TIME WAITS FOR NO CRIME

By Ian de W. Semple

Conflicting environmental ideologies and blatant hypocrisies foster criminality and a brutal murder designed to satisfy both the desire for long-awaited revenge, but also to frame an innocent person for the killing. Only the efforts of a brilliant indigenous eccentric give hope for redemption through the unravelling of compelling counter-arguments that await proper retribution……………………..if time allows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312770638

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was what might be deemed to be a two-climate day on this late May Friday in the Lower Mainland, the latter a term that loosely referred to the geographical boundaries that comprised the coastal city of Vancouver, along with the profusion of suburbs that surrounded this urban core in the southwest corner of British Columbia. The term ‘Lower’ referred to the fact that most of the topography it covered was not far above sea level, and in some cases where on loose, reclaimed land, was in effect below sea level. Any major offshore earthquake activity in the attendant Pacific Ocean would certainly, and quickly, reduce the size of this component of the Lower Mainland.

In the meantime, it had been a La Niña year and the panic of global warming and the seemingly related forecast destruction of the planet had, from apparent carelessness, chosen to bypass British Columbia, and indeed most of the rest of Canada. Thus, the mountains that bordered the northern boundary of the Lower Mainland still retained prodigious amounts of snow on their slopes, while farther north but still in view from the city, the higher mountain regions were covered in notably thick, luxuriant, royalty-like cloaks of pure white snowpack. The latter did not auger well for later in the year when ultimately the warmth of spring and summer would add large volumes of melted snow to entities like the Fraser River which emptied into the Pacific Ocean not far to the south of Vancouver. There, in the area of the river’s mouth lived a significant population of farmers exploiting the excellent agricultural conditions offered by the river’s delta environment, but also where destruction by flooding often preceded the deposition of rich new soils that ensured the continuance of the delta’s agricultural deliverance.

In the meantime, this particular Friday at four o’clock in the afternoon offered the first opportunity in nearly seven months for the so-called Lions Boys to assemble in Covid safety and comfort on the patio of the Lions Pub, rather than inside in the noisier and more closely confined space of the latter. Being that this group of nearly a dozen of the city’s finest male denizens were mostly retired, some nearly retired, and a select few working hard to achieve this life status, weather conditions of perhaps a higher standard than those tolerated by younger Millennials and Gen-Alphabet generations were required for the ‘Boys’ to assemble on the pub’s north-facing patio, despite the available outdoor electric heating.

For reasons devoid of rational explanation beyond that of repeated habit becoming tradition, the so-called Lions Boys, many tied together with rugby backgrounds, had for nearly twenty years, starting in their pre-retirement life, been gathering every Friday at four in the afternoon at this same pub to partake of beer and banter. The majority of the latter, related perhaps to the largely conservative life philosophies held by the participants, was often of a nature that bemoaned the declining state of Canada’s governance at all levels. To the extent that the decibel level of conversation sometimes served to in effect elevate the local temperature by a degree or two, some members of the pub’s server staff were heard to remark that perhaps the ‘Lions Boys’ might be better deemed to be the ‘Raving Boys.’ Notwithstanding that, this Friday’s conversation was unanimous in the observation of how beautiful Vancouver and its surroundings could be at this time of year when in good weather, spring blossomed explosively, and summer waited impatiently to take over the reins of greater quiescence.

The Lions Pub was located nearly dockside on the south shore of Burrard Inlet, a twenty-three-mile arm of water extending eastward from that part of the Pacific Ocean lying between Vancouver Island and the British Columbia coast and formerly known as the Strait Of Georgia, but now in woke and cancel culture times recognized as being the Salish Sea. Varying from one to four miles in width, Burrard Inlet separated the city of Vancouver and its harbour from the mountains on the inlet’s north shore.

While Vancouver Harbour, amongst the half dozen largest and busiest ports in North America, and officially confined to a portion of the south shore of Burrard Inlet, in practice, well over half of both shores of the inlet are devoted to many varieties of commercial marine traffic from around the world, their cargoes loaded and unloaded employing the multitude of large cranes towering over the many docks like giant praying mantises. These activities are augmented by prodigious non-commercial marine transit and floatplane traffic. The latter serves to help tie the Lower Mainland population to that of offshore Vancouver Island, and to the many small settlements encountered along the lengthy provincial Pacific coast that extends some five hundred miles north from Vancouver to the southern Alaskan border. Serving to further define the parameters of the City of Vancouver is one westward flowing branch outlet of the Fraser River that defines the lower extent of the city some one hundred or so city blocks to the south of Burrard Inlet.

