Murder on the Mall

Introducing Peter Galloway, Private Investigator

A short story by

Randy McCharles

Murder on the Mall

Copyright © 2019 Randy McCharles

Second edition. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage & retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover illustration by Jan Serne

Murder on the Mall

I was nursing my fourth cup of joe, people watching on Stephen Avenue Mall, when two mooks shuffled down the pedestrian-only pavement and wandered into Willie's Western Wear across the street. For the past two hours I’d been marking everyone who entered Willie Makowchuck’s boutique for wannabe cowboys, but these two stood out like last month’s leftover pizza. Both were late teens, early twenties, which was nothing special for Calgary’s urban cowboy scene. But while Willie offered leather boots and felt hats for ages nine to ninety, these two wore neither. The tall, emaciated blond wore torn jeans, which was about as cowboy as he got, and a bright pink and yellow t-shirt that advertised SpongeBob SquarePants. His shorter companion sported greasy dark hair, greasier dark pants, and a t-shirt advertising God knows what. It was red and black, and featured a rabid donkey’s head with great curling goat horns. The word badass was stamped underneath in some kind of Heavy Metal font.

My gut told me this was it. If SpongeBob and Badass didn’t fit the bill, I’d turn in my PI license.

Setting my half-finished cup of Irish coffee on its Pegasus Pub and Eatery coaster, I tapped the display on my Samsung Galaxy S10 smartphone and turned up the volume to my earbud. Back when I was a cop, homicide division, we never had such toys. They were available, but the public outcry of big brother watching made them impolitic to use. A career change from public detective to private detective had its advantages.

Despite the tiny display, the webcam I had set up behind Willie’s counter gave me a clear view of the two stooges sneering at the merchandise as they wandered up to the counter. Oh yeah, these were the guys I was after. At this rate I’d have the job tied up before dinner.

The back of Willie’s head suddenly blocked part of the shot, and I swore under my breath. From this close, the eighty-year-old storeowner’s hair didn’t look as thin and greying as reality declared, but if he inched much further to the right, that was all the footage I’d get.

"You got our money?" Badass drawled. At least he sounded like a cowboy.

"Bug off," Willie snorted, the sound a bit muffled as he was facing away from the microphone. The old man shifted left, and I got a clear shot of SpongeBob grinning like an idiot.

“That ain’t polite,” SpongeBob said. “You’d better apologize to my friend.”

“I’ll tell you what I told him.” Willie’s raspy voice grew loud with anger. “Bug off.”

“You need us,” Badass said, his face a scowl. “Ain’t no one else gonna keep them vandals from breaking up yer fine merchandise.” He flicked a finger beneath the brim of a white cowboy hat displayed just within view of the shot. The hat shifted on the manikin’s head, but that was all. Badass deepened his scowl and flicked his finger harder, causing the hat to flip up and off the manikin, out of the camera’s view.

Willie snorted again. “The only vandals I see are you two. Get out of my store before I call the cops.”

“Ohh,” Badass moaned. “I’m so scared.”

“We’re pussycats,” SpongeBob said, “compared to the bad boys we seen hurting your neighbours.”

“Really?” said Willie. “You’re pussycats, are you? Then how are you going to stop these bad boys you’re talking about?”

Badass glowered at his companion. “He’s a pussycat. I can take care of your problem.”

Willie began coughing and his head shook. Was the old man having a seizure? Then I realized he was laughing. Sometimes with old people it’s hard to tell the difference.

“I opened this store in 1956,” Willie growled. “You two prairie oysters hadn’t even been born yet. Hell, your parents hadn’t been born yet. And I ain’t never had trouble I couldn’t handle myself. So you two get the hell out of my store before I show you what trouble really looks like.”

SpongeBob was no longer smiling and Badass looked ready to provide some nice evidence for the camera. His fists were out of sight below the counter, but in my mind’s eye I could see them clenching.

“You’re an old fool,” SpongeBob said. “Consider our protection service terminated. Maybe we’ll come back after you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Protection service!” Willie shouted. “You’re just a couple of brainless thugs. You come back and we’ll see who needs protecting.”

