Five Shallow Graves

By G. R. Daniels

Marty Simcoe wasn’t frightened by the nightmare because it was a rerun - one in a series about a bank robbery and mass murder. As far as he knew, he had committed the bank robbery with his confederates. He had seen them all killed in a dispute over the sharing of the loot. He buried the other five, one by one. He dreamed of doing all this at some time in the past but he didn’t know when. After all, he was only 19 years old now. But, then, the bodies buried in the shallow graves by the river are found. Everything Marty dreamed is coming true.
Inspector Bailey Howard had been doing well in the Toronto Police Homicide Unit. But, now, she gets the job of heading the investigation into the finding of five bodies in shallow graves. She finds it’s a case with ties to a major bank robbery and to some police officers who were on the job when the bodies were buried. She also finds it’s a case that might be solved only if she and Marty admit that reincarnation is real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. R. Daniels
• Release date: Mar 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777220174

G. R. Daniels

G. R. Daniels is the pen name of this author. He is a veteran journalist who has worked as a front-page reporter, editor, tv writer, tv on-air reporter, tv producer, radio producer, internet blogger and website writer. He also is one of the world's busiest media relations trainers and crisis consultants, working on major and one-off projects for corporations, government bodies, institutions and individuals. His popular novels offer heavy doses of action, thrills, intrigue and complex plots. They are fascinating and fun reads from someone who has been there and done that for world-wide audiences. Daniels writes often about his native Canada but also provides his readers with international stories such as Escape from Zaatari. Many readers are joining the growing audience for Daniels' exciting and absorbing novels. Become one and write a review for this outstanding author's works.

Book preview

CHAPTER TWO

Hey Marty. Did you read the chapters Smithton assigned us? The question came from Susan Bagnell, the young woman who usually sat next to him near the front of the bank of seats. Marty was used to Susan’s pleas for help with assignments. She was too busy partying to get to more than half the homework Professor Smithton demanded. 

Yeah, Susan. Marty set his backpack on the floor in front of him and reached into it for the book he needed for the day’s lesson. 

Aw, come on, Marty. You know what I need. Susan’s whine sounded like a ten-year-old. It grated on Marty’s already sensitive nerves. He sighed but with a tiny smile.

It took him half a minute to give Susan the gist of the assigned reading. It was enough, if Smithton asked for Susan’s input, for her to bluff her way through the inquisition. Susan did have a good mind and retained information as long as it came to her in a distilled form. That was why she sat beside Marty who did his homework and was generous about sharing it. Marty sat near her because she was cute and diverted his attention from his bouts of fear of imminent arrest and punishment. 

Her magic worked. Marty spent the rest of the class and the remainder of his day consumed with his studies of economics and political science. He was lucky in that he liked the dense and often tedious subjects. He understood much of what was poured into his skull by the professors and teaching assistants at U of T. Unlike Susan, a fellow sophomore who belonged to a wealthy American family with a home in Westchester County, New York, Marty needed the degree he would eventually get to help him find a real job with an adequate salary. His father was a butcher at a chicken plant and his mother cleaned offices. They lived in a small bungalow in Mississauga, a blue-collar city immediately next to Toronto. Marty worked two summers ago to pay his own tuition and living expenses. Marty did not work this summer but a COVID-19 government bailout was keeping his head above water and his seat plopped down in lecture halls. and classrooms. 

This year was Marty’s second at U of T. He was enrolled in a four-year program that began with an introductory course in poly-sci. He wouldn’t decide on his majors until later in this second year. He was thinking about a career in international affairs, probably with the Canadian Government. To remain on the path to this goal, though, Marty had to deal with his criminal past. Were his dreams figments that would fade with time or were they real memories of things he had done and repressed while awake?  He’d know when the dreams went away - or when the police came and handcuffed him. 

You were really spacey in class today. Susan met Marty at a local pizza eatery just after 6 p.m.  The two met once or twice a week to celebrate successes like answering a Smithton question in front of the class or to console one another for failures like delaying a rent payment because Susan’s daddy hadn’t bothered to send her cheque on time. Susan hadn’t received government money because she wasn’t a citizen of Canada but she and daddy couldn’t care less. Most of the failures, it seemed to Marty, were Susan’s despite her family wealth.

Yeah, had a bad dream. 

"You’re always having bad dreams, man. What this time? 

Nothing too terrible. Marty studied the menu for a minute, then picked the pie they always shared. He got up and placed his order at the counter, picking up a couple of diet cokes to tide them over.

What kind? Susan accepted her drink without acknowledging the beverages he had paid for. She could afford it a lot more than he could but that never dawned on the cute American. 

