CHAPTER ONE
We raced across the partially frozen waters of South Georgian Bay in an airboat nicknamed ‘The Scoot.’ The homemade contraption was propelled by a huge fan, and the loud noise from the engine precluded any conversation as we sped over snow-covered ice and patches of open water. It was just Glenn the driver and me, crammed into the punt-shaped hull along with my personal gear and some supplies. It was the dead of winter, and in previous years Georgian Bay would have been totally frozen over by now. This would give eager island cottagers access to their properties by snowmobile. But now – with global warming – conditions had changed, and it was too dangerous to venture out on the unstable ice. Some people say that the current warming trend is just a cyclical anomaly. Others insist that it is a worrisome new-normal caused by the excessive use of fossil fuels. Personally, I haven’t a clue. I was only concerned with getting across to my cottage on Webber Island.
It was just after sunrise when I left my chalet in Blue Mountain for the 90 minute drive to the Blue Water Marina in Honey Harbour. I parked in my usual spot, noting that the lot had been recently ploughed out. There hadn’t been much snow in the past week, although the morning radio warned of a huge storm approaching in our direction. This didn’t concern me unduly, as I expected to be comfortably ensconced in my cottage before the storm arrived. After that I thought, who cares? I would simply hunker down and enjoy the solitude. I carried my gear down to the dock and watched as Glenn approached at the appointed time. During the summer, I engage Glenn to transport guests back and forth in his water taxi. In the winter season he continues to provide this service, substituting the water taxi with the airboat. He’s a friendly guy and seems to know everybody and everything that’s going on.
The cottage is located on beautiful Webber Island, in the geographically remote eastern archipelago of Georgian Bay. This stretches from the protected harbour at Penetanguishene in the south, to the mouth of the French River in the north. It is a 200 kilometer expanse which is riddled with islands, shoals and channels, skirting along the endless open water to the west. The indigenous people had given Georgian Bay the name ‘Mnidoo Gamii’ (meaning Great Lake of the Spirit), and the 30,000 islands found here are the largest concentration of fresh water islands in the world. The area has been given World Biosphere Reserve status by the United Nations and it is an ecological paradise, just one of the many reasons why I decided to purchase the cottage when it came on the market. Although it is situated on an island and only accessible by water, it’s just a brief twenty minute boat ride from the marina.
I was half frozen by the time we approached my dock, which was covered with snow and almost indistinguishable from the rest of the shoreline. Glenn pulled up to a level spot and cut the engine. We were immediately enveloped in a cocoon of eerie silence. That’s OK, I thought. The need for quiet and solitude was the reason I had planned this visit. It had been a particularly stressful time at work, and I was looking forward to some serious down time. As I looked up at the cottage, I was once again reminded of why I had bought the place. Sitting on a rocky bluff well above the shoreline, it is an architectural dream house. This is not your grandparent’s vision of what a cottage looks like. It is a modern home with two wings extending from a central structure. It features towering windows and has a massive front deck. Sitting on six forested acres, it is fronted by a 100 meter sandy beach on a horseshoe shaped bay.
“Well, you have a good time Mr. Daniels,” urged Glenn as he helped to unload my supplies. He glanced at the NO HUNTING sign that I had nailed to a tree near the shore. “You may not be alone on the island,” he confided. “One of my competitors dropped someone off near here earlier today.” I said, “Really, was it my neighbors Megs or Wilf?” Glenn shook his head, “Nope, it was some local guy and he was carrying a rifle.” Alarmed by this I responded, “But, it’s not hunting season. Besides, this is private property!” Glenn huffed, “Hey, that don’t mean squat to some of the rednecks around here. You better keep your eyes open, and be careful if you go into the woods.” I handed Glenn some cash to pay for the ride over, and we agreed on a pick-up time for later in the week.
I watched as he maneuvered the airboat back across the ice. Then, as the sound of his engine faded, I strapped on a pair of bear-paw snowshoes and began to slug my supplies up to the cottage. My mind was churning. As an animal lover I was deeply disturbed by what Glenn had told me. There was a small herd of deer on the island, and I thought of them dotingly as resident pets. My first inkling that something was wrong, was when I unlocked the front door to the cottage and was met with a cold draft which emanated from inside. Slipping off my boots, I went to investigate. I passed through the kitchen and was shocked to find that the window to the storage pantry had been shattered. This is the place where I store my Scotch whisky, and I immediately noted that several bottles of the precious nectar were missing. I was appalled that my personal sanctuary had been violated, and immediately checked the other rooms to see if anything else was missing. When I returned to the pantry, I looked out the window, and could see the culprit’s footprints leading away into the forest. Just then a heavy snow began to fall.
