Butterfly Girl Read online

  “Captain Nowak,” I said. Nowak was sitting at a desk just outside Cutler’s office. He wore his service uniform depicting his rank on his sleeve. He looked up and a smile blossomed from cheek to cheek.

  “Holy shit!” He extended his hand extended towards me. I shook it cordially. “I never figured to see you again.” Nowak was about a half a foot shorter than me. His blond hair whitened at the temples. His face was tanned and lined with laugh lines. His brown eyes twinkled. He was a man that enjoyed life.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever step in a base again,”

  “How have you been? I never felt good about the way things went down.” He tilted his head towards Cutler’s closed door. “It wasn’t right.”

  “Thanks, but it is what it is.”

  “You landed on your feet though, right?”

  “Not really. I had to pull myself up from the ground. It took longer than I wanted.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “What about you? You’re still in the army?”

  “I wouldn’t know what else to do with myself. After Afghanistan, I was reassigned to Iraq, helping with the training of the Iraqi security forces. Then I was sent to the Ukraine. Spent some time there because of Russian aggression. When I heard the old man was made base commander, I applied to be his adjutant. He accepted. I’ll stay here until I retire now. My role is mostly in the management of our personnel rosters, you know, paperwork, computer files, that sort of thing. There’s a lot of comings and goings here and I coordinate it according to the needs of the base. It’s all computerised so I rarely leave my desk, but it keeps me busy.

  “It’s a good gig.”

  “It’s boring as shit, but someone has to do it. What brings you here? You’re the second former soldier from our company to show up today. Did I miss a memo about a reunion or something?”

  I forced a chuckle. “No. Detective Hosani has a case that he asked me to consult on.”

  “I know. But you’re not police?”

  “No. I’m strictly a second set of eyes.”

  “Well, I doubt the old man will give you any thing that he didn’t give Hosani. He may not even see you. There was a lot of bad blood there, if I remember correctly. You called him an asshole.”

  “Not quite. I said he was a step down from an asshole. That he was an aspiring asshole.”

  Nowak smiled. “That’s right. It was pretty funny. It was the talk in the mess hall for weeks after.”

  I heard a whine from behind his desk and cocked my head questioningly. Then an old dog, a golden lab, slowly trundled over. “Is that-?”

  “Yeah. That’s Cutler’s dog, Major. He’s still around. He’s slower than he used to be and he’s damn near blind. We’re going to have to get him a seeing eye dog soon,” Nowak joked.

  I knelt and put my hand out. “I can’t believe it. Come here, Major. Come here, boy.” Major’s tail slowly propelled back and forth. He made his way over to me, sniffing my hand gingerly before leaning into me, demanding to be petted. Of course, I happily complied. “He must be, what? Fifteen years old?”

  “Sixteen, actually.”

  Major was a fixture during my deployment in Afghanistan, and probably the only good thing I could think of about Cutler. Any man who could show such loyalty to a dog couldn’t be all bad. Major rolled onto his back and I graduated to belly rubs. Nowak checked his watch.

  “Hold on a second,” he said, and left the room. He returned a few minutes later with a dog bowl filled with raw meat. I could see chicken pieces, giblets, a turkey neck, and other less identifiable bits. I must have had a disgusted look on my face because Nowak saw my expression and chuckled.

  “A few years back I started feeding this old boy raw food. He’s getting up there and I’d like to keep him around as long as possible. Cutler doesn’t mind. There’s a butcher on Dufferin Street. He sells me his throw-aways on the cheap. I don’t know if it makes a difference, but ol’ Major seems to like it. He’s not my dog, but I love the old lug too. I’ve known him since he was a pup.”

  He put the bowl down. Major perked his head up, nostrils flaring as he caught the scent. After a brief struggle back to his feet, the Labrador shuffled towards the dish and ravenously ate the offering. He looked up at me with a look that could only have been contentment as he noisily chewed on his dinner. I could hear bones being broken and the softer, wetter sound of tearing meat. It turned my stomach.

