Death in Sioux Lookout: Book one in the Death in Sioux Lookout Trilogy

By Richard Schwindt

When disgraced Toronto Social Worker, Chris Allard, is joined by his wife in the ranks of the unemployed, he reluctantly accepts a consulting job in a remote Northwestern Ontario community. What he finds in Sioux Lookout is - murder. Before he's done Chris will discover that he has made a journey in time as well as space. He'll find that he is uniquely qualified to observe both the best and worst of the suspects - provided he has the courage to look inwards and do the same for himself. This is the exciting first book in the Death in Sioux Lookout Trilogy. It will be followed by Minnitaki Lake Mystery and The Vermilion River Murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 10, 1994
• ISBN: 9780992105433

Book preview

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Part 1: November

A brief history lesson in Scarborough

The airport limousine arrived nearly twenty minutes late, racing up the street into my driveway then honking loudly, even though I was waiting by the door. I had forgotten to call the night before like they always asked, and now paid the penalty. Rushing out the door, I kissed Kate quickly, then stumbled down the steps with my briefcase and valise. The limo's trunk was already open and the driver stood waiting. I waved quickly to my wife and she waved back.

A damp autumn wind swept down the small crescent dodging minivans and maple saplings. Losing no time I climbed into the lush rear seat of the car and settled in. As the driver backed out the driveway I stole one last regretful look at the unraked leaves scudding across the lawn towards the sidewalk.

Last night I'd retired early but hadn't been able to sleep. So I arose, made a cup of tea in the microwave, and shuffled downstairs to pull my dog-eared History of Scarborough from the shelf. Then I sat and read under the dim light of a single lamp.

In Scarborough, my lifelong home, the process of razing the past had been inclusive; obliterating all but small shards of its heritage and in its place planting seven-elevens, cheap apartment houses where you could buy Crack cocaine, Pizza Huts, condos, and hydro fields that come with garden plots for suburban prisoners. Without this book I would not have believed the land on which my home stood had any history at all.

Back in the early sixties the badge identifying my boy scout troop, the fourth Scarborough West, had borne a picture of a colourful Viking ship sailing past the Scarborough Bluffs. According to legend, the ships had somehow navigated this far inland through the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario, though to what purpose no one knows. Perhaps the Vikings sailed to the mouth of the Rouge river, disembarked and poled a raft into the forest to meet Indians; trading iron goods for salmon. As an impressionable boy I had found this image, probably fictional, vivid and exciting.

Less exciting, but more real, after a few hundred more years passed, was the arrival of David and Mary Thomson. They were the first of the hard-headed Scots settlers who arrived to methodically saw down the trees, conquer the men and beasts who inhabited the land, and begin to scratch out farm plots. In the years that followed, the forests disappeared forever, replaced by farms, vineyards, and small communities with names like Agincourt, Malvern and Scarborough Village, that grew, prospered, expanded then vanished into the maw of the metropolitan Toronto region.

In the book sepia photographs show stone-faced farm boys standing in patches of lilies by small creeks that watered the cows and irrigated the fields. And plain wood frame halls where people met, worshipped, feasted and played for a hundred years before they and the buildings disappeared.

My three bedroom yellow brick detached bungalow in north Scarborough was erected in the early seventies on land that had been farmed for generations by the Lamaroux family. My patch of green lawn and sugar maple, and others like it in the immediate surrounding area. There is no evidence there was ever anything else.

I try to imagine what the early settlers did in the darkness and expanse of the forest before civilization arrived and levelled the ground. The farmers and drifters, women and men who loved, suffered, then died in silence. Of course I fear the worst, obsessed with the vicissitudes of horror, misery and hidden degradation. As appalling as those thoughts are I need them to furnish my own need for a sense of time and place.

But even that fascination began to pall and by one a.m. I'd forced myself to go upstairs and switch off the light. Tomorrow I was going on a trip. On business. To Sioux Lookout.

The Pakistani driver whistled to himself as he turned off the ramp onto the 401 and accelerated towards Pearson airport. We briefly discussed the politics of Islam before I faded away into silence. I was, by now, preoccupied with my fear of flight and, again, I asked myself what desperation had led me to this job in Sioux Lookout.

What terminal? the driver said as we turned onto Dixon road. I looked out at the bleak expanse of roadways, warehouses and hotels that lay ahead. I could already hear the roar of jets lifting off the tarmac, even through the hush of the limo. Someone honked loudly to our side and then pulled out quickly beside us. A yuppie, I think, in a dirty white jaguar; perhaps late for his executive class seat to Singapore or Bangkok.

Two. I said. From what I could see of his face in the rear-view mirror he looked content, weaving his way into the airport labyrinth. I think he was smiling behind that broad moustache. He stopped at the departures deck, just before the cab stand, with a decisive jerk on the brakes. He helped me unload, then as I fumbled with my wallet looked eloquently up at the slash of grey sky overhead and shivered. I gave him a tip and shrugged. I was going to Sioux Lookout where it was presumably colder still.

