The Moon Mask

By Edmond Gagnon

The average number of homicides per year in Detroit is three hundred. The city usually ranks in the top ten of American cities for murders per capita. Recovering from bankruptcy, Detroit's Mayor puts an aggressive plan into action to clean up the city and tear down vacant and derelict properties. Demolition crews underta

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edmond Gagnon Author
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781989910009

Edmond Gagnon

Edmond Gagnon grew up in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. He joined the Windsor Police Department in 1977, a month before his nineteenth birthday. After almost two years as a police cadet, Ed was promoted to Constable and walked a beat in downtown Windsor. He spent the next thirteen years in uniform, working the street. From there, he transferred to plain clothes where he worked in narcotics, vice, property crimes, fraud, and arson. He was promoted to Sergeant, then Detective. During that time, Ed investigated everything from theft and burglary to arson and murder. He retired with a total of thirty-one years and four months of service. Within weeks of retirement, Ed took to travelling the world, visiting countries in Southeast Asia and South America as well as riding his motorcycle all over Canada and the United States. He kept in touch with family and friends through email, sending them snippets and stories of his adventures. The recipients of his musings suggested he write a book about his travels and Ed put together a collection of short stories in his first book, A Casual Traveler. Bitten by the writing bug, Ed decided to share some of his police stories.He created the Norm Strom Crime Series, inspired by events and people he encountered during his years in law enforcement. In that series, Ed wrote and self-published Rat, Bloody Friday, Torch, Finding Hope, Border City Chronicles, Trafficking Chen and Border City Chronicles - Four More. He also wrote the Abigail Brown Crime Series with, Moon Mask and The Millionaire Murders. Edmond Gagnon continues to write, adding the science fiction thriller, Four, to his collection of novels. Ed still travels frequently and resides in Windsor, with his wife, Cathryn.

Book preview

D edicated to abused women everywhere…

1

Clogged

Walter Chernowski stopped in front of the gate at the end of South Rademacher Street. The expansive property between him and the Detroit River was part of the U.S. Army’s Riverfront Parade Ground. He called ahead to have security meet him at the gate and allow him access to the canal leading to the river. It was no surprise when he found nobody there.

The army rarely used the property and employed a private security company to keep an eye on things. What that boiled down to was a rent-a-cop driving by twice a day. Wally checked his watch and decided to wait ten minutes before calling the company again. He gazed through the rusty fence at the tall weeds that grew in the cracked cement lot; the place where young soldiers once trained. The city road he sat on was in worse condition, some of the pot-holes could swallow a Smart Car.

Chernowski, officially retired from the Detroit Water and Sewage Department, was contracted to do odd jobs part-time and work on the old and decrepit waterworks that none of the younger employees knew anything about. The DWSD, financially broke, found it cheaper to pay Wally on the side than hire and train someone new.

He saw the Detroit Police boat coming up the canal and called the security company again. While Chernowski was on hold with the dispatcher, the guard pulled up behind him. He hung up and waited in his truck while security unlocked and opened the gate. Wally drove down the laneway and parked at the edge of the canal. A fresh-faced cop tossed him a line to tie off the boat as it snuggled up to the dock.

The retiree didn’t recognize the rookie police officer. He secured the line and retrieved his gear from the back of his truck. A familiar voice shouted from the boat’s wheelhouse and welcomed him aboard. It was Jack Fenton, a grizzled cop who was younger, but looked ten years older, than Wally.

Hey, Jack, I thought they would have pensioned you off by now.

Almost. They want me to stick around another season to train the newbies. I thought you pulled the plug last year?

I did, but now they’re paying me part-time for the same reason as you. The extra money is good, but like you guys, I’m worried about my city pension. Did they brief you on my job today?

Yup, glad it’s you going down into the abyss…never know what you’ll find down there after a long and cold winter.

