One Little, Two Little, Three Little Indians

By Carl Faehrmann

One Little, Two Little, Three Little Indians is a book which explores the dark history of the mistreatment of Aboriginal peoples in Canada. Seen through the eyes of a fictional police inspector Joe Donnelly, a string of murders rattles the capital and the police struggle to find the connection between the victims and ultimately prevent more bloodshed. The police team works tirelessly at finding clues and following leads as they attempt to create a profile of the murderer, all the while struggling to comprehend why anyone would commit these gruesome murders of young Aboriginal women. Their search resurfaces the injustices committed by the government to thousands of Aboriginals in residential schools. Moreover, the number of murdered and missing Aboriginal women continues to grow every month. The story emphasizes that doing nothing to stop this should no longer be an option. To do nothing would be a travesty to every Canadian man, woman, and child who is missing a daughter, a sister, a mother, an aunt or a grandmother. The book is a call to action to all those who want to be truly proud of their country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Faehrmann
• Release date: Apr 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311816092

Carl Faehrmann

Carl Faehrmann is the author of over a hundred unpublished, fictional, Joe Donnelly short stories, many of which were written after hearing of injustices against Aboriginal Peoples. He is a high school law and history teacher, who has spent the last fifteen years engaging students in discussion about human rights, violence against women, and the need for change. Carl lives in Ottawa with his wife and young daughter, and they like to spend their summers in Dresden, Germany.For further information and action, please see:www.idlenomore.caAm I Next MovementNo More Stolen Sisters Movement at Amnesty International Canada to sign a petition asking for a National Inquiry into missing and murdered Aboriginal women.Or send an email to your Member of Parliament and the Prime Minister at: [e-mail] to voice your concerns.

Book preview

Prologue

Somewhere in North America, 1876

C’mon Pa, one more time, said the fair-haired boy of about seven years of age. His mother looked up with disapproval.

Charles, please stop saying that to them. It’s not right.

Oh Grace, it’s just something they think is funny. It’s harmless, Charles answered.

Please Pa, just one more time, said his three kids in unison.

Okay, but then you have to do your chores.

His children sat quietly on the floor waiting for him to begin.

Ten little Injuns standing in a line, one toddled home and then there were nine; nine little Injuns swinging on a gate, one tumbled off and then there were eight; one little, two little, three little, four little, five little Injun boys, six little, seven little, eight little, nine little, ten little Injun boys. Eight little Injuns gayest under heaven, one went to sleep and then there were seven; seven little Injuns cutting up their tricks, one broke his neck and then there were six; six little Injuns all alive, one kicked the bucket and then there were five; five little Injuns banging on the door, one got in and then there were four; four little Injuns up on a spree, one got fuddled and then there were three; three little Injuns out on a canoe, one tumbled over and then there were two; two little Injuns fooling around with a gun, one shot the other and there was one; one little Injun living all alone, he got married and then there were none.

Thanks, Pa! his children shouted, running outside to do their chores.

I wish you wouldn’t keep repeating that, Charles.

It’s harmless, Grace. They hear much worse from your father. Why don’t you chastise him when he says the only good Indian is a dead Indian?

Residential School in Northern Ontario, Canada, October 18th, 1955*

Dear Diary,

They laughed at me three times today. They laughed at me when I said I want to go home, they laughed at me when I said I want to speak Algonquin with my cousin, and they laughed at me when I said I didn’t want Mr. Richards teaching me because he always put his arms around my waist. They tell us this school will make us better Canadians. How can picking up garbage, cutting wood, and cleaning the school make us better Canadians? I wonder. I want to go home, I want to eat my mother’s cooking again, and I want to see my grandmother because she is very sick. Every Sunday we sit in a church and talk about things I know nothing about. I was smacked three times yesterday because I didn’t make my bed properly. Each and every day is a test of character, for all of us. When they’re not looking, or when we’re canoeing, we speak our language and play our own games. I made a pact with a few of the girls to write down our stories so that people will know what happened here. Diary, I can’t write often, as I’m hiding you, so they can’t find my story and throw it in the fire. I can’t wait until June because they say that we may get to go home if we are good. Good night!

