Seventeen Skulls Page 2

  That’s eight, she thought. Assuming Buddy is the same as the others, he’s the eighth one. In…how long? A year and a half, maybe? In any other demographic, eight bodies in that amount of time would be grounds for a full-on investigation. Her face grew hot as she thought about the fact that these men were being ignored based on their economic and social status. She took such things very personally. She’d dedicated her professional life to the protection and betterment of the men under her care, and when the police couldn’t be bothered when the men’s lives were in actual peril, she felt compelled to do something about it.

  But what? With every new body, she’d contacted the police, both local and the RCMP, scouring their ranks for someone, anyone, who would pay attention and see the pattern developing with the slayings. They would say all the right things, tell her they’d look into it, thank you for your concern and for bringing this to us. But at the end of the day, nothing changed. Nobody ever contacted her for information or insight into what might be going on or to bring her up to speed on any new developments. To the best of her knowledge, no officer or detective had ever shown up at the shelter beyond the initial call when the body was discovered. Aside from her, nobody cared.

  Suddenly her eyes widened. She’d been going about this entirely the wrong way. She knew somebody who would not only care but would make everyone know exactly how much he cared. The police might be able to simply brush her off, but she had access to someone with a long history of stirring the pot and getting results, particularly with the police. She smiled as she picked up her phone and called Bernie. Minutes later, she grabbed her jacket and was on her way back out into the driving rain.

  Chapter Four

  Garden Island Correctional Facility was situated on the southernmost tip of Garden Island, a narrow sliver of land off the coast of Kingston, Ontario. The original building on the site was a fortress constructed in 1811 in preparation for impending war with the United States. Situated approximately five miles off the Kingston coast, it was considered a prime strategic location. How impregnable it was would never be discovered since not a single shot was fired, at it or from it, during its entire history. When hostilities with America ceased in 1814, the fortress was converted into a military barracks, but its inconvenient location made it impractical, and it was decommissioned in the 1830s. Thereafter it was used only sporadically and stood empty and untended for decades at a stretch.

  In 1902 the Canadian government once again saw the strategic advantage to the island and constructed one of the nation’s first and, at that time, most modern and sophisticated maximum security prisons. A ferry service for visitors and family members was established in the 1920s, and by the 1950s, the beginnings of a tiny town had begun to spring up near the opposite end of the island. A motel, grocery store, two restaurants, and a laundromat formed the basis of extended facilities for visitors and correctional officers alike. Over the years, houses were constructed, and later a few apartment buildings, for officers to live in part-time or stay in between shifts.

  Often referred to in the media as “The Canadian Alcatraz” or “Alcatraz North,” Garden Island boasted comparable statistics on prisoner escapes, with only one confirmed successful escape and none at all in nearly seventy years.

  In 1975 the super-maximum unit was added, the first of its kind in Canada. A revolutionary design intended specifically to house the nation’s most violent and dangerous criminals, it was regularly the target of special interest and prisoners’ rights groups for substandard conditions.

  ***

  A pair of correctional officers climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing of D Block—the supermax unit. The stairway topped out at a heavy gate at the narrow end of the block, which was laid out in a rectangular shape. A walkway ran the entire way around, with cells lining both of the longer sides. There were twenty cells in all, ten to a side, fourteen of which were currently occupied.

  A buzzer echoed throughout the block, followed by the rattle of keys and the metallic clang of the heavy sliding gate opening. The two guards stepped through to the right, rounded the corner, and walked down the corridor toward the third cell, the one that housed Eldon Grant, notorious serial killer and D Block’s longest-tenured resident.

  While serving time in his native New Brunswick for murder in the early 90s and impatiently watching as his appeals dried up, Grant had taken advantage of a gap in the prison’s security. He managed to escape and elude all manner of law enforcement and remained at large for more than ten months. During this period, his hometown was the site of a rash of homicides uncharacteristic to the region. He was ultimately recaptured and subsequently tried and convicted for five brutal murders. Many felt the actual figure was probably much higher given the number of unsolved killings that took place while he was on the loose, but the prosecution could only tie five to him. As it turned out, five was enough: he was found guilty and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. Nine months into his sentence, he made another daring escape attempt. Even though he ultimately failed to get away, at that point, Corrections Canada thought it would be a good idea to put him somewhere that he would have a more difficult time running away from, and transferred him to the supermax unit at Garden Island, where he was to remain indefinitely.

  Grant was aware of Garden Island and wanted no part of it. He did everything he could to avoid the transfer, to no avail. Once he’d arrived, he spent the first two years in his new home loudly decrying the legal system and his unconstitutional transfer to the super-maximum security facility. He demanded access to the press to let the world know the details of how he’d been wronged and of all the deplorable conditions the inmates in general, but he, in particular, was subjected to daily.