I’m sure you’ve seen it all, Jack. The west end intake isn’t drawing at capacity. Either it’s partially clogged or part of the old pipe caved in again. Our ancient water and sewer infrastructure are a complete mess.

Sounds like the rest of the city—collapsing, crumbling, or corrupt. He tilted his head toward his partner. This is Bruno. He’s licensed if you need a dive buddy.

Chernowski glanced up at the swollen black and blue clouds. Spring hadn’t completely sprung yet and snow was still a possibility. He nodded to Bruno.

You can suit up if you want, but there’s no use both of us freezing our asses off. Probably just some garbage blocking the intake screen. Happens sometimes during the winter when the current runs slower. It shouldn’t take me long, unless there’s nothing there and I have to run a camera up the pipe buried under the canal.

Bruno untied the bow line, jumped on the boat, and pushed off from the dock. Jack brought the craft around and steered for the river.

How far out is the intake?

Wally stared at a GPS device in his lap.

Just take it slow, I’ll tell you when to stop.

Bruno dropped anchor where Chernowski told him. Jack killed the engine and broke out a thermos of hot coffee while the retired DWSD man geared up. The rookie cop checked Wally’s breathing equipment to save him some time. Suited up and ready to go, he nodded to the two cops and then fell backwards into the frigid water.

Visibility was limited but within seconds, the beam from Chernowski’s flashlight found the intake pipe. The downriver current grabbed him, but Wally kept a firm hand on the anchor line. He couldn’t see exactly what it was, but there was definitely something blocking the intake. A closer inspection was necessary.

Chernowski groped around the mouth of the pipe in the murky water. He grabbed hold of and tugged on a large object—what looked like part of a tree trunk, tangled in other debris. The diver took a small pry bar from his leg strap and went to work on the clog. There was no suction from the intake pipe. The water company shut it down prior to the inspection.

Most of the small stuff pulled away easily, but the big piece of debris had molded to the metal grate covering the pipe. Wally needed more leverage so he surfaced and asked Bruno for a tow line. Back at the intake, he probed the blockage, trying to get the rope around it. It felt mushy and rotten from being submerged for so long.

Chernowski tugged on the rope, signalling the cops above to pull it up. The obstruction and an attached chunk of concrete pulled free of the intake. Wally fiddled around for another few minutes, clearing away the remainder of smaller debris. He was almost done when he felt a tug on the anchor line; his signal to surface.

The diver’s job done, he ascended and latched on to the police boat. Jack helped him climb aboard. Chernowski pulled his mask off. There was a lot of crap blocking the pipe, that tree trunk was tangled in wire and cement.

The veteran cop’s expression was forged in steel, as he shook his head. Wally glanced over at the Rookie, and saw him dry-heaving on the port side of the vessel.

Seasick?

Not quite, your tree trunk is a decomposed body, or at least a big part of one.

2

Abandoned

Lynda Campbell cringed at what appeared to be a young woman’s freeze-dried, decaying body. The corpse was discovered by a demolition crew hired by the city to tear down hundreds of abandoned and/or burnt out houses and buildings. It was part of the mayor’s plan to clean up Detroit—like the controlled burn of an old forest, so new growth could sprout and help the motor city get back on its feet.

The Detective tiptoed around the body trying not to disturb the crime scene. Evidence of all sorts of dirty deeds was abundant. Discarded needles, assorted pieces of crack pipes, empty and broken booze bottles, and used condoms. Forensics would be a nightmare; hundreds of samples would have to be taken. The empty house was one of several in the area used by gang-bangers and drug addicts to hang out or get high.

According to the Crime Scene Unit’s Forensic Specialist, the body was left in the house some time ago, during the extremely cold winter. Decomposition had just started to occur, with the break in the weather. There was no visible trauma, but the technician speculated by the position of the head and body, cause of death was strangulation. Body shape, size, and clothing said the deceased was female, something the Medical Examiner would confirm by autopsy.