You know, I was just thinking, observed Dennis Campbell, before pausing as his patio companions, beers in hand and eyebrows raised in curiosity, focused their attention on him.

Yes, I know, grimaced Campbell. I realize that doesn't happen very often. Glancing down, he remarked, Maybe it’s the beer.

Nonetheless, as I was saying before being mercilessly interrupted by stares of incredulity, I think the next month in Vancouver could be quite interesting, especially for the likes of Scott and Dave.

How so, Dennis? inquired Scott McCrae as Dave Smythe nodded in assent.

I think it is fair to say that that period here might be referred to as ‘Natural Resources Month’ or some such, replied Campbell. First, you have a mining convention being held in the city for most of one week, followed by a similar convention focusing on oil and gas extraction. Then, you have a two-day meeting of the Supporters of Science Society which is scheduled to provide attendees with an insight into climate change. In particular, an eminent Australian geologist is scheduled to present a paper on how not only is carbon dioxide’s influence on climate change inconsequential to non-existent, but also how present amounts of CO2 in our atmosphere are cycling in a very minor fashion around a mean level that is amongst the lowest in the earth’s history.

I assume you are implying that the nature of these meetings on natural resource extraction is liable to attract considerable protests and demonstrations that may impede the ability of we geologists to expand our knowledge base on the various related subjects, ventured McCrae in reply.

I think that may indeed be the case, Scott, acknowledged Campbell with a smile. Already, you have organizations like GreenWorld and the Damon Sakamoto Foundation threatening to exert as much disruption as possible during the conferences.

Oh, and I forgot, continued Campbell. The Australian geologist is going to emphasize how important carbon dioxide is to life on earth.

As I recall, I think I learned that in kindergarten, said McCrae. Sorry, that’s wrong. It might not have been until first grade. What I do know is that to eat, trees go through a process called photosynthesis. To do this, their leaves pull in carbon dioxide and water through tiny pores, called stomata, and use energy absorbed from the sun to turn the CO2 and H2O into sugars. During that process, the tree spits out oxygen from the leaves' stomata.

But what the hell am I doing espousing this science when we have Smythe the forester in our midst?

That argument indeed could elevate the local state of global warming, observed Dave Smythe with a wry smile. But at least you have inserted the important concept of inclusivity by way of incorporating both trees and a professional forester like me in your observations about next month.

I am assuming that those assholes that are sitting down on highway lanes on the Trans Canada Highway across the way on the north shore, will, at least temporarily, transfer their forestry protest activities to lying across entranceways to the convention hall during the forestry convention, replied Campbell.

It is unbelievable that those morons are allowed to do this and in doing so block traffic for miles, observed McCrae. Even when they are arrested, they are quickly released and return to do the same the following day. What gets me also is the ignorance and arrogance of their protests against old-growth logging. Not only is both overall as well as old-growth logging in British Columbia restricted to only about 25% of the available forest, but in a recent case, an old-growth logging proposal is being made with regard to trees on a piece of indigenous land, and with the approval of the tribe it affects. And none of this crap takes in the considerable tree replanting activities that take place every year.

With plastic bags being outlawed in favour of paper bags, I wonder from where the latter is going to be sourced? ventured Mark, his eyes rolling at the self-directed redundancy of the question. Not to speak of the fact that the other day I saw a guy exit from a liquor commission store carrying two purchased bottles of wine in a paper bag. Unfortunately, the bag burst and the wine was left to be lapped up off the sidewalk by local pigeons and gulls that hopefully did not become too inebriated to fly home at the end of the day.

Dennis, this all sounds as though you might be expecting not just protests, but possibly some violence in the downtown area next month, observed Tony.

It would indeed not surprise me, replied Campbell. In fact, being so close to the action as it were, it might be advisable for the Lions Boys to temporarily seek out another nest that is farther away from the action than are these premises.