  But one day in year two of his incarceration, for reasons nobody could discern, he inexplicably appeared to accept his fate and changed his entire demeanor. Gone was the troublesome convict, the angry, self-styled political prisoner, the escape artist. In his place was an eerily calm inmate, seemingly resigned to his sentence and new lot in life in cell Block D on Garden Island.

  Ironically, not long after his transformation, the media became interested in him again. That ship, as far as Grant was concerned, had sailed. He repeatedly and consistently denied any interest in speaking with them, and the warden was more than happy to concur. He knew about the potential powder keg on D Block—not only Grant but all of the inmates there, each a quasi-celebrity in his own right due to the circumstances that had landed them there.

  Years passed and stretched into decades until the day Grant put in a request for interview time. He wanted to talk, and for reasons known only to himself, he specifically wanted Amy Watson. Watson had sort of fallen off the radar in recent years but had at one point been one of the hottest reporters in the nation, known for her hard-hitting style and her ability to sniff out and chase down the biggest stories. The request out of the blue puzzled the warden, but he mulled it over and hesitantly decided to allow it. He doubted anyone would have much interest in a feature story on such long-dead news, even if it turned out Watson was interested in doing something with it.

  As it turned out, Amy had recently parted ways with her most recent employer on bad terms. Low on options and running out of time, she was indeed interested and immediately jumped at the opportunity. The arrangements were made, the parameters were established, and Eldon Grant was scheduled to give his first interview in over two decades.

  Grant sat on the bunk inside the cell with his elbows propped on his knees and his chin resting on the tips of his slender, tented fingers. His eyes were closed, but he was fully alert and aware, as he almost always was. He’d heard the guards as they approached his cell, was quite sure he knew which ones they were, and knew they were on their way to get him.

  One of the guards gently tapped on the bars of the cell with his baton. “Time to go, Grant,” he said. He glanced up at the sound of his name and smiled in recognitio
n of the guards. He’d been right on both counts and inwardly praised himself for his anticipatory prowess.

  “Afternoon, fellas.” He spoke in a soft, clear voice that betrayed a hint of his maritime accent. He rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion, with a grace that belied his age, and stepped toward them. He extended his large hands through the bars and awaited the handcuffs that were always secured in place before any of the prisoners were allowed outside their cells.

  The second guard waved him off. “Sorry, Eldon, we’ve got to go with the full treatment today. Step back, please.”

  Eldon immediately stepped to the middle of the cell and turned his back to the door, his arms extended to the sides. The guard slid the cell door open, and the pair stepped inside. They searched him briefly, then, satisfied he had no weapons or other contraband on his person, told him to turn and face them. They produced a thick wooden block about a foot long with concave grooves set into either end. Grant placed his wrists into the grooves and held the block aloft while one of the guards shackled his hands together. Another pair of handcuffs was firmly attached around his forearms just above the block, ensuring it would remain in place and keep his hands apart. His legs were shackled together, slightly further apart than his hands, to allow him to walk but not run. A chain was then connected between the leg and wrist shackles.

  Grant endured the entire process without incident or complaint. Not that the guards had expected any problems; Eldon Grant had more or less been a model prisoner during most of his twenty-five-year stay, and at sixty-seven years old, seemed to all outward appearances to have lost whatever fire had landed him there in the first place.

  The three of them stepped out of the cell and proceeded along the corridor. One guard walked a few paces in front while the other trailed behind the prisoner. The atmosphere was relaxed; all three were familiar with each other, had known each other for a number of years, and they chatted amiably during the walk.

  “So, Eldon…your big moment with the hot-shot reporter. You excited?”

  Grant smiled. “You know the drill in here, fellas. Don’t let the highs get you too high, or the lows get you too low.”

  The other guard asked what both of them had been wondering. “Just curious, how did you manage to convince the warden to let this happen? You know this sort of thing never happens, right?”

  “Yes, I know that,” Grant said but didn’t elaborate.

  Neither guard got the answer they wanted, but they didn’t press the matter, and as they continued along, the conversation drifted to other matters.

  Chapter Five

  Jennifer shook the rain from her hood and slipped off her jacket as she walked into the diner. The shop’s owner, Betty, was parked behind the counter as always. Jen smiled at her and stepped over to say hello.

  “Mornin’ Jen,” Betty greeted with a weary smile. She reached under the counter, fished around for a moment, and pulled out a copy of the morning newspaper, which she set on the counter. “Miserable day out there, by the looks of things.”

  Jennifer nodded. “It’s coming down pretty hard, all right.” She picked up the paper and glanced at the front page. “Any good news in this thing today?”

  “Oh, ‘bout as much as any other day,” Betty chuckled. “Gonna have a bite of breakfast this morning, or just a slug o’ mud?”

  “Just coffee, for now, thanks, hon.” She scanned the room and spotted Bernie seated at a table near the far side. “Actually, keep it hot for me. I’ll be back for it in a few minutes. I see someone I’d like to say hello to.”