Campbell stood near the body and took in the room. Graffiti covered cracked and broken walls that once boasted family photos or decorative artwork. Gaping holes in the ceiling and floor showed where copper pipe and wire were stripped for their scrap value. She wondered how many different people had lived in the old home, a place of death now.

Hard-pressed lips and a taught face revealed her frustration and concern. It was her second corpse in as many days, discovered by the same wrecking crew. They were not happy. Demolition permits were time sensitive and the company’s owner had agreed to an aggressive agenda in order to win the lucrative city contract. These delays cost dollars.

A well-dressed hulk of a black man walked into the litter-strewn room and stopped at Lynda’s side. He’d been down the block taking another look at the previous crime scene before releasing it to the construction company. His expression revealed nothing.

This makes two so far…wonder how many more they’ll find in these shit-holes?

Lynda craned her neck to look up at her partner, Jamal Walker. The former Detroit Lion’s prospect was at least twice her size. Some cops referred to the pair as KK and A, for King Kong and Ann (Darrow). Campbell had always wished she was taller, with a curvier shape and maybe better hair. She’d been told she had nice eyes. That was something.

Do you think we’ve got a serial?

Doubt it…probably crack whores who OD’d, or passed out and froze to death. That would have kept the smell down. But who’d notice around here anyway? No canvass to help…no houses equals no witnesses. Maybe we should take out an ad in High Times.

Detective Campbell stared at her partner for a few seconds, winced at his sense of humor, and considered how cold and detached he was. Something that became normal after a few years in the trenches, she thought, but it would be nice to see the man show a little compassion once in a while. She thought football players were all about the team, but Walker’s arrogance and superiority complex said he was more about himself. Maybe that’s why he never made the pros.

He continued. I dunno, maybe forensics or the ME will come up with something we can work with. That cop who was first on scene says they’re rape murders. I heard he used to work homicide?

That’s what they say, before my time. I heard he got caught up in some crooked shit with our last Mayor, and was gonna get fired, but rolled on someone to keep his job. He got demoted in the process. Says he’s seen the MO before, with a used condom left behind after they were raped and strangled. No leads on either victim’s identity so far…guess the morgue can tag them Jane and Janice Doe.

Walker chuckled. That’s funny Lyn, who says you ain’t got no sense of humor?

Lynda shrugged. They turned away and left the room to the Crime Scene Unit.

Back in their car, she eyed her partner seated behind the wheel. He never let her drive or do anything else he considered manly. Jamal constantly reminded her of the big cases he and his previous partner had closed. She didn’t know the man. He’d cashed out his pension and took a job with their old captain at the Motor City Casino.

Lynda’s friend, Abigail Brown, warned her about Walker. He made no bones about putting women in their place and was a typical chauvinist. Since her friend didn’t have a partner when Campbell transferred into the unit, she thought they would pair the two of them. The brass balked at the idea of partnering two females and put her with Walker. Detective Brown got the new guy.

Campbell gazed out the passenger window, scanning the closed and boarded up businesses on the city’s east side. She thought about Abigail, and the last time they’d gotten tipsy, talking shit about the job, and men in general. Her friend seemed happy at the time, but unsure of a Canadian biker/cop she was dating. Lynda glanced at the display on her phone. It was Friday the thirteenth and Abigail was away on a motorcycle trip with her Harley guy.

She pictured her friend on the back of a hawg. The image worked—a retired cop who travelled and had a sense of adventure. What was Abigail’s problem? Lynda considered her own non-existent love life. Maybe Abby’s white knight had a friend. Campbell turned and took in her partner’s demeanor. Focussed and tense, he looked as if it was third down and he was ready to blitz the quarterback.

3

Catch of the Day

Detective Ackley Scott checked the GPS on his phone a third time. According to the device, he should have been on South Rademacher, but he couldn’t locate a street sign to confirm it. Growing up in Ann Arbour and going to a university out of state, made this corner in Detroit as foreign to him as a village in Tanzania.