Just at that moment, Scott McCrae’s mobile phone rang. Reaching into his pocket, McCrae saw who his caller was and placing the phone to his ear, said Hey Moe. How goes the battle?

Hi Scott, replied Moe Lehman in a sober fashion that contravened the boisterous manner that normally pervaded his conversational style. Things could be a bit better. I am presently in the Vancouver General Hospital, plus I have some bad news for you.

Oh, replied McCrae. What’s the matter? Are you all right?, before acknowledging to himself the stupidity of the question. Hospital attendance was not normally synonymous with well-being.

I’m all right now, replied Lehman, and hopefully by tomorrow will be even better. In the meantime, I am here because of something to do with you.

I’m not following you, Moe, replied McCrae.

All your ‘Working Wilderness’ series of paintings I had on display at the gallery were stolen last night, said Lehman soberly.

What! exclaimed McCrae. Stolen?

That’s what I said, replied Lehman. Plus I took a bit of a battering in the process.

How did it all happen, Moe? anxiously inquired McCrae, before glancing at his phone. Moe, my mobile phone is just about out of juice and I am downtown at the moment. Can I go home and call you back at the hospital using my landline? I can be back to you inside of a half-hour or so.

Sure Scott. That would be ok, replied Lehman. "No rush as I have had dinner and anyway, I will be awake for a few hours yet. My wife Angel will be visiting me so I may need a break from the lecture I am no doubt going to get from her. I’m in room 317.

Suppressing a chuckle at Lehman’s last statement, McCrae bid Lehman goodbye and closed off the call.

You’re off already Scott? asked Campbell curiously as McCrae threw some money on the table in preparation to leave. You haven’t even finished your first beer.

I know, Dennis, but gotta go, replied McCrae. The violence that you postulated might happen next month may already have started.

Chapter 2

As Scott McCrae wended his way up the hill from the Lions Pub to his office apartment more than a mile and a half from the pub, he tried to rationalize what little he knew of what Moe Lehman had told him. Now a retired mineral exploration geologist, his career shortened as the consequence of a nearly fatal fall while exploring in South America, McCrae had spent the rest of his formal working life as a mining investment analyst. In addition to dealing with corporate business clients in many world cities, his position had also involved extensive travel to the many parts of the wilderness world where mother nature had created mineral deposits sometimes worthy of extraction such that the contained metals could be processed to produce the key ingredients that underlay the materials that furnished many of the activities and actions of a modern world.

The consolidation of most independent investment companies into the folds of Canada’s major banks had once more left McCrae if not in a position of injury, then one in which the politics of major companies were not just to his liking, but were a business facet in which McCrae had neither the desire nor skill with which to effectively engage and produce results worthy of his abilities.

With this second retirement, therefore, had come a less steady life of some unpredictability, albeit one offering attractive consulting opportunities on numerous occasions where McCrae’s knowledge and skills in the mining area could be applied. A nearly deadly attempted murder by a crooked business partner had finally ended McCrae’s formal mining career, and in an effort to deal with his related PTSD, he had turned to writing and painting to help ward off depression.

In reflection of both his exploration background and experiences, as well as a fervent belief in the ability of humans and the natural world to engage in fruitful partnership, McCrae had conceived of and undertaken to produce a series of paintings that depicted scenes of the wilderness world and the latter’s contact with humans working within it. Understandably, the overwhelming themes in this series related principally to mining exploration but also to a lesser extent with the practice of forestry. Thus emanated a series of paintings created under the umbrella title of the ‘Working Wilderness Series.’

The downside of this endeavour was of course that the average person in the market for a landscape painting most likely would not have the same appreciation of the focus of the series as would McCrae. Notwithstanding the sale of some of the series paintings to mining companies that had been alerted to McCrae’s website, the forthcoming mining convention promised to both attract the attention of mining companies from around the world, but also hopefully to the ‘Working Wilderness Series’ of paintings that McCrae had undertaken a business arrangement with the convention to display in the large lobby of the grand hall where the convention was to be held.

Conversant with this plan was a business arrangement with Moe Lehman to frame the twenty-five paintings or so that were to be put on display, but also to furnish the display hardware necessary to effect this presentation.