  She left the counter and walked over to where Bernie sat, smiling in spite of herself at the sight of him. Bernie Rose was a short, round man who wore thick glasses and sported a thick, bushy moustache with more than a few strands of gray dusted in among the black. He had a thick head of bristly, wiry hair that stuck out in random directions. As usual, he was untucked and slovenly, decked out in sweat pants and sneakers, his most common outfit of choice.

  As always, he had a coffee cup in one hand and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lower lip. It irritated Betty to no end, the focal point of many a disparaging glance, but since he was a regular and never tried to light up indoors, she tended to let it slide. And as always, whenever he was planted someplace where he could set his coffee down, he was scribbling frantically in a small notebook. Despite his comical appearance, he was all business, the steaming mug clutched in his free hand and a miserable expression on his pudgy face.

  He glanced up as she approached and forced a smile. “G’morning, kiddo,” he said.

  “Hi, Bernie, it’s nice to see you,” she said, and took a seat across from him.

  “You too. It’s been too long.” He blew on his coffee and took a small sip. “And to what do I owe the pleasure? What’s new and exciting in the world of derelict addicts?”

  “Not nice. Especially coming from a ‘man of the people’ such as yourself.”

  “Fine. How are all the troubled souls of the hopelessly downtrodden these days then?”

  She favored him with a look of mock exasperation. “Actually, not so good,” she said. “One of them died last night.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He took another sip then set his cup down with a grimace. “Goddamn swill. It’s got to be the worst excuse for coffee in the city.” He withdrew a pill bottle from his shirt pocket and shook two out, then popped them into his mouth and chased them with another sip of coffee. “I’m sure that happens from time to time, though, right? I mean, these guys aren’t exactly living the safest lifestyle.”

  “They aren’t, but this one stood out for me because of the way he died. That and the fact there have now been eight similar deaths.”

  “Eight?” His eyebrows rose slightly. “Over what period of time?”

  “A little over a year, give or take.”

  Without waiting for his response, she excused herself, got up, and headed for the counter to order a coffee and give him a chance to mull her information over. He was popping more pills by the time she returned. She pretended not to notice.

  “So, eight deaths…that’s a lot for a year, or even two, I take it?”

  Jen nodded. “For this area, it is, yes.” She didn’t elaborate, instead giving him a chance to work his way through the facts for himself.

  “Okay, so an unusually large number of guys have died. Why is this just now an issue? Why not after number seven? Or four?”

  She pursed her lips and considered his question. It was a valid one. Leave it to Bernie to dig for the angle. “I guess it’s because the one who died yesterday... Buddy...was a special case.”

  “What was so special about him?”

  “He was a troubled soul, no question of that. And he had his problems. But Bernie, he was one of the nicest men you’d ever hope to meet. I mean, nobody ever had a bad word to say about him. He never hurt or bothered anyone, just a harmless fellow struggling with his demons.”

  “You’re saying the other ones had it coming?”

  “No, I’m not saying that,” she replied. “And they didn’t. But some of them…I don’t know, kind of went around with a bit of a swagger. A chip on their shoulder, maybe. There were a few altercations at the shelter involving them. These men don’t have much, but one thing most of them have in common is a strong sense of pride. They don’t let things slide, and they don’t take kindly to being slighted.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you chalk the deaths up to revenge, or just boys being boys?”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. I’m not saying there are never fights between them—of course, there are. But there’s a sense of….” She searched for the right word. “Fraternity, you might say. A sort of sibling rivalry among virtual strangers. They fight and pick at each other, but at the end of the day, they look out for one another.”

  He sat quietly a moment and processed all he
’d been told. “Why isn’t anyone talking about this? Eight homeless men, all from the same shelter in the same little town, all die of...how did they die, anyway?”

  “Natural causes, according to the medical examiner,” she said. “And before you say it, yes, a number of them were older and not in the best of health. But there’s more to it than that.”

  “To say the least,” he said. “Have you seen how these guys live?”

  “Every day, as a matter of fact,” she said, a little defensively. “Have you?”

  As much as Bernie enjoyed pushing Jen’s buttons for the reaction, he knew when to back off. “Indeed I have. But fair point. Even still, you have to admit it’s probably not inconceivable to have that many guys die over that time period.”

  Betty arrived and set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Bernie. He eyed the food with suspicion and picked at the eggs with his fork. “I hope this is better than the coffee,” he muttered.

  Betty pursed her lips and jabbed a finger toward the cigarette. “Don’t even think of lighting that thing in here,” she ordered.

  Jen snickered, and Betty favored her with a smile, then returned to the counter. Bernie removed the cigarette from his mouth and tucked it behind his ear. He scooped a forkful of food into his mouth and gestured toward Jen.

  “You were saying?”

  “Actually, it is unusual,” she said. “Even accounting for some drifting away to other places or those who for whatever reason decide they prefer it outdoors to the shelter, it’s still far too many to lose in such specific ways, from such a relatively small sample group.”