He should have listened to his Lieutenant’s directions, but he nodded along so as not to appear stupid. But stupid he would be if he couldn’t find the police boat that was waiting on him. Scott had a degree in computer science, but he sucked at geography and couldn’t remember if the river was actually west or south of the city.

An Elite Security car pulled up beside him. The driver asked if he was the police, and said that everyone was waiting for him down the road at the canal. Ackley wanted to solve the mystery of the absent street sign, but he returned the guard’s wave and fell into position behind him. He checked himself in the mirror and bared his teeth to make sure no remnants of his lunch remained. A quick glance at his suit left him confident he exuded the proper amount of professionalism.

They were gathered at the end of the canal leading out to the river. In addition to police vehicles, there was a DWSD truck and a military Humvee. The lone Detective parked his car, checked his breast pocket for his notebook, and wished his partner was there with him. Scott was no Rookie, but Abigail Brown was a seasoned Homicide Investigator he respected; he had no problem following her lead. She took the weekend off and the Lieutenant told him it was time he left the nest and flew solo.

His first step from the car found his foot on loose gravel, and he almost fell face-first. Ackley straightened and avoided eye contact; in case they’d seen his misstep. He took a deep breath and used the best authoritative detective voice he could muster. Who’s in charge here?

No one winced at the squeaky sound he made at the end of his question. One cop answered sharply. You are now, Detective.

A uniformed cop sporting Sergeant’s stripes waved him over to the police boat. Scott nodded to the others standing on the dock as he passed. A young officer held a hand out to help him aboard. Respecting the rank, the Detective looked to the Sergeant.

What’ve you got?

Well, I’m no expert but it looks to me like the lower part of a torso and one leg.

Human? Ackley realized how stupid the question was the moment the words left his lips.

Yes, Detective. A city worker found it lodged against their water intake pipe, out there in the river. He pointed to the red marker buoy, not too far from the mouth of the canal.

Scott feared the veteran cop sensed his lack of experience. He hunched over the body part with his mouth agape, and almost gagged when the stench found its way into his throat. The Detective tried to cough up the rancid air and snapped up straight, like a soldier coming to attention.

The Sergeant grinned.

And as per department policy, Detective, we’re waiting on your decision. Sergeant Fenton used Ackley’s hesitation to continue. To see if you want to call in our divers…to search for more parts, or if you think it’s necessary for the Medical Examiner to attend. I made the call to CSU. They should be here any time.

Scott scratched his chin in thought and felt blood rushing to his face. He wondered if they could see it. Indecision at a moment like this, made him look incapable of running an investigation. Having the appearance of a boy scout didn’t help. Ackley’s light brown hair was very thin and the side-part left him with a cowlick on the back of his head. A bad astigmatism forced him to wear glasses. Where was his partner when he needed her? Why did the Lieutenant send him out on his own?

He hoped his answer was the right decision. Yes, to the ME, and no to the divers…chances are if there was more of the body it would be attached to what we have. It’s probably from upriver, having been dislodged from its burial place by the seasonal increase in current and boat traffic. The ME will want to have a closer look in the lab, but it’s doubtful they’ll determine anything more than gender and an approximate age, considering the decay and water damage, and what little there is to work with.

The others remained quiet and took in his every word. Scott scanned their faces, thinking they appeared impressed. That’s what he thought, but reading algorithms and computer software was so much easier than fellow cops and other human beings. He was never much of a people person and didn’t ask for the transfer to Homicide. What were they thinking?

The Marine Sergeant nodded and issued instructions to the other cops on hand. His deep raspy voice commanded attention. Fenton was the last of the Vietnam vets on the job and he still carried the reputation of a badass. He waved the Detective into the wheelhouse and handed him the witness statements he collected.

Thanks, Sarge, you’ve been a big help.

No problem, I know how busy you are, with manpower shortages and all.