CHAPTER TWO
My first inclination was to chase down whoever had stolen my scotch, but the storm had quickly intensified, and now the snow was blowing in through the shattered window. I had to get this patched up, and fast. So I put my boots back on and went around to the side of the cottage where I could enter the crawl space underneath. There I had stored various odds and ends including bits of surplus wood. I picked out a few pieces and went back inside and nailed them over the window frame. It wasn’t a fancy repair job, but it would have to do for now. By then, it was a whiteout and the snow was falling so heavily that visibility was reduced to just a few meters. The wind was blowing like crazy. I thought, there’s no way I’m going out in this! I decided to settle in and get comfortable.
I turned on the gas fireplace and switched the fan to high. The 1,000 gallon propane tank out back had been topped up in the fall, so I had ample fuel for heating and cooking. The water in the cottage was shut off for the winter, but I had brought along a five gallon jug for drinking and cooking. Speaking of drinking, I extracted ice cubes from the refrigerator and poured a double shot of vodka. I usually prefer Scotch whisky, but the discerning thief had taken my entire supply of single malt. One of them had been a very expensive 37 year old Dewar’s, which had been a gift from one of my clients. I was quite disturbed about the break in, and couldn’t think of another instance of this happening before on Webber. I took out my cellphone and tried to call the Police. It was difficult getting a decent signal here at the best of times. Under these blizzard conditions, it wasn’t happening.
Frustrated, I sipped my drink and wondered where the thief had been heading? He had left clear tracks from the cottage leading to the trailhead at the edge of the woods. The trail was a circuitous two kilometer loop that began and ended at my property. The narrow footpath twisted and turned through the thick forest and over moss covered rock formations, past areas of marshy wetland and eventually leading to a deep bay on the opposite side of the island. From there it circled back. There was a lot of blowdown on the trail and I had purposely cut gaps in the fallen trees just wide enough to accommodate hikers. In other areas, I had installed ropes to assist people in climbing some of the steeper slopes. There was no way that an ATV or a snowmobile could traverse the trail. So, the thief must be on foot.
My larger concern was for the well-being of the resident herd of white tailed deer. By my count there were currently seven animals, including two fawns that had been born this past spring. Webber Island is 100 acres in size, much of it rugged and undeveloped, and it provides an excellent habitat for a small deer population. I had become familiar with these timid animals when developing the hiking trail, observing them frequently as they foraged for food. Their footprints and droppings confirmed that they too were using the new trail for easy movement through the forest. Men with guns are their biggest existential threat. These hunters were not my fellow cottagers, who are excited by every glimpse of the beautiful creatures. They were opportunistic outsiders who would furtively slip ashore during hunting season.
I was reminded that Glenn had said the man who came ashore earlier was carrying a rifle. That could only be for one reason; he was looking to bag some out-of-season venison. I was sick just thinking about it! The deer were nearly defenseless in the deep snow, and should the doe be killed, the two yearlings would surely perish. It occurred to me ironically, that the trail I had developed would make it easier for the hunter to pursue and corner the deer. But, there was nothing I could do about it while the blizzard raged and my cellphone was inoperable. Perhaps in the morning the snow would let up and I could venture into the forest to investigate. Once again I wondered, where is this guy holed up? He had probably broken into another cottage or set up camp in a sheltered area, and was huddled around a fire drinking my scotch.
Early the next morning I heard the crack of a rifle shot and my heart sank. The bastard, I thought! I looked out the window and could see that it was still snowing, but now it was just scattered flurries. The wind had abated, and although the sky was still overcast, there seemed to be a break in the weather. I finished my cup of coffee, then went to the gun safe and withdrew a Browning 9-mm pistol. The weapon was a memento from my military days, and I kept it around for… actually I’m not sure why I still have it. I have all the necessary permits, but I haven’t fired the thing in years. Maybe it was a foolish decision to take it with me into the forest. But I had no idea what I might be facing out there. I recall my mother once telling me that I was born at night. But, as I’m fond of saying, “It wasn’t last night.” And I wasn’t going to confront this guy with just my dick in my hand!
CHAPTER THREE
The definition of LOSER in the Webster’s Dictionary is ‘someone who is incompetent and unable to succeed.’ Surely if you dig a little deeper, you will find Oliver Kilgore’s name mentioned in there somewhere. It was a Tuesday afternoon and Ollie was still a little fried from the previous night’s indulgences. As consciousness slowly returned, he had no more pills or weed to take the edge off. In desperation, he gulped down a Coors Light and looked around at the shabby living room of his uncle’s cabin. Mounted on the walls were the heads of two 12 point bucks, as well as several trophy fish. On the floor was a well-worn bearskin rug, completing the taxidermy nightmare. His uncle was currently in the Lindsay Correctional Centre serving two years less a day for some criminal infraction, and in the meantime Ollie was using his place as a crash pad. It was a timely blessing, since his welfare benefits had recently run out.