The look in Badass’s eyes suggested something might happen right then and there. Something nasty for Willie if I couldn’t get inside his store fast enough. I’d never lost a client and I didn’t feel like losing one today. I was already rising out of my seat when SpongeBob put a hand on Badass’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. I doubted SpongeBob was the brains of the outfit, but he had just demonstrated he had more going for him than Badass.

Willie Makowchuck had hired me to sort out his protection problem because the police don't get interested until a crime has been committed— money out of pocket or damage to the store. Even then, the mere $100 a week protection money these two punks had demanded wouldn't put them high on CPS’s radar. Whoever their ringleader was, he wasn’t dumb. $100 was chump change, not enough to get anyone's attention. But if they extorted ten shop owners, that’s $1,000. And there were dozens of mom-and-pops along Stephen Avenue. Expand the operation to 10th Avenue, and they could pull in ten grand a week and still the cops would have bigger fish to fry.

Of course, the more mom-and-pops you extort, the more likely you'll hit on someone like Willie, an ornery bastard who wasn't gonna let some punk kids rob him of a dime, never mind a C-note.

I smiled at the thought that this gig sure beat taking photos of straying husbands.

The two wannabe felons stepped out into the bright Calgary afternoon sunshine and blinked as their eyes adjusted. Willie was as cheap with light bulbs as he was paying extortion threats. The few lamps inside his store couldn’t be more than forty watts. I’d had to adjust my webcam for almost nighttime lighting.

Grimacing, I swallowed the last of my fortified coffee and threw a pair of twenties on the table. Forty bucks. Almost half of that was tip, but I’d sat there long enough that my server deserved it. I was just pocketing my smartphone and preparing to follow SpongeBob and Badass to their next victim, when an explosion echoed along Stephen Avenue. I watched, stunned, as SpongeBob toppled to the pavement, a dark splash of red staining the sea fungus’s yellow smiling face.

I turned away in time to prevent my own personal demon from toppling me to the ground, and began scanning the street for the shooter. People all along the avenue lay flat against the pavement. Those who hadn’t dropped were still running toward the shelter of nearby shops. There were even a few who darted past my sidewalk patio table into the Pegasus Pub. I just sat there. It was too late to hit the ground. If another shot was coming, I would have heard it already.

There were only two people on the street stupid enough not to duck and cover. I was one. The other was Badass, who just stood there, white-faced and staring at his partner in crime’s corpse.

There should have been a third person– the shooter. Possibly he was lying on the pavement, hiding in plain sight. Or had the shot come from a window above one of the shops? The only person I could be certain hadn’t fired the gun was Willie. The old man’s thinning hair had been bobbing in front of the webcam as I pocketed my phone. And now he was stepping through his shop’s front door, looking first at Badass, then at SpongeBob, lying on the sidewalk in a growing pool of blood. Then he looked across the avenue at me, as if I had fired the shot.

I raised both of my hands and waved them, as if to say, “Look, no gun.”

Willie only muttered and produced a cell phone from his pocket. I could see him punch the keypad three times.

Badass seemed to suddenly notice Willie. Perhaps he heard him speak into the phone. I should have been able to hear him myself. For the first time all afternoon the street was quiet, save for a few people gawking and whimpering from where they lay on the ground. Then I noticed the music emanating from speakers outside the pub. I’d been there so long I had tuned it out. Loverboy was singing The Kid is Hot Tonight, obviously not about SpongeBob. Next, I heard sneakers pounding on pavement; Badass was making a run for it.

I should have stayed in my seat. Perhaps even ordered another fortified coffee. God knows I could have used one. If Willie didn’t outright tell the police of my involvement, my webcam behind his counter would get their attention. They’d want to see the footage. Then they’d want to know what the hell I thought I was doing there. When I left Calgary Police Services, it wasn’t exactly on good terms.

That’s what I should have done. Instead, I clamped my Elkhorn Fedora onto my head and started at a fast walk down the pavement toward City Hall, the direction Badass had gone.