  “What do you remember about Gracie Telford?”

  “Who?”

  “Gracie,” I repeated, before amending,” Private Mark Telford.”

  “Oh right. Sorry. Telford. I only knew him as Mark Telford. I never called him by Gracie. Didn’t understand him, I guess. It was a different time.”

  “You’re not wrong.

  “Telford was a trouble-maker almost from day one. He was barely five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than a buck twenty, but he had spirit. If you told him he couldn’t do something, it was his mission to prove you wrong. I think we all thought he’d get by on that alone. He wasn’t suited for combat, he just didn’t have the discipline, and he bucked at authority like a wild stallion. Somewhere up the chain, it was decided that he would do better as an analyst. And he did, at least at first. Soon enough, he fell back in his ways. The kid was punished so frequently that I think that they were trying to either toughen him up or make him quit. Either way, the army would win.”

  “Why not just cut him loose?”

  He slouched and exhaled a long breath. “Good question. He’d still be alive. I think that’s where he was headed before he ended up dead. There just was no place here for him.”

  “Do you think Bello killed him?”

  “I did. But after talking to Hosani today I’m not so sure. Telford had a lot of enemies. Not enemies,” he corrected himself. “That’s not the right word. He just wasn’t well liked.”

  “But there were always men willing to meet him for sex?”

  “I suppose so. Look, the official line is that the army doesn’t permit fraternisation, but it can be lonely. It was hard to blame a man for looking for some…intimacy.”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell?” I said.

  “Something like that.”

  “What do you remember about the night she was killed?”

  “I wasn’t there. I was on furlough. My mother had been in a car accident. The bigwigs let me go home for her funeral. Put her affairs in order.”

  There was talk that Cutler pulled some strings to make it happen so quickly. “Can you think of anyone else who may have wanted to kill Gracie?”

  “There were things going around him that made him very unpopular. I can’t elaborate on that.” His mouth twisted into a sour expression.

  Just then, Cutler’s door opened. The man himself stood in the threshold and stared at me. He was still powerfully built. His middle had gotten rounder and softer, but he carried himself with a confidence that belied his paunch. His hair had turned from salt and pepper to white, and his flinty black eyes homed in on me. I could see by the hate in those coal mines that he recognised me immediately.

  “Collins. What are you doing here?” His voice was gruff and uncompromising.

  “Sir, I’m here investigating a murder,” I said.

  “I already talked with Detective Hosani.” He screwed up his eyes. “Are you a detective? Do you have any identification?”

  “No sir. I am here as a civilian.”

  “In that case, I cannot help you.” He glared at me, daring me to defy him. Then he turned his hard gaze on Nowak. “Do not answer any questions about Mark Telford.”

  “Yes sir,” Nowak said. Cutler returned to his office. The door slam served as an exclamation point. I got the message loud and clear. This was a dead end.

  “Sorry. I’ve probably already said too much to you,” Nowak said.

  “I hope you’re not in trouble.”

  “Ah, it’ll blow over. I didn’t tell you anything that you didn’t already
know. Between you and me, the old man has been under a lot of stress lately. His wife is divorcing him, and its messy. He’s been hitting the bottle pretty hard.”

  “More than usual? I recall him enjoying a whiskey or two in Kandahar.” After Gracie was killed, I interviewed Cutler. I can still smell his warm, sour breath.

  “That war was hard on him. By the end of our deployment, he was drinking more than he should have.” Nowak put his hands out. “Not that he was ever fall-down drunk. Just enough to take the edge off.”

  “Does he ever get violent?”

  “Only if you’re married to him.”

  “He hits his wife?”

  Nowak put his index finger over his mouth. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  I leaned against his desk, thinking about my next move. I spied a framed photo of Nowak on his desk. He was much younger and skinnier. He wore a loud Hawaiian print shirt and had each arm around an Asian girl. They were both beautiful with amber skin and almond shaped eyes and long raven hair. They wore bikinis and smiled happily into the camera. One girl was taller with defined cheekbones and a square jaw. The other was smaller with rounded, softer features.