Hurit Thompson

* (pages found in a wall in 1996 when the school was closed and torn down)

Chapter One

Present Day: Ottawa, Canada

Every fisherman since the beginning of time dreamed about the one that got away. Walter Hasting would never forget that night, and wished the horror it had locked into his mind would fade with it. He was wrong.

He began, as usual, by picking up his friends for an evening of fishing on the Ottawa River, where he believed trout would be biting. They drove to their secret spot, which would not be revealed to any outsider, as most fishermen are a suspicious and superstitious lot.

The June night was perfect. The winds were calming down as usual, and the truck was packed and ready to go. Don and Ryan were waiting patiently, with the hot coffee in a thermos; hopefully, Hasting thought it would be spiked with something strong, but Ryan was listening to his wife too much, and laying off some of the hard stuff. They were better off that way, anyway — they weren’t getting any younger.

Ready to roll? Hasting asked as he pulled over to the side of the country road.

Yes, sir, they shouted in unison. They were never late for anything, which was one of the main reasons they all got along. Not like nowadays, when people would show up whenever they wanted, if they even showed up at all.

They rolled up onto a secluded spot near the great Ottawa River. Hasting looked around but saw no cars or people. He was glad their spot had remained undiscovered; people probably hadn’t fished here since Native Canadians roamed the area centuries ago. The thought warmed his heart, as he longed for a simpler life. The noise and pollution during his lifetime had done much damage to his beloved lakes and rivers.

He pulled the vehicle into an old logging path, and parked where he was sure no one could see it. It wasn’t worth the risk, he thought.

I should get first pick again, guys, because I found the spot, said Hasting.

Finding the perfect spot was never easy. He sent his friends east and west and made sure they had enough separation. He was careful with his footing, as in his old age he had seen many good friends go into a downward spiral after taking a spill. Making doubly sure he didn’t slide into the cold river, he set up his foldable chair in his favourite spot. It was flat and solid and gave him a beautiful view of the area. This is the good life, he thought.

You guys good? he shouted into the night.

All good, they shouted back in unison.

Smallest fish has to pay for drinks at poker night. Don’t forget, Hasting quipped.

By the time he baited the hooks and put both lines in the water, his hands were already becoming cold. Damn circulation, he thought. A fisherman doesn’t wear gloves! This is June. Who would wear gloves in June anyway? It was almost the first day of summer and the low tonight was going to be below five degrees Celsius.

Hasting got comfortable in his chair, got his net in position and was ready for anything. He must have nodded off when he heard a scream — not really loud, but not really faint, either. More of a whimper, but he was sure it was a woman. He must have been dreaming, or was Don playing a practical joke on him again? His friends knew not to make too much noise because that would scare off the fish. Maybe it was the wind, he thought. But the wind was calm. Maybe it was a dog or coyote; those damn coyotes were making a comeback, he heard. Hasting looked up to the sky — it was a full moon. He had never seen any animals this close to the river. I must have been dreaming, he muttered to himself.

He looked up and down the river. He couldn’t see Don or Ryan, but he rarely did, anyway — they often moved around, and didn’t have a favourite spot. He rarely heard them, either, except when someone wanted a refill. They were experienced fishermen, and rule #3 for them was keep your yap shut, so you don’t scare the fish.

This wasn’t bathing weather, but some teenagers could or would probably go for a quick dip after having some fun or after a few drinks. But he had never seen any kids here, and tonight was a school night. Even as a youngster over sixty years ago, he would have had second thoughts about jumping into the river tonight. The water looked cold and probably felt much colder.

Off in the dark, two lights appeared for a brief second. What was that? he wondered. A truck near the shore, a boat, or somebody with some flashlights, he guessed. Was it Don and Ryan? They were most likely downriver, hundreds of metres away. Can’t be teenagers, he reasoned.