Same.

She frowned. I’m going to die of Pepperoni poisoning. Worse than COVID...

That’s what the dream was about, Pepperoni slices attacking me. Marty never disclosed his actual dreams to Susan. She could be a witness, he figured. But he had mentioned having nightmares weekly since the beginning of the first term of his second year when he first met the young woman. At first, she had been fascinated but now she was more amused. 

Very funny, Marty. Speaking of your dreams, there is someone you should meet.

What do you mean, someone? And why should I meet him?

Not a him. It’s a her...

Oh god, Marty groaned as a waiter plopped their pizza down in front of them and meandered away. You’re not trying to set me up, are you? I told you I don’t need any complications...

She waved off his protest. No. I wouldn’t set you up, Marty. You think I want to wreck a friendship.

"I’m happy you value our friendship, Marty grinned as he pulled away a slice of pizza. 

Not you, dickhead. I wouldn’t ‘set you up’ with a woman because she’d end up hating me. Susan took a slice of her own and bit off a giant piece. This woman wants to meet you because of your weird reveries.

Marty laughed. He took a bite. Hey, that’s good.

It’s the same as it’s been for six months, said Susan. It had been that long since they shared their first meal at the pizza joint. 

CHAPTER THREE

Drayton Jacks was a solitary boy. He lived in a one-bedroom condominium unit with his parents. His room was the den, an eight foot by ten-foot room without a window or a closet. It contained a double bed, a highboy to hold his clothes, a skimpy night table with a gooseneck lamp and a tiny table for his economy laptop. It was comfortable enough but not particularly serviceable. He carted his computer to the kitchen table to do any amount of school work. He spent as little time as possible, when awake, in his room.

Drayton was a ten-year-old boy full of curiosity. The recently-ended COVID-19 epidemic hadn’t much effect on his life since he tended to avoid other people. He read books (stored in a cabinet against the living room wall) including those also read by his parents. Since his mother was a nurse and his father a financial advisor at a local bank branch, his reading choices were eclectic and often far beyond his years. 

(It may seem strange that a nurse and a financial advisor in their mid-30s could afford only a 1-bdrm + den condo in the city but that unit cost them more than $600,000 just two years ago. Now it was worth $850,000 but they had no intention of selling. They couldn’t find a larger place to buy in Toronto for anything less than $1.2 million including realty fees.)

The 10-year-old didn’t need the company of peers for his mental and physical health but he did require exercise and fresh air. His father had been working from home for months because of the pandemic but had returned to his office. His mother was working, albeit less than before, and had day shifts for at least a month. Drayton was enrolled in the Boys & Girls club and was supposed to spend time in the club gym when his parents were out of the home. He regularly had other plans.

During the epidemic, when schools were closed and his father was, at least physically, at home, Drayton found escape from boredom by heading down to the Humber River, a kilometre from his parents’ condo. While walking the parkland along the banks of the river, he saw people fishing. Most were alone, separated by many metres from their neighbouring fishers. They occasionally caught salmon which abounded in the water. Some of these fish were as long as Drayton’s forearm. It looked like an absorbing and sometimes exciting activity. 

During school break, Drayton forged an unlikely, socially-distanced friendship with a former Syrian refugee man who fished in the river most days. The boy had yelled his congratulations from the bank when the wading man caught, and released, a large salmon with his long rod and line. The man smiled and yelled back his thanks. Over following weeks, the two would talk back and forth, the man in the river and the boy seated on the grassy bank. They introduced themselves and the man came ashore long enough to chat and to teach the boy how to fish. 

The Syrian man told Drayton, one day, that he was going back to work in a local restaurant that was re-opening. He waded ashore and picked up a fishing rod from the grass. He handed it over. The rod was Drayton’s if he wanted it.

The rod and line presented Drayton with a problem. He couldn’t store them at home; there was no room for a long role and a line with a sharp hook. He solved the problem by hiding the pole and line in a copse near the park’s walkway. The group of trees was well north of the Humber Bridge where most fishers hung out, so it was used by only a few intrepid souls. Drayton hoped his new pole would be safe in the undergrowth.

The next day, the man was nowhere to be seen on the river. With a few weeks left before public school resumed, Drayton wanted to spend his free days practicing the art of fishing. But, his friend had not provided any bait. The boy had no money and didn’t know where to get bait or lures even if he could afford them. He could, however, afford worms. 