Ollie was flat broke and desperately in need of money to buy more drugs. He had sold off a few of his uncle’s possessions and now the only thing of value left was his old Winchester rifle. Ollie was smart enough to know that if he sold the rifle, his uncle would probably kill him when he returned. The Winchester model 1894 lever-action rifle was a serious collector’s item, and one of the most popular hunting rifles ever made. The one he held in his hands was over a hundred years old, and it was still in good working order. It was the very rifle that had toppled the two bucks whose heads now resided on the living room wall. Ollie was in a mental tug of war about what to do. He could sell the rifle for cash, but then would have to face his uncle’s wrath. Even in his drug addled condition he knew it would be a dumb move. There must be another way. As he returned the rifle to its rack he suddenly had an idea.
It took a lot of arm twisting for Ollie to convince his friend Jake to run him over to Webber Island in his airboat. At first Jake had said there was no way he was going to burn valuable gas, based on Ollie’s unreliable promise to pay. But, Jake had a crush on a certain girl who worked at the Rawley Resort, and Ollie said that he could make an introduction. He sealed the deal when he informed Jake that the girl was a bit of a stoner, and that he had a source for some good quality weed that she’d go crazy for. When Jake pulled up to the island, Ollie jumped out and loaded his gear onto a wooden toboggan. Then he slung the rifle over his back and headed inland. His plans were still a little vague, but he hoped to shoot a decent sized deer and sell the dressed carcass to the butcher in town. He thought he might also peek through a few windows just to see what was laying around. Jake agreed to return for him in a few days.
This was the first time Ollie had set foot on Webber Island. The word was that it was an enclave for the wealthy, and the cottages were valued in the multi-million dollar range. He thought, there should be some good pickings! And, at this time of year there wouldn’t be anyone around to challenge him. He was hoping to boost a few expensive items he could take to the pawn shop in Barrie and swap for cash. Ollie knew there was risk involved, but his desperate need for pills and weed was like a gnawing hunger that couldn’t be denied. He made his way up the slope from the shoreline, and cursed that he had neglected to bring snowshoes. In places he struggled through thigh high deep snow, as he lugged the toboggan to higher ground. After 10 minutes or so he came across what appeared to be a well-established trail.
By then, he was panting and out of breath. Ollie thought, Christ, I’m 32 years old and already out of shape. But he continued on to see where the trail led. Meantime, the wind had started to pick up and it was as cold as hell. Already snot and steam from his nostrils had created a frozen crust on his mustache, and the tips of his ears were tingling. He regretted wearing his old slouch hat instead of a warmer toque. In fact, Ollie was beginning to think he hadn’t put enough thought into this ill-advised venture at all. On the plus side though, he observed that the snow along the trail was partially scrunched down by the tracks of animals. Clearly, the deer were using it for passage through the forest. He pushed on, and minutes later entered a clearing to the rear of a large cottage. There were no tracks in the snow, nor-any-other signs that the place was occupied, so he cautiously approached to investigate.
He climbed the steps to the rear deck and found that the door to the cottage had been blockaded with planks. Snow had drifted up and entry there was impossible. He wasn’t about to go around to the lake side and risk being seen, so he went back down the steps and checked out the rear windows. Ollie was almost six feet tall, but the windows were still too high to reach. He went to the crawlspace under the cottage and found what he was looking for. It was a sturdy aluminum ladder which he hauled around and placed beneath the nearest window. He climbed up and shattered the window with the butt of his rifle. Then he ran the barrel around the rim clearing away shards of glass, and climbed through.
Ollie found himself in a well-stocked pantry, with a rack of wine and a cabinet full of booze. Jackpot, he thought! He then walked through and checked all of the bathrooms for medications, finding some Advil and Tylenol which he slipped into his pocket. Next he rifled through the drawers in the bedrooms, but didn’t find anything of value. Looking through the front window, he was surprised to see that the sky had turned very dark. It looked like a huge storm was descending. He returned to the pantry, gathered up six bottles of Scotch whisky in a bag, and clambered back through the window. Ollie retraced his steps, moving back along the trail in the direction he had come. Twenty minutes later he found a perfect place to set up camp.
CHAPTER FOUR
I strapped on my bear paws and stepped out onto the snowy deck. I estimated that there was close to 15 inches of new accumulation overnight. Even with the aid of my snowshoes, it was difficult sloughing through the stuff. I proceeded in bow-legged fashion around to the rear of the cottage, and entered the forest. The thief’s footprints were now buried, but I figured that if I just followed the trail it would eventually lead me to him. There was no doubt that he was out there. The sound of the earlier gunshot confirmed it. I knew every inch of the trail and was aware of every place of concealment. Still, I proceeded with caution, mindful that a trigger-happy amateur might mistake me for a four-legged target. Several minutes later I observed some movement in the distance. I hunkered down and raised my field glasses.