  “Where was this taken?”

  “That was before I was first deployed, back in ’97. A bunch of guys from my university dorm and I went to Thailand for a week. It was supposed to be my last hurrah, before I was at the beck and call of the army. It was the best trip I ever went on,” he said wistfully. “Beautiful women, white sand, palm trees, water so clear that you could see the bottom, and cheap booze. I met these two there. It was such a long time ago. The only thing I am sure of, was that we had a good time that night. I think that’s why I joined the army. I thought I’d travel the world on the government’s dime. See exotic countries, eat exotic food, have adventures. I can tell you this; the sands in Kandahar aren’t the same as the sands in Thailand.”

  “Maybe you should have joined the navy,” I said, patting his shoulder. “It was nice seeing you, Bob. Maybe we can catch up properly over lunch and a couple beers?” I gave Major a scratch behind the ears. He lifted his head, and then plopped back down to sleep.

  “I’d like that,” he said. I gave him my number and made my way back to Macy, lost in my thoughts. I took out my notebook and reviewed my notes. There was something Nowak wasn’t telling me, something he couldn’t tell me. Cutler made it clear that he had nothing to say to me. The answers were out there somewhere. I just needed to know where to look. Gracie was from Newfoundland. His father still lived there, but his mother left the family when Gracie was just a boy, and she lived an hour north of the city. They were estranged when Gracie was killed, but maybe he could shed some light into her life. I drove back to my apartment, no closer to the truth.

  6

  Hector

  It was dark when I got home. I didn’t feel like cooking anything, and truthfully, I doubted that my fridge could have cooperated with me even if I did, unless I conjured up something edible out of curdled sour cream, a jar of pickles that was more brine than pickle, and expired salad dressing. Sighing, I took out my phone and ordered some fish and chips from Uber Eats. After, I updated daily journal, detailing my conversations with Nowak and Cutler. I even noted how happy I was to see Major. Once completed, I closed the notebook and put it on its usual place beside the toaster on the counter. I liked it in plain sight. The mere presence of it was enough to make me feel guilty if I chose not to update it, though I’d done it so regularly, and for so long, it wasn’t a habit that I was tempted to skip.

  I jotted down all the information that I had about Gracie’s mother. Her name was Irene Telford and after she left her family she moved in with a sister in Barrie. I knew Barrie well enough. There was an army base there, which had been my home for the first year of my service. Barrie had a vibrant night life. There were a lot of bars and nightclubs in the downtown core. We spent the usual amount of time there, stirring up mischief and chasing girls. I hadn’t been back since, even though it wasn’t that far of a drive. I had an address for her but considering that it was over ten years old, there was a good chance that it was out of date.

  I went to my living room and fired up my old laptop and opened my Facebook page. There were half a dozen Irene Telfords, but it didn’t take long for me to narrow it down to Gracie’s mom. I can’t say how happy it makes me when people leave their profiles set to public. It makes it a lot easier to poke around in their private business. It never fails to amaze me the amount of personal information people are willing to share with casual acquaintances. Irene was one of them. She still lived in Barrie, but according to her most recent posts, she was in poor health.

  I sent her a private message: Mrs. Telford, I was a friend of Mark’s in the army. I was wondering if I could meet with you.

  She responded almost immediately. Irene: What for? He’s dead.

  Me: I know. We were friends.

  Irene: He never mentioned no Hector Collins in his letters.

  Me: We weren’t that close. I was just going through some of my things and found some personal items. Thought you might like them.

  Irene: I’m sick. Cancer. I can’t travel.

  Me: That’s okay. I can come to you.

  Irene: How do I know you aren’t some kind of pervert trying to take advantage of an old lady?

  Really?! Like I would drive fifty kilometres to force myself on a sick woman. This lady has some serious trust issues.

  Me: I don’t know how to prove that to you. I suppose you’ll have to trust me.

  Irene: Tell me something about Mark that no one else knows. Something not in the papers.