As a close friend and squash game adversary, McCrae had known Moe Lehman for many years. An engineer by trade, Lehman had equally quite a long time ago switched from that profession to his real professional love, that of art, and its display and sale. Although owning an art gallery in the upscale area of Vancouver’s Granville Island area, Lehman, like many other people with a modern business inclination, was now also engaged in the sale of art from his website gallery.

With the latter obviously having nothing to do with what Lehman had described on the phone, and as McCrae neared his office, the desire to know what the hell had happened became an overwhelming one.

Once inside, McCrae opened his fridge and retrieved his first beer of the day, the one that he had had to leave behind at the Lions  Pub, but which he would most probably need to help settle his nerves when he reached Lehman on the phone. Instinct made him reach into the fridge again and extract a second can of brew that he knew would probably be consumed while on the phone with Lehman.

Moe Lehman in room 317 McCrae blurted into the phone as his call to the Vancouver General Hospital was received. But then to his chagrin and fortunately unseen embarrassment, he shook himself back into the twenty-first century after realizing there was no human at the end of his call. If you know the name and/or room number of the patient you wish to contact please press one, dictated a computer voice. If not, please press two and wait for your call to be answered. The voice did not say what day that might happen, but as McCrae punched in 317 on his phone, he took a quick but large swig of his beer and waited in great anticipation.

Hey Moe, it’s Scott, said McCrae in reply to Lehman’s ‘hello.’ How are you feeling? Is it still ok for us to talk awhile about what you said happened last night?

I’m fine thanks, Scott. A bit of a headache is all, and these bandages around my head are annoying, so if I ask you to repeat yourself sometimes, it’s not because I’m getting deaf like you but it’s because of these damn rags around my head.

Thanks for the compliment, laughed McCrae. Is Angel with you and am I interrupting her visit?

No, she is not here, replied Lehman. She paid a quick visit after I spoke to you but then she had to rush off to some sort of meeting at the college of dental surgeons. I must thank the college at some future time since it no doubt saved me from what would probably have been a stern lecture from Angel as to the security arrangements regarding my art gallery.

Again chuckling at Lehman’s humour at a time when both he and Lehman most needed some, McCrae said OK Moe. I’m sitting down with a beer in hand. Please fire away on what you said happened last night.

Well, in some ways there is not that much to tell, replied Lehman. I had closed the gallery at 10 PM and was working on my laptop computer in the back office.

Had you turned the lights off in the gallery? inquired McCrae.

Indeed I had although it probably did not matter much last night, replied Lehman.

What do you mean by that? countered McCrae.

You might remember that there was a full moon last evening. A full moon in a cloudless sky, replied Lehman. I probably didn’t need half the lights I had on. Certainly when I did close up the gallery, there was still no obstacle to seeing what was inside on display.

So what happened, Moe? asked McCrae.

While I was working away in the back office, I thought I heard some sort of a noise out front, replied Lehman. Nothing really loud but a noise nonetheless, and something I should check on. When I opened the office door and went down the short hall to the gallery, I heard some muffled voices. Stepping into the gallery I saw some figures removing paintings from the wall. I then started farther into the gallery, yelling out that this was trespassing, and what the hell were they doing. All the natural stuff you vocalize when you are being invaded. As I stepped further out into the gallery, I took a very hard blow to the back of my head, followed by another and then the lights went out.

How long were you out, Moe? asked McCrae incredulously.

I’m not sure but not that long I don’t think, replied Lehman. On the other hand, it was long enough that when I had gathered my senses and got onto my feet again, I could see that two things had happened. Or at least one had happened and another had not.

I’m not following you, said McCrae.

What I mean, said Lehman, is that all your Working Wilderness paintings were taken down and stolen but no other paintings on the walls were touched.

You mean that the focus was on stealing my paintings but no others in the gallery? speculated McCrae.

Yeah, it kind of looks that way, Scott, replied Lehman. I haven’t a clue why, but maybe you do.

No, I don’t, Moe replied McCrae. But I am going to work to find out. I assume you called the police and reported the theft.