Following the punk was no problem; Stephen Avenue was still mostly deserted. And for a badass he wasn’t much of a runner, even when frightened for his life. I hadn’t gone half a block, however, before people began crowding back into the street, now more interested in finding out what had happened than being afraid of it. I picked up my pace so I wouldn’t lose my quarry.

A siren sounded up ahead followed by flashing lights, then a police car wormed its way out from a wall of pedestrians. I pulled up against a stone storefront as it went past. Murder was one of those bigger fish that occupied the police.

Looking back up the avenue, I spotted Badass turning south down 1st Street East. I sprinted to catch up, then turned cautiously at the Glenbow Museum and walked at a normal pace along the sidewalk behind a trio of pedestrians. Badass’s running had slowed to a fast walk. Kids these days. Raised on soda and video games. As he reached 9th Avenue and the side entrance to the Glenbow ConocoPhillips Theatre, the walk light began to flash. Badass picked up his pace. As did I. If I had to wait for the next light, I’d lose him for sure.

Badass made it across the street and was continuing south on 1st when the walk signal ended. Unfortunately, I was still in the crosswalk. Horns began blaring even before the light turned green for the one-way traffic. Badass looked back and frowned at me even as I reached the curb. I immediately turned right toward the Calgary Tower and hid myself behind the corner of the One Palliser Square building.

One of my first purchases when I started out as a PI was a reversible overcoat from Abercrombie & Fitch, off-white on one side, and some ugly hue of brown on the other. I quickly pulled off the coat and reversed it. Whatever that brown was, it truly was god-awful. I also pulled off my crushable Fedora and stuffed it into a pocket.

Walking back around the corner I continued south on 1st Street. To my profound relief, Badass was still in sight.

I wasn’t even sure I needed to follow him. Willie hadn’t hired me to look into a murder. Murder was the reason I had quit the police. Well, one of the reasons. Whoever said, “You’ve seen one dead body, you’ve seen ‘em all,” hadn’t a clue. After six years in homicide, I still became violently ill viewing a corpse. When transferring to a different division became difficult, I quit. I’d had more death than I could stomach.

But Badass was the police’s only lead. He may not have committed the murder, but he knew the victim and might have ideas on who pulled the trigger. Of course, SpongeBob or even Badass could be on file with the police. My smartphone had a good image of Badass. But if they weren’t on file – many young criminals drifted from city to city – the police might have nothing. Except an ex-cop with black marks in his own file. They’d love that.

I shook my head at the thought, then realized that Badass was no longer in front of me. Another black mark for my own version of my file. Stepping double time, I hit 10th Avenue and spotted him heading west on the south side of the street. Then he was gone. Following, I found the spot where he’d disappeared. It was a narrow entrance to a watering hole called The Seedy Bar.

Stepping inside, I decided the name was well deserved. The lighting was almost non-existent, much worse than Willie’s cowboy boutique. In this place, forty-watt bulbs hadn’t been invented yet. After my eyes adjusted, I guessed the furnishings had been bought at auction from an older, possibly condemned, seedy bar. Ripped seat leather stinking of stale beer; ratty carpet with holes in it, possibly made by real rats; and something deemed art by a blind person adorning the walls.

There were very few clientele, and those looked disreputable and undesirous of notice, never mind company. Hitched up shoulders. Baseball caps, likely stolen from gas station attendants, pulled low over eyes. Glass beer steins clutched in tight fingers.

Badass might think he was hiding among them, but his t-shirt was one of a kind. The back also had badass stamped across the bottom, just below the image of a donkey’s generous behind. The dark-haired teen also clutched a glass stein, already mostly empty. A second sat on the counter in front of him.

I took a seat at a small table slammed hard against a curtained window. A rough-looking blonde strolled over and took my order. Somewhere in her thirties, she might have been pretty had she gone easier on the drugs and the booze. She returned a moment later with a none-too-clean glass mostly filled with a beer-like substance. I paid with cash and sat there, not touching the drink.

Halfway through his second glass, Badass pulled a phone from his pocket and punched a number. Calling his boss? The conversation was short and whispered. Badass’s hand trembled as he put the phone away, and his eyes were wild. Definitely his boss.