Maybe I’ll just mosey on down and see what’s happening, Hasting repeated to himself. No luck here anyway with the fish. Packing up his gear was a hassle, but old men never complained, he knew. Except to their wives, he acknowledged. Men today were different.

Hello! Anyone there? he shouted into the still night.

Silence, complete silence, was his answer. This is going to be a wild goose chase, and I’m going to sound like an idiot if I tell the guys what happened. As expected, he found a little clearing that took him to the water’s edge. Another great spot, he mused. He dragged his chair down and laid down his tackle box. Maybe Ryan had put too much of that schnapps into the coffee again, he joked to himself. I’m going to have to stop drinking that stuff if I’m going to drive home, he laughed.

After setting up his chair he was ready to go. It was sad that these chairs were so uncomfortable. As a young man, he could stand all day at work and then fish through the night, and never have an ache or pain. Now, if he stood in line at the grocery store, he would stiffen up. This was the march of time for old people. Falling in love with the chair or sofa was a death sentence. He knew it, everybody knew it, but still, nothing changed. Maybe I should just toss this chair into the cold river, Hasting lamented.

As a few clouds rolled by, he scanned the water and spotted something floating in the distance. What is that? Too big for a bird or a beaver, and anyway, no beavers dam the mighty Ottawa. As a youngster, he had never seen garbage floating in the pristine rivers and lakes. People today, he groaned. I might as well try and pull it in. Probably somebody’s garbage from a boat, or maybe it came from some campers in the area.

Hasting threw out the line again and again. I should be able to hook this in my sleep, he complained. On the tenth or eleventh time, the largest hook he had finally latched on. My good deed for the day, he hoped.

God Almighty, he cursed as he tried to pull it in.

Don, Ryan, get your butts over here, he shouted as loud as he could. I wish I had brought that damn cell phone, he kept saying to himself. But he was too embarrassed to admit he couldn’t figure out how it worked.

What’s going on? Don replied, approaching his position.

It’s about time you showed up. Where have you been? I found this junk floating, but I can’t pull it in.

The two old men grunted and groaned and huffed and puffed. A bulky black sack about three-foot long came into view. Why is this thing so heavy? Hasting wondered.

What are you waiting for, Don? Grab it.

I ain’t getting my feet wet. You found it! Don retorted.

You’ve got to do things yourself nowadays, Hasting thought. I guess some things never change. He grabbed the sack and yanked and yanked. If my back goes out of joint for this, I am never coming back here. He finally got the sack to the water’s edge. It was an old burlap sack, popular in his youth. Who in hell would use this?

Open it! Don said. I want to fish some more. It’s getting late.

Hasting reached down and discovered that the top of the sack was closed with twine, which he could never untie. Can I have your fishing knife, Don? he asked.

Hasting slowly grabbed the knife, which was in dire need of replacement. Don had had this knife probably for fifty years. One cut and then two, and the top of the bag began to loosen. Who would go through all this trouble for garbage? he cursed. Hasting carefully unravelled the top and began opening the sack.

Give me your flashlight, Don. I left mine in the truck.

You know I never use one on a full moon. It scares the fish!

I’ll just slit open the side of the sack then.

It was a decision Hasting would regret for the rest of his remaining years, even for a man who had seen the worst war could offer in Korea. As he slit open the sack and the contents spilled out, all he could remember were the eyes staring back at him; that and the sounds of Don retching and vomiting into the pale, cold waters of the mighty Ottawa River.

Chapter 2

Usually, the incessant ringing of the phone woke Joe Donnelly up, but not this night. It used to wake him out of beautiful dreams of kayaking, camping, or playing with his son; for the last few years, it didn’t seem to matter, as he never slept through the night anymore. This was the curse of a police officer who was perhaps too long on the job.

Donnelly, he answered good-naturedly, as though it was a beautiful afternoon day.

Hey Joe, sorry for waking you, said Officer Holmgren, the night duty officer. We just got a call about a body found in the Ottawa River, near Kanata.