Detective Scott smiled in acknowledgement, tucked the statements under his arm, and listed any observations in his notebook. With everyone thinking he had matters under control, he stepped out of earshot and called his Lieutenant to ask if he’d done everything right. Sergeant Fenton waved Scott over. He ended the phone call.

Wanna go for a ride, Detective?

Not particularly, why?

Dispatch got a call from two fishermen who just hooked an arm under the Ambassador Bridge. Thought you might want to come along and see if it’s another piece of your puzzle.

Ackley swivelled his head, as if checking for someone who might tell him what to do.

Uh, sure Sergeant, I’ll come with you.

Don’t worry, Detective, it’s only an arm and shouldn’t smell as bad as the torso.

Fenton wheeled the police boat around and headed for open water. He glanced back at the Detective, and asked the dispatcher to have CSU and the ME meet them at the new location. Bruno secured the bow line and motioned for Scott to sit down.

He stared at the black rubber bag. Real body parts were very different from digital images on a computer screen. That horrible smell; a hundred times worse than that fishy river odor. Ackley pinched his nostrils, sucked in his lower lip, and wished for his partner to be there with him.

4

Dover Rovers

Norm Strom’s smile stretched from one side of his helmet to the other. At seventy degrees Fahrenheit, it was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride. The month of April could be iffy in Southwestern Ontario. But today the weather gods delivered only sunshine and a few clouds shaped like cotton-balls to the tens of thousands of bikers who converged on the lakefront town of Port Dover.

The tradition had gone on for years. Every Friday the 13th, motorcycle enthusiasts from all over Canada and the U.S. headed to the old fishing port. For bikers from Windsor, like Norm, it was a scenic three-hour ride along the northern shore of Lake Erie. He did the ride once before with the boys, but this time a gorgeous woman snuggled behind him.

Abigail Brown leaned back in the seat, her elbows on the armrests. She rode on motorcycles before but never a Harley Davidson. This was comfortable, the ride relaxing, and Norm a capable and cautious driver. She gawked at the different shades of green—farm lots and fields springing to life. The emerald water stretched for miles under a pristine sky, its only blemish the remnants of a vapor trail.

What a great way to spend a weekend ; n o city traffic , work , or crimes to solve. Just sunshine, open road, and a great guy who always seemed to know what she needed and how to spoil her. I could get used to this , she thought.

Abigail reached around Norm and used her hands to massage the tops of his outstretched arms. The man had great triceps. He removed a hand from the handlebars and lightly caressed her thigh, letting his fingers wander a bit further up her leg. He had great fingers too, and knew how to use them.

It didn’t matter Norm was a bit older than her, and retired. He was a cop when they first met. Her uncle Bill introduced them during a Tiger ballgame. Abigail liked big tall men like him she could deal with eye to eye. Norm still had all his hair, a bit gray in the sideburns, but amazingly thick and brown for someone his age. He put on a few pounds in retirement, but carried it well.

The fondling and teasing went on. She used her legs like a vice to pull herself in close, and slipped her hands under his shirt. Her loins were on fire. Abigail couldn’t stop herself, she reached down to feel his hardness. He moaned, and she giggled like a schoolgirl. The rumbling and vibrating motorcycle worked its magic. She was wet. Wanting to tear his clothes off, she asked like an anxious child. Are we there yet?

Norm was on the same page and couldn’t take it any longer. The bulge in his pants tried to push its way to freedom. He geared the engine down, and turned onto a gravel road leading to the lake. Stopping just shy of the forty-foot cliff overlooking the beach, Norm switched the engine off, fumbled with his helmet strap, and almost forgot to put the kickstand down. He dismounted and searched his saddlebag for a blanket.

What he saw when he turned around made his heart skip a beat. Abigail wasted no time and was way ahead of him. Sprawled on her jacket, she posed like a Playboy centerfold. She wore only black underwear and matching cowboy boots. If ‘perfect female body’ was in the dictionary, the picture would be of her.

Norm stumbled toward her, trying to remove his clothes and boots at the same