As I focused the powerful Swarovski glasses, a small blue tent came into view. In the clearing in front of the tent, a man was field dressing the carcass of a deer. It was hung by its hind legs, spread-eagled and attached to a limb that had been wedged between two adjacent trees. The man had made a lengthy cut, and the warm innards of the animal had spilled out and were steaming as they pooled in the snow. I was sickened by what I saw. I could tell from the size of the deer that it was a doe, probably the mother of the two fawns who would now be left to fend for themselves. As my anger built, I took a deep breath and reminded myself to stay calm. There was a rifle leaning against a tree. I’d have to be careful! There was just no telling how this guy might react. I looked through the glasses once again, just as the man raised a bottle of Dewar’s 37 to his mouth and chugged down the dregs.
As I advanced stealthily, the soft new-fallen snow masked the sound of my approach. The thief was engrossed with butchering the deer, and I thought, he’s probably half-pissed from drinking my scotch. When I was within spitting distance, I cleared my throat and said, “You must be the guy who broke into my cottage!” Startled, Ollie spun around and stared at me speechless. I continued, “You’re going to jail, pal.” Ollie mumbled. “But, I”…. he was totally at a loss for words. Then I snapped a picture of him with my cellphone. I said, “This should help the police to identify you.” Ollie was confused and unsure of what to do. He hesitated for another second or two… Then he dropped his knife, snatched up the Winchester and jacked a round into the chamber. I quickly pulled my Browning 9-mm pistol and fired.
~ ~ ~
A week later, there was a loud knock on the door of my chalet in Blue Mountain. At that moment I was on a Zoom call with a client discussing an investment opportunity. As the knocking persisted, I cut the conversation short. When I opened the door, two men were standing there with stern looks on their faces. Both were dressed in winter overcoats, and one of them was wearing a classy fedora. The man with the hat held out a badge and asked, “Are you Mr. Wade Daniels?” When I acknowledged that fact, the man said, “Mr. Daniels we’re detectives investigating an incident that occurred last week on Webber Island. Is it alright if we come in and ask you a few questions?” My first thought was, holy shit, why didn’t I report the bloody break-in to the cops? I said hesitantly, “Yes, of course, please come in.”
I led the two detectives up to the main floor, where a crackling fire was burning in the hearth. From the windows they could see skiers descending the nearby slopes of Blue Mountain. The detectives introduced themselves and said they were members of the OPP Criminal Investigation Branch. Their names were Henley and Dawes. Henley was the man with the fedora, and he appeared to be in charge. He mentioned that the Firearms Registry indicated that I was in possession of a registered handgun. He asked, “Is the weapon here on the premises?” I explained that it was secured in a gun safe at my cottage. Henley then asked, “Mr. Daniels, when was the last time you visited your cottage?” I hesitated for a moment, and then asked, “What’s this all about?”
The detective responded, “We’re investigating a murder that occurred last week on Webber Island.” “Murder, I cried! Who was killed?” Henley held up a photograph and asked, “Have you ever seen this man?” I thought, that’s the prick who broke into my cottage! I stammered, “I’m not sure.” Henley asked, “Were you on the Island, Wednesday of last week?” When I didn’t immediately answer, Dawes jumped in, “When was the last time you fired your pistol?” I heatedly responded, “Are you accusing me of something? Do I have to answer these questions? Do I need a lawyer?” The detective advised, “That’s your privilege, Mr. Daniels.” I wondered, how bloody worried should I be? These guys think I killed that man. But they can’t prove something I didn’t do. I didn’t kill anyone. Not on Webber Island, and not anywhere else. Not for a long time, anyway.
CHAPTER FIVE
Charles Burton had just left the Mont Royal Club when his cellphone buzzed. He had been enjoying his usual post-luncheon stroll back to his office on Rue Peel. When he answered, a rather distraught Wade Daniels said, “Charlie, I need your help!” He went on to explain that he had been arrested and was being held at the OPP lockup in Midland, Ontario. Wade briefly sketched out the details of the situation, and said, “It appears like I could be in deep trouble!” Burton assured him that he would leave for Midland immediately, and advised Wade not to give a statement or say anything to anyone about the case. He returned briefly to his office to issue instructions to his secretary, then he retrieved his Range Rover from the underground, and set out on the 20 minute drive to Montreal’s Trudeau Airport.
Burton was a former intelligence officer with the Canadian Airborne Regiment. When the Regiment had been dissolved under politically charged circumstances, a disgusted Burton had resigned his commission in protest. He left the forces and applied his intelligence expertise to establishing Burton Investigations. Burton didn’t think of himself so much as a detective, but rather the purveyor of discreet inquiries. Prior to leaving the forces, he and fellow airborne officer Lieutenant Wade Daniels had been selected as candidates to join Joint Task Force 2, the elite special-forces unit of the Canadian military. Daniels was ultimately accepted, and later as part of a training exchange he was seconded to Britain’s Special Air Service. His SAS squadron was subsequently deployed for action in the Middle East. Daniels military career ended when he was shot during a firefight by a Jihadist sniper.