I did indeed, replied Lehman. They were quick to respond. I guess they thought it might still be a robbery in progress. When they found it was not, they summoned an ambulance and the medics bandaged me up when they arrived. Although I was not badly hurt, the medics strongly suggested I be taken to the hospital and observed overnight. Hence where I am now.

What about how the thieves got into the gallery. Did the police determine that? asked McCrae

Yes they did and it did not take long to determine how that happened., replied Lehman.

Oh, how so? inquired McCrae, while sensing chagrin and embarrassment in Lehman’s voice.

"The lecture I was to get from Angel this evening reflects the procrastination over my security system that I have been meaning to address., but have put off doing. Quite simply, the present security system in the gallery is somewhat outdated, or at least not fully suitable for a modern business operation.

Why?’ What’s it lacking? asked McCrae.

Nowadays many home security systems have magnetic door and window strips that will sound and send signals wirelessly to your alarm system when a door is opened, replied Lehman. These can easily be overridden with a second small magnet that will override the frequency and create a jam.

A jam? repeated McCrae.

Yes, Scott, replied Lehman. You can bypass a magnet alarm by attaching a fridge magnet to the box and making it think the door is closed while you open it. The point is that there are now much more sophisticated wireless alarm systems available, which I should have researched and upgraded to. I can only profusely apologize to you for what has happened.

No problem, Moe replied McCrae. "As the saying goes, ‘shit happens.’ At least they were not the original paintings that we can still put on display at the convention.

True enough, replied Lehman. Many thanks for your tolerance. Because of what happened and what might be some sort of a threat to your work, I will, at my expense, furnish security guards to do nothing but watch over the paintings while the latter are at the convention. The paintings will be taken down and safely stored at the end of the day.

Thanks, Moe, replied McCrae That would be appreciated. In the meantime, I’m going to work on why this has happened, because at the moment I’m not sure why any general protest by the greenies about the nature of the convention should be so focused as to involve the theft of art. By the way, Moe. Do you have CCTV cameras installed at the gallery?

Yes, I do, replied Lehman. The police took copies with them but I have retained copies also. Maybe you and I should take a look at them in a day or so after I get home."

I would really like that, replied McCrae. I have a friend of mine who is a very sharp observer of people. Perhaps I could bring him along too if that’s ok with you.

Sure, why not? replied Lehman. The more eyes, the better our chances of perhaps detecting something, although in this case, other than there having been four figures involved in the theft,  I don’t know if there is much else to be garnered from the videos. The four figures were all hooded, masked and dressed in the same gray outfits.

Thanks, Moe, said McCrae. Focus now on getting well again. I will wait to hear from you and we can then arrange to get together.

Putting down his phone, McCrae once again felt a need to head for the fridge.

Chapter 3

Gee clay? What’s a gee clay? asked Aimée Bouchard.

You haven’t quite got the pronunciation right, Aimée, replied Scott McCrae. It is spelled g-i-c-l-é-e with two ‘e’ letters, one being accented, just like in your first name.

Plus the pronunciation in English is not quite as it looks either, volunteered Moe Lehman, as he, Scott McCrae, Aimée Bouchard and her cousin sat gathered around a table in Lehman’s art gallery.

Meaning? asked Bouchard.

"Meaning that it is a soft ‘g’ with a bit of ‘z’ and ‘h’ in it, as in ‘gzhee-KLAY’,’ replied Lehman.

OK, now that I have the spelling and pronunciation down cold………… I think, Bouchard added with a smile, what indeed is a giclée?

As McCrae ventured to reply to Bouchard’s question, he was cut off by the one person in the group who thus far had remained silent on the subject.

You could say that it is fake art, declared Rick Raven.

Fake art? What do you mean by that?" asked Bouchard.

You no doubt have heard of 3D printing, have you not, Aimée, asked Raven. Well, a giclée is a painting that has been copied, or perhaps better said created from an original piece of art. This is done by way of high quality, indeed archival quality prints that fine art printing can produce.  3D printing can reproduce anything from the most detailed photographs to the finest works of art. Quality print reproductions of fine artworks can capture the details of each brushstroke from the original, in addition to assuring the most authentic of prints. Except for the original nature of the pigments used, the prints are completely reproductive of the original artwork!