With a large spoon, borrowed from the kitchen drawer, Drayton went into the grove of trees to the small clearing where he had stashed his fishing pole and line. He began to dig in the soft earth. He dug and dug but there were no worms to be found. In frustration, he dug and jabbed at the ground. He bent the spoon and knew his mother would be angry. So, he jabbed some more, in revenge for the expected scolding.  

The blue of the plastic tarpaulin stopped him for a moment. Why was there something blue at the bottom of the hole he had excavated? He widened the bottom of the hole to disclose more of the tarp. He poked at the plastic until it ripped. He put his hand into the hole and used two fingers to pull at the rip until it grew longer.

There was something gray under the blue plastic. It was a bundle of sticks. He pulled at them. The sticks came apart and he pulled one through the rip. He held it up and peered at it. 

A scream cut through the grove. In a moment, the boy exploded from the trees. He held a big, bent spoon in his hand. He ran across the grass not knowing where he was going. He ran into a man who had been striding toward the river with a fishing pole in his hand. It was Drayton’s Syrian friend. 

What’s the matter, Drayton, said Jamal reaching out to take the boy’s arm. 

Drayton pointed with his spoon back to the woods behind him. A finger, he gasped. His eyes were wide with terror in his brown face. Oh, Jamal. It’s you. The boy’s eyes were focusing now. He recognized his friend. 

A finger? Jamal was confused. Then, he was horrified. He was less than two metres away from the boy. There would be a fine of $1,000 for violating pandemic shutdown rules if they were caught. He released Drayton’s arm and stepped back in alarm.

I’m sorry. Oh, god. Jamal looked around, fearing a swarm of police descending on them. He remembered. COVID restrictions had been relaxed. Social distancing was no longer enforced or even preached. They were safe. A finger?

Drayton calmed. He felt safe now. His refugee friend was tall and strong and a good fisherman. I think there is a person there. He pointed again with his spoon. Buried.

Jamal peered at the trees. There? He looked at Drayton. Jamal knew that one had to confront fears. It was the way he had lived through his previous life in Syria. Know what to fear and how to deal with it. It had kept him alive in that country. Today, fear was almost unthinkable. But the boy should confront this. Let’s go and see.

It took persuasion and reason but the ten-year-old boy’s innate curiosity beat back his terror now that the Syrian man was at his side. The two marched forward into the forest. 

Jamal saw the small bone on the earth at the side of the hole where Drayton had dropped it in disgust. He reached into the hole the boy had made and was able to enlarge the rip Drayton had started. Now, he could make out the rest of what he knew to be a hand. It could be a raccoon’s paw or that of a dog but Jamal had seen human bodies and human bones before. Too many. In Syria. He thought it was a human hand. It was attached to other grayish bones. 

Jamal had seen enough. He withdrew his hand from the hole and stood up. Drayton watched his friend and now was riveted. Is it a hand? 

I don’t know, Drayton, Jamal answered, nervous because of the boy’s focus on the grisly find. Drayton had confronted his fear and was seeing there was no immediate threat to himself. That was enough, thought Jamal. Human or animal, the boy was becoming morbidly interested in this death. It was time to leave the grave in the clearing.  

Away from the trees, Jamal took a cellphone from his jeans pocket, under his rubber hip waders. He dug it out and pressed 911. He gave his name, location and scant information and the man and boy sat on a park bench to wait for the police.

CHAPTER FOUR

Marty Simcoe followed Susan Bagnell, like a puppy, through the hallways and up the stairs in one of the many buildings that make up the University of Toronto campus in downtown Toronto. They finally arrived at a door at the end of a hall on the third floor. Susan tapped lightly and listened. She heard a faint voice from inside and opened the door. She entered and Marty trailed behind her. 

There was a woman tucked behind a steel desk in the spartan office. It was crowded, with just the three of them sharing the space. Apart from the desk, the chair in which the woman sat and two visitor’s chairs, the only furniture was a bookcase on one wall. The case was empty except for a laptop sitting on the middle shelf. There was a window but it was so dusty, Marty couldn’t make out the view. 

Hello. The woman’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper. She hadn’t risen from her chair. She waved to the uncomfortable-looking, wooden, visitors’ chairs. Susan and Marty sat. 

Hi, Miranda, Susan said brightly. How are things in psycho-land?

Miranda gave the young woman a wry smile but lost it as she moved her eyes to Marty. You’re Marty Simcoe. The man with the nightmares.

‘Redundant,’ Marty thought since he already knew his name and his nocturnal experiences. Nice to meet you... uh...

Miranda. But you can call me Dr. Purser. Marty blinked. Just kidding. You can call me Miranda and I’ll call you Marty. Now, we’re all pals, let’s talk about your problem.