Wade was one of his oldest friends, and he was certain that the man wouldn’t lie to him. But, charged with murder? Burton knew that Wade had killed enemy combatants while serving in the military. So it wasn’t a stretch to think that he was capable of putting a bullet into someone. But, he had denied it, and Burton had no reason not to believe him. He knew that Wade struggled with personal demons, probably the result of post-traumatic stress or the terrible wound he had suffered. Although Wade had recovered physically, he had been undergoing psychiatric treatment for years. Ignoring his doctor’s advice, he stubbornly refused to take any anti-depressants or anxiety stabilizers, preferring to self-medicate himself with Scotch whisky. That seemed to work for him, as he was highly functioning and extremely successful in the financial field.
His flight had just arrived in Toronto when he received a call from OPP Deputy Commissioner J.P. Ferguson. Ferguson said, “Charlie, your secretary tracked me down and asked me to call you on a matter of some urgency. What’s up?” Burton responded, “JP, are you familiar with the murder case being handled by the Criminal Investigation Bureau in Midland?” Ferguson replied, “Yes, but there’s something odd about it. The suspect’s fingerprints came back from the central data base labeled Top Secret, Special Access Only. What do you know about it?” Burton said, “Wade Daniels is a former member of Joint Task Force 2, and a highly decorated veteran. I think you may have the wrong man in custody.” Ferguson said, “The evidence is pretty compelling, Charlie. Do you know something that we don’t?” Burton responded, “Not yet, but I’m on my way there to look into it. Could you possibly give the officer in charge a heads-up, and ask him to play nice?”
When Burton finally arrived at the Midland OPP Station, he walked up to reception and asked to see Detective Mark Henley. The woman behind the counter gave a dismissive look and said that he wasn’t available at the moment. Burton asked, “When will he be available?” She said that it might be best to come back in the morning. Burton tried another tact. He said, “I’m representing Mr. Daniels, who is here in custody. Could you possibly arrange for me to see him?” The woman replied, “He isn’t permitted any visitors.” Burton blew an exasperated breath and said, “Then let me speak to someone in authority.” She responded, “Sorry, but everyone is very busy right now.” Burton was six foot three inches tall, with a deep baritone voice and a scowling face – some said – that could stop a clock. He snarled, “Get the CO out here, and do it now!” The woman seemed to wither, and then she jumped up and ran into the back room. Moments later a man wearing a wrinkled suit entered reception with an angry look on his face.
He was flanked by two uniformed officers, and as he approached the desk, he caressed the grip on his holstered pistol. He said, “Any more outbursts from you, and you’ll be spending the night in a cell.” Burton responded, “Is your name Henley?” The man said, “Who’s asking?” Just then Detective Dawes emerged from the back office. He said, “Mark, the Deputy Commissioner is on line two. He wants to speak to you.” Henley gave Burton a look, and then punched a flashing button on the receptionist’s switchboard. He said, “This is Detective Henley.” After listening for a few moments he said, “Yes sir…yes sir, I understand.” When he hung up, he turned and asked, “Are you Charles Burton?” Burton nodded. Henley said sheepishly, “Look, I’m sorry about the reception.” He motioned a dismissal to the two uniforms and turned back to Burton, “C’mon back to my office.”
CHAPTER SIX
When the detectives had returned to Wade Daniel’s home for a second time, they were accompanied by two uniformed officers. Detective Henley had a warrant in his hand, and he informed Wade that he was being charged for the murder of one Oliver Kilgore. He recited the usual official warning; you are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in evidence. Wade had seen enough police procedurals to know that it was best to say nothing. He had played his cards close to his chest on their first visit – he hadn’t lied to them exactly – other than not telling the full truth through omission. He now regretted giving them permission to enter his cottage, and for offering up the combination to his gun safe. Obviously they had found something that connected him to the murder. The officers cuffed him and led him outside to the cruiser.
On arrival at the police station, they left him to cool his heels in an interrogation room. It was just large enough for a small table and two chairs. The walls and ceiling were painted white, and at one end there was a mirror built into the wall. Wade thought, they’re probably watching right now through the one-way glass. The room also seemed to be padded with noise-canceling insulation, because it was totally soundproof. Wade wasn’t the least bit intimidated by any of this. His special forces training had taught him how to resist enemy interrogation, including physical and psychological tactics. After about 45 minutes, Detective Henley entered the room carrying a recording device. Before he could speak, Wade spoke out saying, “Don’t even bother! And by the way, I want my phone call.”
Wade was led to an empty office and given access to a telephone. The uniformed officer said he would wait outside to give him some privacy. Wade didn’t believe for a minute that his call would be private. He’d have to be careful about what he said. He only wished that he had called Charlie Burton days ago, before everything went off the rails. Wade was still puzzled over what had happened to that Kilgore fellow. The man was certainly alive when he last saw him! All the police would say is that Kilgore had been shot and killed, and that the firearm used was Wade’s Browning 9-mm pistol. Wade knew this was impossible. So what was their evidence? When he reached Burton, he explained his predicament without disclosing any further information that the police could use against him. His friend had advised him to keep his mouth shut. That’s exactly what he intended to do.