I hadn't always feared flight. I used to enjoy it. Until last February when our Airbus, returning from Havana, had dropped almost a mile in an air pocket. Amidst the screams of the dying (or soon to be), flying paperbacks, and spilled rum punch I had freaked out, fallen into the aisle, curled into a fetal position and gasped for breath.

Kate, whose embarrassment only subsided days later, commented that my bad conscience and increased drinking went a long way towards explaining this outburst. For months I had refused to even consider launching myself aloft again. If she hadn't threatened me this time I would have turned down Bob Wong's offer out of hand. Well she didn't actually threaten me with anything; it was more a look; but I was still insecure and scared of her finally abandoning me and taking the kids. She was also temporarily unemployed and that made two of us.

A business opportunity

Bob had called one morning while I was listening to Morningside on the radio and asked if my practise was busy these days. I resented this, even though he had no way of knowing up there in his Bloor West office with the solarium, Mensa IQ secretary, leather furniture, and five thousand buck salt water fish tank with the little bitty shark that I hadn't made enough in the last three months to pay the phone bill.

Chris, he said I've got a job I just can't fit in anywhere. The psychology department at Queens has asked me to give a series of lectures on the new social deviance - pretty prestigious stuff - so when this little job in the north came up, my flexibility was shot.

That's tough, I said, not meaning to sound so sarcastic. What's up?

The CAS in Sioux Lookout has put in a family therapy setup; mirror, video, observation room, what have you.

So?

Really Chris. Are you OK? He didn't wait for an answer. A lady named Kerrin Fujiama called me last week and asked if I could come up and train them. They spent all the dough installing this stuff then realized no one knew how to use it. So now they've got some kind of grant to hire a trainer. You want the job?

Where is Sioux Lookout? I asked.

Up north somewhere; maybe near Muskoka or Georgian Bay. Listen, Chris, I've got an appointment. You want it? A little fresh air might be just what you need.

What's it pay? I heard a sigh at the other end.

They came in well under my per diem but I think you should get five-fifty a day out of them.

When do they want me up there?

And so I agreed. The following day, after Morningside, mostly from idle curiosity, I'd looked on the official Ontario road map, had to flip it over, and only then found Sioux Lookout just above the gas company ad in the little box covering the billion or so square miles of Northwestern Ontario. Sioux Lookout was situated, from what I could discern, about nine hundred miles north and west of Muskoka. I suddenly wanted to back out: the only passage up there would be through the sky. But I had already made the cardinal error of informing Kate and she would no doubt feel that giving up more than fifteen hundred bucks for three days work because of a little flight anxiety was irrational.

I called Ms Fujiama who asked me with much concern in her voice, how soon I could come. Flipping over the blank pages in my datebook, I asked her how soon they could book me a seat on the plane.

Two weeks later a Sikh security guard was running an electric wand over my buttocks chatting about the Maple Leafs prospects with his comrade who was riffling through my briefcase. That indignity over, I pocketed my keys and loose change and walked the mile or so to the departure gate. There I looked out the window at the rows of waiting aircraft. They sat impassively in the rain that had started to fall. Attached to some kind of mechanical intravenous, dwarfed by the airbuses and intercontinental jets sat an ageing DC9, consigned in its last days to running back and forth between Toronto and Thunder Bay. I sat down glumly to await the boarding call and surreptitiously surveyed my fellow passenger to see if they looked like they were destined to die in the near future.

When they called for us we fell like sheep into line and allowed ourselves to be herded through the gate onboard. I took a seat over the wing and sat quietly listening to the hum of the jet turbines as waves of terror shot through my brain. I forgot everything I'd ever learned about treating anxiety and panic; obviously needing the space in my mind to panic myself. I visualized tragedy; the forlorn faces of Kate and the girls as they received news of my horrible demise; the headlines, the government inquiry, and my bleached cadaver floating along the bottom of Lake Superior.

A man sat down beside me in the aisle seat. A competent looking business man in a grey suit with a briefcase which he opened immediately. He clearly flew every day and would view my cowardice with contempt. This reassured me somehow. I didn't mind being regarded with contempt. This man was clearly a survivor. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes as the engines screamed out, we fishtailed briefly, and then shot forward into the stormy skies. I said my prayers, tensed muscles, strained in my seat and shut my eyes tight as the jet clawed forward through the black clouds and sheets of rain.

I opened my eyes again to the approaching tinkle of the drinks tray. Minutes later, clutching a double scotch in a plastic glass, I was able to resume speculation about the job. Specifically, how sensual the supervisor, Kerrin Fujiama, had sounded on the phone.

My glass emptied itself quickly. I looked up but the steward was trapped aft with a crabby passenger who wanted milk for her baby. Sensual was definitely out this year; no one was sensual, except for Kate - some of the time. More Scotch would help. My eyes closed again.

We struck turbulence, the red overhead seatbelt sign lit up to inform us and the plane began to shake. Someone cleared their throat; my neighbour, the grey-haired suit with the gold Rolex. I looked over. His eyes were red and wide. One hand reached over stiffly and clutched my sleeve. We're going to die, he said. I jerked my hand away and leaned back to contemplate this interesting statement. It settled me considerably and when the pilot announced the coming descent into Thunder Bay I took the news with equanimity.