  I paused. What could there be? His murder wasn’t heavily reported, but most of the details came out at the time, only to be forgotten by the time the next news cycle rolled around. Then I remembered a little tidbit, one that I was sure wasn’t widely known.

  Me: He chose the name Gracie because of his grandmother. She meant the world to him and he wanted to honour that memory.

  It took her a few minutes to respond. Then she sent me a terse response: 32 Ditko drive. Before lunch. I take a nap in the afternoon.

  I logged out. That went better than I hoped, but I did create a little problem. I didn’t have anything of Gracie’s. I hated to lie to a sick woman, so I had to come up with something. I did a Google search and found a picture of Gracie. It was one of her in full dress uniform, probably before she deployed. I’m sure Irene had a copy of this. She may have been the one that took it. I pressed print and a five by seven copy made its way to my wireless printer.

  Then, inspiration hit. It made me feel a little sleazy. Any soldier that spent at least ninety days in that hellhole was entitled to a medal. Gracie was entitled to the South-West Asia Medal, but I was certain that she had never been awarded it. There was a news report several months ago that mentioned many vets haven’t received it. It had something to do with the name of the mission changing. I’m a little fuzzy on the details. I’d be willing to bet dollars to donuts that Irene never got Gracie’s. She probably didn’t even know that she was entitled to it. I went into my dresser drawer and pulled out a little jewellery box. It was my medal.

  I had no problem giving it up. I earned that medal; I don’t doubt that. Not for one second, but my tenure was also tainted. I was discharged. Dishonourably discharged. As if that wasn’t enough, I also lost my eye. That was a heavy price to pay. The worst part was that I failed Gracie. She deserved justice, and she didn’t get it. I sacrificed a lot for that god-damned medal, but Gracie sacrificed more. I retrieved the photo and carefully cut it to size. Then, I crumpled it a bit, making it appear as though I hadn’t just printed it off. I wanted it to look old, as if I’d had it stored in a dusty old box for the past ten years.

  I’d forgotten about my dinner when a knock came at the door. I spied through the peephole, and saw the pimply kid holding the package. I unlocked the chain and opened the door.

  “You ordered some food?” The kid asked. He handed m
e the white plastic bag. My stomach growled like a junkyard dog.

  “Thanks. Is there extra tartar sauce?”

  “I don’t know. I just deliver it. The restaurant packed it up.”

  “That’s fine. I probably have some in the fridge.” That was a lie. There wasn’t anything of any use in the fridge, my cupboards were Hubbard-level bare. I took the meal and spread it onto the kitchen table, rejoiced when I saw the extra cups of tartar, and tucked in. After my meal, I opened the Uber app and sent the delivery boy a tip. I still had my phone in my hand when it chimed.

  It was a message from Zaki: Did you review your notes? Can you provide any insight?

  I composed a long reply, noting the similarities and differences between Gracie and Sandra. I detailed how I believed the killer to be the same for both victims, and how his kill had evolved in the years between. I was certain that there must have been other murders, and that maybe the police should be looking at that too.

  Zaki: Already doing that. Not too hopeful. Trannys are high risk. No one cares when they die.

  It sounded callous but it was true. It was like the spate of indigenous women killed out west. One murder didn’t make a difference. Neither did a second. Or a third. It wasn’t until someone took a step back and noticed that these murders weren’t rare. Someone was killing indigenous, and other disenfranchised women, preying on them, and it numbered in the dozens. Eventually, a creepy farmer was arrested. He’d fed the bodies of his victims to his pigs. I shuddered at that. The ignominy of it, of having your remains fed to an animal. Those women would never rest. Closer to home, Bruce McArthur had been killing gay men for nearly a decade. He’d gotten away with it for so long because no one cared.

  I wasn’t religious. I don’t know about God or heaven, but there was a hell, and during their last days, they endured it. He was only charged with six murders, but he may have killed as many as fifty. They just didn’t know. The missing women weren’t reported, or no one noticed. They lived on the margins of society.