~ ~ ~
Once they were seated, Henley said to Burton, “We usually don’t share information at this stage of an investigation; in fact the Crown Attorney would have my balls if he knew that I was talking to you.” With an edge to his voice he added, “But, it seems that you have friends in high places.” Burton responded smoothly, “I won’t interfere with your investigation, detective. I’m only here to help a friend.” Henley took a breath and said, “OK, so what we’ve got is motive, means and opportunity. The Holy Trinity for prosecuting a crime. And this is supported by solid physical evidence.” Burton asked, “What evidence do you have?” Henley said, “There is a shell casing from the accused’s handgun that was found at the scene. Plus the victim’s fingerprints were found in Daniels’ cottage, and Daniels’ prints were on a whisky bottle found at the scene of the murder.” Burton inquired, “You didn’t mention the bullet that was taken from the victim’s body?”
That’s where it gets a little confusing,” admitted Henley. He went on, “The bullet just grazed his temple, and it was never recovered.” Burton asked, “So, did the bullet kill him? What did the autopsy say?” Henley looked away for a moment, then he said, “The Coroner said it probably knocked him unconscious, but the actual cause of death was from exposure to the freezing elements.” Burton gasped, “Are you kidding me? And you’re going to take this to a Grand Jury?” Henley said defensively, “Hey, that’s not my call!” Burton went on, “Did the shell casing have Wade’s fingerprint on it?” The detective shook his head. Burton then asked, “Can you determine with certainty how long the casing had been there?” Henley gave him a sour look and said, “Not really.” Burton said, “I’m not a lawyer, but it seems to me that your case against Mr. Daniels is pretty flimsy.”
Henley explained that their theory was that Kilgore had broken into the cottage, and later after Daniels arrived on the Island he followed Kilgore’s tracks into the forest and confronted him. Unfortunately, there were no witnesses, and the only evidence placing Daniels at the scene of the shooting was the shell casing. Even the footprints had been buried by continuing heavy snowfall. Burton asked, “You mentioned there was alcohol at the scene. What were the toxicology findings from the autopsy?” Again, Henley looked uncomfortable. He said, “The Coroner said the victim’s blood alcohol content was off the charts, plus there were traces of pharmaceuticals in his system.” Burton responded, “Hmm, no wonder he froze to death!” Then he asked, “Can forensics prove conclusively that the wound to Kilgore’s head was caused by a bullet from Mr. Daniels’ pistol?” The detective shook his head and reluctantly responded, “No, that’s not possible.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Burton was ushered into the interrogation room, Daniels was already seated at the table wearing handcuffs. He raised his shackled hands and smiled, “Charlie, who would have ever thought?” In response, Burton put a finger to his lips and motioned for silence. He then took a small state-of-the-art ultrasonic jammer from his pocket and switched it on. Burton said, “Now we can talk in confidence that we will not be heard, although no doubt we’re being watched through the glass.” He went on, “First tell me how you’re holding up.” Daniels replied, “I’m OK, but these detectives are certain that I killed this Kilgore fellow. I know for a fact that I didn’t, and there’s no way they can prove that I did.” Burton responded by reviewing the case that Detective Henley had laid out. The evidence was largely circumstantial, except for the compelling fact that a shell casing from Daniels’ Browning 9-mm pistol had been found at the scene.
Burton said, “Wade, we only have 20 minutes, so let’s get right to it. Tell me exactly what happened from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.” Daniels gathered his thoughts and then related how he had arrived at the cottage and discovered the break-in. He went on to describe the snowstorm and how he had heard a gunshot early the following morning. When he finally confronted Kilgore, the man had attempted to shoot him with a rifle. Daniels recalled, “I pulled my pistol and got off a quick shot, but lucky for Kilgore, my bullet hit the stock of his rifle and it flew out of his hands. The guy was as high a kite, on booze and probably something else. He dropped to his knees and started blubbering like a baby. It was pathetic. So I picked up the rifle, a 30-30 Winchester, and levered out the cartridges.” Burton urged, “Then what?” Daniels responded, “I told him to pack up and get the hell off the Island!”
When the allotted 20 minutes had expired, a uniformed officer came to take Daniels back to his cell. Before leaving, Wade told Burton that the police were transporting him to the courthouse in Barrie the following morning for a bail hearing. He thought it was probably a waste of time, as Detective Henley had already intimated that the Crown Attorney planned to oppose any request for bail, on the basis that Daniels was a potential flight risk. Daniels said, “At this point I haven’t engaged a lawyer, so I’ll be representing myself.” To this Burton responded emphatically, “They say that a man who represents himself in court, has a fool for a client!” He added, “Wade, I work closely with Michel Coté, a superb lawyer from Toronto. I’ll call and see if he is able to drive up in the morning and represent you at the hearing. And, I’ll bring him up to speed on all the details.”