I was on on-call duty twice this week. Where’s O’Brien or Jonesy? he inquired.

O’Brien is out of town, and Jonesy has a bad back again. Sorry Inspector, you’re up tonight.

C’est la vie — email the directions to my phone. Tell Dionne and Forensics to meet me there.

It shouldn’t be this cold in Ottawa in early June, he thought as he jumped into his car. He felt as though he was forgetting something, but that would not have been the first time. Luckily, the drive to Kanata from his west Ottawa home was effortless at this hour. Even during the day, it would have been easily reached, but at two-thirty in the morning, there wasn’t a car in sight except for the odd long-haul trucker.

As he looked up into the sky, he questioned why bad things always happened on a full moon. Though not really superstitious, he often wondered how much a full moon and other natural events shaped the minds of man. Cold winter nights, hot summer evenings, and even vicious thunderstorms brought out the worst in human beings, Donnelly thought.

Where is this stupid street? he muttered to himself.

Even with a full moon, headlights on high beam, a map and a GPS on his phone, he couldn’t seem to find the old logging road that supposedly led to the river. Ottawa had been built on logging and the hauling of logs down the river to the paper mills. He had spent a lot of time on the river, but had never seen so much undergrowth near the water. He could smell the water, as any good sailor could, but finding this private road seemed to be impossible. Who would be here at this time of the night?

As his old Jetta climbed up yet another hill with loose gravel, he considered turning around. What a waste of time. His former girlfriend always said that he would never ask for directions, but what man did? The use of GPS had made the map and asking for directions obsolete. Who could he ask here, anyway?

Just then, he thought he saw a flicker of light to his left. Was that Morse code? If it was, he couldn’t make it out. He hadn’t studied it since his Academy days, which seemed like a lifetime ago. He couldn’t trust his eyesight anymore, which gave him even more concerns. Hasn’t anyone made an app to read Morse code yet?

Donnelly saw the light again, and this time it stayed on. Thank God, he thought! He slowed down, and hoped his car would stop on this steep incline. I’ve got to get myself some new tires.

O’Brien, is that you? someone shouted in the glow of a flashlight.

No, it’s Joe. Who’s there?

Hey Joe, it’s Frank. I thought Jonesy was up tonight.

Nope, his back is acting up again. My lucky day! Now that I get paid the big bucks, I get to show up for these.

It’s not your lucky night, but I’ll lead you all the way down anyway, Frank Carter replied.

Even with the full moon, Donnelly wouldn’t have been able to follow along on the path if Carter had not brought his heavy duty camping flashlight. It was so big, it could have spotted German bombers in WWII. The dense, wet undergrowth tore at his legs and soaked him thoroughly in a matter of minutes. He hoped there was no poison ivy here, but the dampness had already made him shiver.

After what seemed like an eternity, the path started going downhill. Donnelly knew that meant only one thing — they would be at the river very soon. All the trees and flowers had masked the scent of the water here. He had no idea where he was or how close he actually was to the river. Why didn’t I wear my rubber boots on a night like this? Was that what I forgot? He should have known better, but once he passed the mid-forties, his brain was often absent without leave.

He could finally see that water’s edge in the distance. It looked cold and dark, as it often did at this time of year. Just four weeks ago, he had still seen some pieces of ice remaining from the very cold winter. He could not see the other side of the river. Quebec was off in the distance somewhere, he knew. With all the snowmelt and April rains, the river was a very dangerous place to be, even for an adult. Many a person had died this time of year, for not fearing or respecting the mighty Ottawa enough. This river could swallow someone whole and never relinquish them.

Over here, said Frank.

Donnelly recognized an old potato sack he had seen on farms in his youth. Who used those anymore? It was in about ten centimetres of water, which meant only one thing, unfortunately; he would be catching a cold in about twenty-four hours — he knew from experience.

What have we got?

Look for yourself.