Interesting, replied Bouchard. Especially the fact that any three-dimensional aspects of an oil painting can be accurately duplicated. I can see where that might produce a painting of higher archival quality than the original.

And perhaps the ability to fake original art too, she added.

As Rick Raven proceeded in more detail to describe to Aimée Bouchard the process of 3D printing and the creation of giclées and three-dimensional objects, McCrae was left to reflect on the whys and wherefores of his first encounter, and ultimate close friendship, with these two very unique individuals.

Tall, lithe and in her early forties, Aimée Bouchard’s long greying but still lustrous hair tied in a bundle behind her, was in stark contrast to her unblemished, bronzed skin, that on her face encased high cheekbones and a prominent aquiline nose. Only her beautifully hued, penetrating blue eyes implied either a Darwinian mutation or a brief Métis interruption to a purely Indigenous ethnicity. Born into the particular Cree tribal band occupying the Chibougamau-Mistassini Lake area of northern Quebec, her name reflected the predominantly French-Canadian populace of Quebec province. Underlain but unknown to most might be a Cree language name that had been given to her at birth but was unused in daily urban life.

In the context of the times, a very young Aimée Bouchard had become a student within the residential school system, the latter formed and administered by Christian churches and governments of the era that, however misplaced the theory, were bent on ‘educating’ indigenous children into the philosophies and ways of largely white colonial settlers. Defying the alleged unanimity of abuse rendered on all indigenous children in the system, Bouchard had not only survived her schooling but had emerged positively equipped and able to pursue an academic career of the highest order.

Under circumstances now forgotten, Bouchard and Scott McCrae had met at some mutually attractive academic function, and the shared interest in natural resources and furthering the related natural abilities of indigenous populations had led to an ongoing friendship. In a remarkable example of the so-called ‘small world’, it had been revealed that the Cree chieftain who several years ago had helped solve some brutal murders of which McCrae was scheduled to also become a victim, was Bouchard’s uncle.

It was also as a consequence of their common interests that Bouchard had introduced her cousin Rick Raven to McCrae and sought the latter’s assistance in helping Raven establish a positive lifestyle that would allow him to pursue his numerous and highly elevated interests.

The bronzed skin torso of Rick Raven was of modest size but solidly built and of similar age to that of his cousin Aimée Bouchard, with his comparable aquiline nose perhaps betraying a more specific joint ancestry than just possessing common biological forebears. Raven’s coal-black hair, by its owner's choice, chose to reside at shoulder length on his torso ledge.

Also a northern Quebec Métis Cree but with the vast majority of his blood related to the latter, Rick Raven’s personality was a combination of mental brilliance and sometimes excessive eccentricity. Like Bouchard, he had been part of the residential school system, but unlike his cousin, Raven had undergone in an abusive manner, the pressures of a white, colonial education being heavily pressed on an Indigenous student, with the misplaced objective of integrating that student into a life that rejected, disparaged and forced abandonment of the culture and beliefs of an Indigenous being for the completely disconnected values of another, wholly different ethnicity.

Laden with scars from this experience, Raven had somehow extracted elements of that forced education that were beneficial to him, and that also could be to others. After a brief stint in college, then trade school, where he had taken up several courses in computer programming and ended up vastly outperforming his professors, Raven had also discovered a love for physics and the potential that the principles of that science had for invention and the development of nanotechnologies embedded in computer science. Raven’s measured IQ of very close to one hundred sixty would help explain his mental acuity.

Are you still with us Scott? asked Rick Raven. I said, what do you think  of that?

Sounds good to me, replied McCrae, jerking himself back to the reality of the moment.

Really? I thought you might have had a different view on the matter, said Raven.

What matter? asked McCrae, while Bouchard rolled her eyes in disbelief as McCrae struggled to reenter the conversation.

I said that despite the advance of 3D bio-printing, we might end up having horns growing out of our heads if the wrong bio-ink was put in the 3D printer.

I would not be in favour of that, replied McCrae. We have enough trouble with human aggression as it is now.

But you said that human horns sounded good to you, replied Raven. Or did you mean horny horns?

Would you two please shut up, snorted Bouchard in exasperation. You’re giving me a headache.

I thought we were here to discuss the theft of Scott’s paintings, she added.