When Burton returned to Henley’s office, the detective said excitedly, “There’s been an important new development!” He explained that their high-tech forensics expert had finally cracked Daniels’ password protected cellphone. He smiled as he said, “Guess what he found?” Burton just scowled and waited for the bad news. Henley said, “Your buddy snapped a picture of the murder victim, who was crouched in an aggressive posture holding a bloody knife.” Burton thought, for Christ’s sake, why hadn’t Wade mentioned this? Henley added confidently, “This totally connects motive with opportunity and the means to commit murder.” Burton responded, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This is all very interesting, but I have a question for you.” Henley grumped, “What is it? Burton asked, “Did you dig the bullet from the carcass of the deer?” Henley replied, “Yes, so what? It was a soft point slug from a 30-30 Winchester.” Burton asked, “Is the rifle in the evidence locker?” The Detective’s face reddened slightly. He replied, “We didn’t actually recover it.”
Burton was a little befuddled when he left the police station. The introduction of the photo from Wade’s cellphone had taken the case to a whole different level, and it would now be much harder to deny culpability. Prior to this, the only meaningful evidence was the shell casing from his pistol. With that, it had been theoretically possible for the prosecution to place him at the scene of the murder. Burton knew there was an established science in matching a shell casing to a specific firearm. But it was a pseudo-science, and somewhat open to interpretation. A good defence lawyer could bring in an ‘expert witness’ to attempt to cast doubt upon its reliability. The defence could then use the element of doubt to influence the judge and jury. Burton felt that by relying on the shell casing evidence alone, the Crown had a weak case against Wade. But now, with the incriminating photo, the odds had shifted dramatically.
Burton placed a call to Michel Coté, and explained the gravity of his friend’s situation. The lawyer said he would drive up to Barrie and be at courthouse at the appointed time, and would speak with Daniels before going in front of the Magistrate. Burton’s next call was to Glenn, the boatman who had ferried Wade to Webber Island in his scoot. He explained that he was a private investigator working on behalf of Mr. Daniels, and would like to ask him a few questions. Glenn was hesitant at first, but finally agree to meet for coffee that evening at the Cabin Cafe, in Port Severn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nobody would have mistaken Charles Burton for a local, as he sat with a cup of coffee while waiting for Glenn at the Cafe. He was dressed in his usual attire of a well-tailored dark suit and blue shirt, with no tie. In his left lapel was a small silver pin with a parachute, wings and the insignia of the Canadian Airborne Regiment. As a concession to the weather he wore a parka, which was draped over the back of his chair. When Glenn arrived they exchanged the usual pleasantries, and then Burton described his history with Wade as fellow graduates of the Royal Military College and later as officers in the Regiment. He concluded with, “He’s an old friend, and I’m here to try to help him.” Glenn responded that there wasn’t much he could say that might be of use. As he had already told the police, there was nothing unusual about Daniels’ demeanor when he had returned to the island to pick him up. In hindsight though, he thought it very strange that he hadn’t mentioned anything about the break-in.
Burton asked Glenn what he knew about Oliver Kilgore, the man who had been found dead. Glenn said Kilgore was a local guy who rarely worked and was usually up to no good. He had been living at his uncle’s place on Musky Bay, just down the road leading into Honey Harbour. Glenn added, “The uncle’s name is Drago Bogdanovic. He’s a real nasty SOB who just got out of jail a week ago. The whole family are bad news!” Burton asked him, “What do you think Kilgore was doing on Webber Island?” Glenn huffed, “I was told he went ashore with a rifle, no doubt hoping to poach a deer.” Burton asked, “Who told you this?” Glenn paused, torn over sharing too much information with a stranger. But, he was quite fond of Mr. Daniels, and thought the poor guy was probably being shafted somehow by that bunch of thieves. He finally replied, “It was Kilgore’s friend Jake Hennessy, the guy who ferried him over to the island in his scoot.”
It was dark and a light snow was falling when Burton left the cafe. He drove his rental SUV to the nearby Rawley Resort, where his secretary had reserved a room for him. He figured that he’d settle in and make a few calls before paying a surprise visit later that evening to Jake Hennessy. Once in the room, he extracted a flask from his carryon and mixed a drink. Then he called Michel Coté to update him on events. The lawyer had already managed to speak with Wade Daniels by telephone. Wade had assured him that he had the financial wherewithal to write a cheque for any reasonable amount if bail were granted, which Coté didn’t think would be a problem. The real news of the day was the introduction of the photo Wade had taken of the now deceased, Oliver Kilgore. There were also a few other puzzling contradictions to consider.
