatience had been replaced by staring, open-mouthed
curiosity at David and the girl. The young guy said, “You want to go ahead?”
She was startled. “Yeah, sure” she said,
forgetting her previous annoyance. “Thank you.” Then remembering herself, she
reset her face to scowl.
The cashier poured change back into the young
man’s hands.
The manager’s door opened. His face was broad and
round. “Yes? Can I help you?” He used the door like a barricade.
David held up his badge, the dress and the
backpack.
The manager was confused.
“Badge,” David said.
“You’re with the police.”
“Detective Constable David Markham.”
“How can I help, officer?”
“I need your office.”
“Uh. Give me a minute.” The manager closed the
door.
The young guy stood behind a row of Argentine
wines and peaked over the shelf at David. The woman with the tiny cart and sour
face was now focusing her impatience on the Interac machine’s slow processing
of her payment.
David knocked again at the manager’s office door.
“Hello?”
The girl took more weight on her own feet, but
continued to hold on to David. She smelled to David something like warm milk,
or oatmeal, at least from just above her crown. David found himself noticing
the way his fingers sunk just some into the flesh at the girl’s side before
they were resisted by moving, powerful muscle. He felt guilty for knowing that
he was holding a healthy person because his method for assessing it was like
something you would use for livestock.
Just as he was about to knock again, the door
opened.
“It’s all yours.” The round-faced manager looked
to the side and attempted a smile. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“I’m sorry to put you out,” David said. “I’ll—”
David had to count back his frustration—one one-thousand, two one-thousand.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“That old computer took a while to log off.”
“That’s fine. Thanks for the space.”
“I put those chairs out for you.”
“Thank you. Excuse us.”
“Of course.” He was standing there like he was
waiting to be reprimanded. Maybe the manager had been using his work computer
to watch porn.
“I’ll let you know when we’re done. Thanks again.”
David put the girl in the manager’s chair then lay
the backpack and red dress down on the floor. He closed the door.
When David sat down in the other, harder looking
chair, the girl asked, “Actually, can I sit in that one? My back.”
“Of course,” David said.
She smiled. “What a mundane thing to think about,
my back. I mean, considering.”
“That’s life, hunh?” David returned the girl’s
smile. “What’s your name?”
“Marilyn Jackson.”
“Marilyn, Skye is dead.”
“I know. I mean, I knew that was what you were
going to tell me, which is why,” she flopped her hand in the general direction
of the place she’d had her episode. “I’m sorry about that. I’m— Anyway, I
figured ’cause why else would a cop, I’m sorry, a police officer or detective
or whatever, why else would they come to the train station to find me?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I did just request my CSIS file, but that’s not
really your jurisdiction.”
“I’m in homicide.”
“Skye was killed, then. I mean, I guess, why else
would she be dead?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that.”
“Can you give me any details?”
“We just started our investigation. Anything you
could tell us might be helpful, but there will be time for that. Later, I
mean.”
“I haven’t known her that long.”
“Okay.”
“But we really hit it off, I guess. We met at High
Park. We were— We were at the playground at High Park. You know, the one that
got burned down a few years ago and then Mike Holmes rebuilt or whatever. She
came with some girls I knew. Came to— To hangout with us. Then she, like,
disappeared at one point and I went to look for her and I was calling her name
and she was up in the woods there. I tried to follow her voice, but I was
tripping and shit— I mean, stuff— Sorry. And she— So, I was tripping and she
grabbed my hand and led me to this log I could sit on. Her eyes had adjusted, I
guess. To the night-time. It was a new moon, I remember, because the sky clear,
but so dark.”
“Were you scared?”
“Of the woods? No. Scared of rapists, though?
Well, I try not to be. Sorry for the frankness. I really don’t mean to sound
like George W. Bush when I say this, but then the rapists win, you know? If I’m
frightened, I mean. Only the threat of terrorists is, well in my opinion
anyway, way overblown, where, like, the threat of rapists is—” Marilyn’s face
changed abruptly. “Oh my God. She wasn’t— Was she—” She couldn’t finish the
question her mouth and chin were twisting so hard with grief or pain or
whatever you want to call that sense that someone else has suffered horribly.
David pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket
and handed it to her with the reassurance that, “It’s clean.”
Marilyn nodded as she wiped her nose and eyes.
“Nothing else happened that night, did it?” David
asked. “Nothing out of the ordinary or suspicious, I mean.”
Marilyn shook her head, No.
David looked at his watch. “You’ve missed your
train. I’m sorry.”
“It was only a birthday party.”
“And dancing,” he said.
“And dancing.” She cried a little more before
saying, “I probably should be around anyway, right? In case I can help?”
“Yeah. For sure. Can I give you a ride home?”
“Can I take the subway?”
“You can do whatever you need to.”
She nodded.
“I can call in. Find a female constable to ride
with us, if you’d be more comfortable.”
“Could you?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll take that ride.”
“Understood.”
Toronto, August 2015
Emoji sequence: Maggie Gilbert and Alisha Brown of Dogwood Initiative. Find out more about their work here or make a pledge.
Story: Lee Sheppard
An acknowledgement: I am indebted to Emily White of the Toronto Police Service for her patient explanations of how an investigation like this might work.
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