Indeed, declared Lehman with a smile. One good thing about the theft is that the paintings stolen were giclées and not the originals. No matter how well done the giclées are, the original paintings still have more inherent commercial value attached to them.

Moe, why were Scott’s paintings that are scheduled to be shown at the mining convention next week on display here at this time? inquired Bouchard.

The idea was to give them some advanced publicity, replied Lehman. In a number of media outlets and specialist magazines, Scott had advertised that the paintings were to be on display at the convention and that they would be available for purchase by interested parties. To accommodate the latter, it was noted that an advance display of the paintings would be at my gallery.

Was it mentioned that Scott’s paintings here at the gallery would only be giclées and not the original pieces of art? inquired Raven.

I don’t recall, replied Lehman, but in any event, I would have advised anyone of such when they were here. Remembering again, that the texture of the giclées would accurately represent that of the originals., it might be that the giclées might have some inherent commercial value to them as well. That they would be priced at a discount to the originals might also see a broader market develop for the paintings.

Glancing at his watch, Lehman said, I don’t mean to rush anyone, but maybe it is time that we took a look at the CCTV videos of the robbery.

Chapter 4

Gathered in front of a large TV screen in Lehman’s art gallery, McCrae signalled to Lehman that the group was ready to view the CCTV videos.

The first video was centred high on the gallery wall and directed at its entrance door. In seemingly seconds the magnet alarm was neutralized and bypassed as four hooded figures quickly made their entry into the gallery.

Seeming to instantly focus their attention on McCrae’s paintings, and although unseen from the camera angle, the thieves must have quickly started removing his art from the walls and, as was shown, stacking the paintings beside the entrance door, preparatory to removing them from the gallery and storing them in a black van that had been parked at the entrance to the gallery.

Suddenly, one of the group raised a hand in a gesture meant to signal silence and caution by the group. Possibly surmising some sort of intrusion and interference with their efforts, the four figures disappeared off the screen while probably seeking places to hide. It was not until several minutes later that the figures reemerged in view and were shown to be stacking more paintings by the front door. Finally, the theft completed, the four figures closed the gallery entrance door, and after loading the paintings into the van climbed aboard the vehicle and drove away. The angle of the CCTV camera was such that no license plate identification of the van could be made.

Lehman then switched to a CCTV video that was installed above the entrance and pointed towards the main display area of the gallery, where the removal of McCrae’s paintings from the gallery walls was plainly shown. Unseen from the prevailing angle was the first video’s cautionary gesture by one of the members of the group, but suddenly paintings in their hands were laid against walls and three of the group were seen seeking places to hide in the gallery. The fourth person found a hiding place in a niche space in the short hallway joining the gallery to the back office.

Soon after the group had all seemingly found places to hide, the back office door opened and Moe Lehman emerged. The video showed him to be tentatively moving with quiet caution down the hall toward the gallery display area as if straining to identify something of interest. Suddenly out of the hallway niche emerged the figure hiding there. An object of some sort was raised above the figure’s head, then savagely brought down to strike Lehman on the back of his head. Two more blows of lesser magnitude were struck before the figure moved to help the rest of the group rapidly remove McCrae's paintings from the gallery, load them into the black vehicle and drive off into the darkness. Once again, the angle of the camera, pointing to the gallery display wall prohibited any license plate or other relevant identification of the robbers’ vehicle.

That’s it? asked McCrae of Lehman. They don’t give the police, or us for that matter, much to go on in identifying, never mind catching these thieves.

I’ve only got the two videos, replied Lehman with a grimace, and I agree with you. It leaves us with about zero to work with.

I would not necessarily say that, said Rick Raven. There are several items in the videos that might invite some preliminary and possibly useful speculation.

How so? invited Bouchard in response. I didn’t see any faces or distinctive clothing. The four men all looked to have about the same build and we have no idea of their ages. We can’t identify the vehicle that was used. They all wore gloves so fingerprints are not possible. Since they left no other evidence, what else is there to draw on that might be of use?

Firstly, replied Raven, it should be remembered that this is the very start of an effort in trying to both solve the robbery and retrieve the giclées. As such, we are at a stage of an investigation that may invite