On some level social workers are always calmed by the distress of others. In my case, as a veteran of nearly twenty years, the distress of a fellow traveller gave rise to a whole library of helpful responses. Which of course doesn't explain why I ignored him. That was explained by the fact that despite my ability to recall helpful responses I remained burnt out and corrupt.

I had been appointed department head of Social Work in a Toronto teaching hospital at thirty-five. Seven years later I was thrown out; hailed everywhere as an example of the professions integrity and willingness to punish gross malpractice.

With this charming benediction following me about it was obviously not the optimal time to put up my shingle as a consultant, but I didn't see that I had much choice. I knew I was the only person who would be willing to hire me full time. What I subsequently found out was that no one was willing to take that chance on a contract or part time basis either.

One example: As much as I hated Bob Wong's silver spoon corporate psychology practise, he was one of the few colleagues who still deigned to talk to me after the roof collapsed. Under his gleeful avarice, he was a remarkably decent fellow. He loved living well and resembled a (slightly) smaller Chinese version of a Sumo wrestler. I once had an unworthy thought that he had been too busy motivating executives to notice that I'd been fired. But he had called one quiet afternoon in May and caught me glumly looking up a cake recipe for the kids.

Chris, he began, very formally, I'm at the Harboard Psychiatric Response Unit. They're looking for some input on family treatment of patients with compulsive disorders; I know that's down your alley... I heard a faint voice in the background: Is that Chris Allard you were talking about? Then Bob's sweatless palm (or so I assume) covered the receiver. A few long minutes later Bob came back on the line and tersely informed me that he would have to call me back. He hadn't; not until the Sioux Lookout job came up. I think he had been deeply embarrassed and lost considerable face.

I also knew from my years working with Bob that he had a carefully concealed vindictive streak.

No doubt the eventual trainer at the Harboard clinic didn't know the difference between a compulsive disorder and gum disease.

The jet touched down with an inelegant thump and the roar of the reverse thrusters knocked me from my reverie. I looked out the window at Thunder Bay.

But I couldn't see anything because of the darkness and falling snow. Looking down at my ticket and checking my watch while we taxied in I saw to my surprise that I had to transfer almost immediately to another plane; onto something called Bearskin Air.

I deseated, deplaned, and destepped then hustled through the clamour and chilling darkness of the tarmac into the terminal. The place was packed with people and hummed with their voices; native mothers with tikinagans, bush workers on their way out somewhere, government officials, businessmen and reuniting Italian families. The Bearskin Air counter was easy to find so I carefully threaded through the crowd to take my place in line. We all faced the same problem: the flight, it seemed, was delayed at the Sioux Lookout end; it would arrive soon, pending the weather.

Where is the bar? I asked, speaking over the heads of those who stood at the front of the line. I would have to consider this connecting flight business further over a drink. The counter attendant directed me towards the far corner of the terminal where a slick overexposed little bar had been awkwardly married to a cafeteria. Perching myself on an aluminium stool I called for a double scotch. I looked up to pay the girl and saw Clark Lemmon, down the opposite end, waving to me with much enthusiasm.

I looked down towards my reflection in the glass overlay. I thought about Kate; how she'd smiled at me last night as we undressed for bed. Her man, her newly resurrected hero, was going into the north woods to earn money to buy food.

Kate had survived the byzantine politics of an International trading firm for ten years, safe in her research position. She was necessary, competent and difficult to replace. Oh well. The new boss came to town with new ideas, and , it seemed, his own personal researcher. By Kate's account, a blonde swimsuit model disguised in a business suit. I didn't think she'd be on the street too long but in the meantime we did have to eat and buy breakfast cereal. I had to work. And at this moment I bitterly cursed that reality. I drained my scotch and looked up.

Clark Lemmon still sat there waving to me over a tonic water; no way out, I had to talk to him.

Clark was a tall man with feral eyes and a faint resemblance in profile to Benito Mussolini. He was dressed in an open parka, hood fringed with some kind of fur that managed to highlight his balding dome. His face was twisted into a grotesque rictus of a smile. He was a cynical malign individual, author of a book entitled: Intimacy and Love, a journey into trust; and for many years had been counted one of Toronto's busiest psychologists.

Clark, is that you? I said with false cheer. I wished it wasn't but I did have to own up to the obvious.

Chris! he said heartily, I haven't seen you since they fired you at the hospital. How ya bin?

Oh wonderful, Clark. I love the challenge of adversity. What on earth brings you up here?

Contract with some tribal council in Sioux Lookout, Chris. Big bucks; if you don't charge these guys extra they think you're no good. Wawagitchee - something -or- other. He picked up the sliver of lemon from his tonic and gnawed at it for a moment.

So because you are, in fact, no good you charge them extra high.

Aw Chris, you've changed since you were canned; you never used to have such a sharp tongue. If I want sarcasm I can call my ex-wife. He picked up his drink now, sniffed it and put it down again. "So what are you