Marty glanced at Susan sitting beside him but all her attention was on Dr. Purser. Clearly, he had been handed over to the woman behind the desk. 

I really don’t know what I’m doing here, Miranda, Marty told the woman in as polite a tone as he could manage. He was getting annoyed, blaming Susan for high-handed action in leading him to this office in the bowels of the school. Just what is it you do?

Miranda frowned at Susan, but it was brief. She smiled at Marty. Okay. I’ll start over. My name is Dr. Purser and I’m a psychologist. I work for a large think tank but I’m heading a research project in conjunction with U of T. That’s why I have been loaned this luxurious office. We are looking at stress in the educational context. In other words, we want to find out what happens to students as they go through the whole learning process; what kind of pressures they are under and what that stress causes in terms of mental health.

That sounds impressive and probably needed, Dr. Purser, but what’s it got to do with me?

Your dreams or nightmares, Marty. I don’t know much about them in detail but, according to what Susan tells me, you dream often and usually about the same subjects over and over again. She said you call your dreams 'reruns’, like a television series.

So, what? I’ve had these dreams for a long time. Since I was about 15 and before I got into U of T.

Yes. said Miranda with another quick frown. But they persist despite the fact you have a lot more to think about now. Your brain should have moved on. I’m not saying your dreams should have gone away but they should have become different than the ones you had in high school. More sophisticated maybe. And certainly different.

Marty stared at the woman. He didn’t know whether to be angry because she seemed to know so much about his thoughts or to welcome possible help for his nightly excursions into the underworld. Again, Miranda. I don’t get the connection. My nightmares don’t have anything to do with your research, do they?

That depends, Marty. These are early days for our study. I’m looking - a bit desperately - for baselines. In you, I see a perfect example of a young man who is already dealing with a great deal of stress. That’s evident from the repetition of your dreams. Without getting all the details, you seem like a perfect subject for our baseline setting.

Wow, said Marty with heavy irony. You sure know how to make a guy feel good. You want me to be your guinea pig for a stress test because I’m unstable enough to have recurring nightmares.

You sum it up perfectly, Marty. Neither of us have it nailed. So, how about it? Want to join up and have some fun?

Marty laughed. What the hell. Sure. Tell me what I’m in for, Miranda. She did.

Marty turned to Susan. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow. Susan, he nudged her with his elbow. Susan. Her eyes opened slowly. She had been napping. We’re done here, Susan, for the moment. But more to come. She smiled contentedly and they left Dr. Purser’s office. 

The next morning, after his first lecture, Marty found his way back to Dr. Purser’s office with only two wrong turns. 

Hey, Miranda. She was sitting at her desk and waved him to a chair as she continued a telephone call. As she spoke in her near-whisper into the cellphone, Marty studied the psychologist. She was young, perhaps early or mid-30s. She wore dark-rimmed glasses that made her look bookish but her face was attractive. Her hair was dirty blonde and worn straight-down almost to her shoulders. Her arms and upper body seemed trim and Marty could see the outline of bicep muscles peeking out from her short sleeved dress. She had an engaging smile but she frowned too much, he thought. She was just a brow line short of a glower as she wrapped up her phone call.

Well. Hope you had a good night, Marty. Any dreams? She placed her cellphone carefully on the desktop as she spoke. She looked at the phone for a second, clearly upset by whatever conversation she had. 

Same thing, he answered. Burials, part two. 

Surprisingly, Miranda Purser shuddered at his description. Ugh. She paused to glance again at her phone. She lifted her eyes to Marty. Susan didn’t know much about the content of your dreams. She said something about pizza attacks. I assume that’s a joke. But she said enough to make me believe your dreams are pretty graphic and unpleasant. Would you like to describe them in detail?

Marty sat back against the hard wood of the chair. He pondered for almost a full minute. I thought a lot about it last night. What the hell. You’ll be the first one to whom I’ve told the details. I’m curious as to what you think of what I’m going through.

He took another few seconds to get ready. Then he told her about his burial of the first dead man.

CHAPTER FIVE 

One marked police car arrived within a few minutes of Jamal’s 911 call. It parked on the road about 20 metres away from the river. The road ran beside the Humber River from Bloor Street on the south to Dundas Street on the north. Motor vehicle traffic was light on the road but many pedestrians used it to wander or run through the parkland. Walkers and runners who passed by the police car didn’t tarry. Only a few months ago, during the height of the pandemic, the cops were challenging people bunching up and park-goers were still leery. 

Constable Larry King approached Jamal and Drayton while his partner, Constable Olive Rodriguez