As he got closer to the sack, he felt his feet becoming numb in an instant. Damn, that water is cold, Donnelly thought. As he peered into the open side of the sack, it took every ounce of his being to stand upright and not tip over into the water. His stomach, although nearly empty, began to churn. He had seen many things as a policeman, too many things, but this would change him forever.

Staring back at him was the torso of a young woman, missing her lower legs and her forearms. Had Frank not been there to steady him, he would have been floating in the strong current down the Ottawa River. The wounds were still fresh, and he could smell the blood. She had not been in the water for very long, a few minutes perhaps — her brown hair was still mostly dry. He forced himself to look at her face. Early twenties, about his son’s age, he guessed. She had beautiful, medium-length, brownish hair, which was common with young women in the past few years.

Her face was unmarked. Her brownish eyes were open. They pierced right through Donnelly’s soul and made him shiver. He could almost see the anguish in those beautiful, young eyes. Find my killer, they whispered to him. The person who did this to me was a depraved butcher, they conveyed. He had to look away. The bile rose in his stomach for the second time. He needed to step back and do his job. Luckily, he went on automatic pilot, as most police officers do.

Who found her? Donnelly barely whispered.

Two fishermen found the sack and then opened it up. They thought they were doing a good deed and getting rid of some garbage. I got them warming up in the car. They’re pretty shook up, Frank added.

Anything else in the sack?

The two guys who found her say nothing fell out, but Dionne will go through the area millimetre by millimetre as you know.

Where does one start with a case like this? Donnelly had to act fast. Any evidence was possibly heading downstream by the minute. This was not going to be easy.

I want Forensics here yesterday. Call the Chief. I need the marine unit on this side of the river from Dunrobin and Kanata. The same goes for the Quebec side of the river. Get them all out of bed! Donnelly ordered.

What else?

I want fifty men here inspecting every square inch within two kilometres of this spot, and I don’t care about the overtime. Tell the Chief to see if the Quebec Provincial Police or the Mounties can help us in any way.

You know the Chief doesn’t like sharing with the Mounties, Carter added.

Donnelly pretended not to hear. He hated turf wars in Ottawa with different police forces. The Mounties, the Ontario Provincial Police, the Quebec Provincial Police on the river and the Ottawa Police Service all made his head spin. We’re all on the same side! he wanted to shout from the treetops. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t care who took the credit or who spent the money and resources. It all came from the same pile of money called the taxpayers of Canada.

Hello there! said a shout in the distance. More lights meant that the forensic team was arriving, which included Marc Dionne. Dionne would find everything there was to find because Donnelly had seen his amazing work for the last ten years or so.

Bonjour, Dionne, Donnelly said.

Bonjour, Inspector.

I need a preliminary report in thirty minutes and a full report on my desk by nine a.m. I have ordered in reinforcements. Let me know if you need anything else.

Yes, sir.

Donnelly walked back up the embankment with Carter. The dew was fresh, and he almost lost his footing twice. His socks and pants were soaked, but the sun was rising, which meant the real investigation could begin.

Where are those fishermen?

In my car off the main route about three hundred metres away, replied Carter.

Lead the way.

The trek back to the police cruiser was just as difficult. Wet grass, shrubs, large holes and rocks impeded their progress. Donnelly rehearsed what questions he needed to ask. He had to query them before they got tired. He had at least gotten a few hours of sleep, but these men had been up all night, and Donnelly had learned the hard way what fatigue could do to men, including police officers.

The three men were leaning against the police car, drinking from a thermos. He got close enough to make sure they weren’t drinking Irish coffee. That’s all we need. The men appeared to be in their late seventies, but all seemed fully alert.

Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Inspector Joe Donnelly from the Ottawa Police Service. What are your names, please?

I’m Max Hasting, and these are my friends, Donald Smith and Ryan Baxter.

Donnelly sensed quickly that Hasting was the leader. Maybe they had served in the military together.

Tell me everything right from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out. Let me decide if it’s trivial or not.

"We got here about 10 p.m. as usual. We have been coming here for over twenty-five years. We know every square millimetre within