After winding up his conversation with the lawyer, Burton continued to sip his drink while pondering the various aspects of the case. He wondered, why didn’t Wade mention the break-in to Glenn or report it to the police? And, why didn’t he say anything about the photo? One could argue that these omissions pointed to his guilt. But, Burton knew the man well. He was a 54 year old bachelor like himself, who tended to want to avoid unnecessary drama and messy complications. Maybe he thought that reporting the break-in would be a bureaucratic pain-in-the-ass. Besides, if he was guilty, why would he have given the police full access to his cottage and the combination to his gun safe? Finally, there was the bizarre disappearance of the Winchester rifle. Did Wade take it with him? Did he toss it into the forest? Or was there some other unrevealed explanation?
It was after nine o’clock when Burton pulled into the laneway of Jake Hennessy’s cottage. There was a dull light glowing through a curtained window, and he could smell smoke from a fireplace as he exited his vehicle. As he crunched through the snow to the door, a dog began to bark, and then an outdoor spotlight lit up the yard. Before he could knock, the door opened a crack and a heavily bearded man peered out at him. He said belligerently, “What the hell do you want?” Burton replied, “Mr. Hennessy, my name is Charles Burton, and I’d like to speak to you about your water taxi services.” Hennessy muttered, “It’s a little late!” Burton could see from the man’s dilated pupils that he was high on something. He responded, “I apologize for the hour, but do you mind if I step inside for just a minute?” Hennessy reluctantly gave way, and Burton entered, and was greeted by a friendly black dog.
Hennessy slammed the door shut and staggered to the center of the room. Burton could see that the man was totally wasted. He noted an empty whiskey bottle on a nearby table, and the place reeked with the smell of marijuana smoke. In an inebriated voice, Hennessy demanded, “So, what do you want?” Burton baited him by saying, “I’d like you to take me over to Webber Island and show me where you dropped off Oliver Kilgore. Then maybe you can tell me the whole story about what happened there.” The man snarled, “I’ll tell you nothing!” Burton continued, “I’ll pay you big bucks if you can help me find Kilgore’s rifle.” Hennessy looked at him in a confused daze. He scrunched up his face and blurted out, “Ask Drago, he’s got it.” Then realizing what he had just said, he looked pleadingly at Burton, “Hey man, don’t tell Drago I told you that. If he finds out he’ll kill me too!”
CHAPTER NINE
By the time Burton left Jake Hennessy’s Cottage, he had a good idea of what really happened on Webber Island. His next stop would be to pay a visit to Drago Bogdanovic. As a precaution he had palmed Jake’s cellphone, so he couldn’t give the guy a heads-up. He had briefly thought of involving Detective Henley, but decided against it. The cops had to do things by the book, and that might give the culprit an opportunity to develop an alternate story and conceal evidence. He had recorded his conversation with Jake, and although it probably wouldn’t be admissible in court, it was a compelling testimony. Back in the SUV he called Michel Coté, and apprised him of the new developments in the case. The lawyer asked him to forward a copy of the incriminating audio recording on WhatsApp. They both agreed that the case now hinged on finding the Winchester rifle.
The lights were still blazing when Burton pulled into Bogdanovic’s driveway on Musky Bay. He pounded on the door, and a few moments later the loud music from within stopped playing. The door swung open and he faced a brutish looking man wearing a wife-beater undershirt. The man was of medium height, with bulging muscles and a shaved head. A flattened nose and drooping mustache completed his unflattering appearance. He growled, “The fuck you want?” Burton responded, “I’m here to play a recording that might send you back to prison.” Bogdanovic slammed the door in his face. Seconds later, Burton kicked in the door and burst through. A shocked Bogdanovic reached into his pocket for his switchblade knife, but before he could snap it open Burton delivered a powerful blow to his solar plexes. The man gasped and sunk to one knee, the fight completely gone from him.
Burton picked up the knife and told him to sit down and not move. Then he played the audio recording from his cellphone. The man seemed to collapse inwardly, as he listened to Hennessy’s damning words. He cried out, “Look, I didn’t mean to do it! Hennessy took me over to the island so I could get my rifle back. Kilgore and I fought over it, and it just went off. He was still on his feet when I left. I didn’t kill him, you’ve got to believe me!” Burton asked, “Where’s the Winchester?” Bogdanovic pointed towards a rack on the wall.
Burton walked over and examined the rifle carefully. There was a large crack in the walnut stock, and it appeared that a bullet was still embedded in the wood. He thought, forensics will no doubt prove that it was fired from Wade Daniels’ pistol. This evidence along with the audio he had just recorded of Bogdanovic’s admission, will undoubtedly absolve Wade from any responsibility for Oliver Kilgore’s death.
Burton pulled out his cellphone and punched Detective Henley’s number.
The next morning Wade Daniels was released and Jake Hennessy and Drago Bogdanovic were pulled in for questioning about the circumstances of Oliver Kilgore’s death.
By Michael Barlett