A few minutes later, the blonde was still giving me dirty looks when Badass downed the last of his beer and made for the door. I tipped an invisible hat at her, then pushed aside the edge of the curtain to peer outside. Badass was standing out front staring at his watch.

After maybe ten minutes, a beat-up Chevy Impala skidded to the curb and Badass climbed in. I was out of my seat and out the door in an instant, but the Impala had already pulled out into traffic.

Looking the other way, I spotted a taxi and waved at it. The taxi didn’t have a passenger, but it didn’t slow down either. There was nothing for it; I jumped out into the street. Breaks squealed. Oil burned. Blue smoke filled the air. The taxi driver rolled down his window and swore a blue streak at me. Some of the words I didn’t even know.

I ignored him and climbed into the passenger seat.

“What are you doing?” he cried. The driver wore a towel around his head and had a Middle Eastern accent. “I have a pickup.”

“Follow that car!” I said.

“You are an idiot,” he said. “I have a pickup.”

“I reached into my wallet and threw a handful of twenties at him. “Now you don’t. Follow that car.”

“You are still an idiot.” But the driver hit the gas.

The ID attached to the visor displayed his photo, driver number, and a name. Bindar Dundat. Sounded more East Indian than Middle Eastern.

I couldn’t see the Impala, but Bindar turned his taxi south on Centre Street and there it was, two blocks down and turning east onto 12th Avenue. In no time at all we were also on Twelfth and only half a block behind.

My smartphone chimed and I did a stupid thing. I answered it.

“Galloway!”

I recognized the voice. My old partner at Homicide. “Kowalski. It’s good to hear from you.”

“Don’t give me that friendly crap. You fled a crime scene.”

“I’m following a suspect.” I didn’t tell him it was one of the few suspects who couldn’t possibly have pulled the trigger.

“You’re not a cop anymore,” Kowalski snarled. “At best you’re a witness. But it never is the best with you, is it? Now get back here!”

“I would. But there’s still this suspect.”

“Let the police deal with him. You’re not the police.”

“Yes,” I said. “But the police aren’t following him. I am. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hung up.

The phone chimed again. This time I was smart. I ignored it.

Badass turned north onto Macleod Trail and went straight through downtown, passing within four blocks of SpongeBob’s cooling corpse outside Willie’s Western Wear. The taxi driver followed hot on Badass’s heels, oblivious.

Once past the 5th Avenue lights and onto Memorial Drive East, the Impala kicked it into high gear, going over a hundred in an eighty zone. My taxi started falling behind.

“They’re getting away!” I said.

“They’re speeding,” Bindar answered.

“You haven’t watched many crime shows, have you?”

“I love a good crime show.” Bindar looked up into the rear-view mirror and showed me a wide grin. “Especially the chase scenes. Yet it amazes me how no one loses their license. I have coworkers who have driven over the speed limit. They lost their licenses and now they clean toilets.”

I looked into my wallet and found it notoriously low on twenties. I was going to lose this puppy after all.

Bindar ignored me and got onto his car radio, speaking in some language that sounded a lot like me trying to get a word in edgewise when talking to my captain back when I was in Homicide. It sounded something like, “Hep. Awp. Ye. Ossu. Ahwah.” My driver was probably contacting the police to take me off his hands somewhere.

He turned south on Deerfoot even though I saw no sign of the beat-up Impala, and increased his speed to one hundred kilometres per hour and not a centimetre faster. The 17th Avenue exit came up and he took it, turning east toward Forest Lawn. Was he taking me back to his place for a late lunch?

At 28th Street he turned into Radisson Heights. Up ahead I could see another taxi ambling past older houses with faded paint and chipped sidewalks. Two blocks later my driver turned left onto 15th Avenue and pulled over to the curb. About six houses ahead of us sat the old Impala.

“How?” I asked.

Bindar tapped his radio. “With a little help from my friends. Now you get out?”

I threw him the ten and two fives I still had in my wallet. “You guys are greatly underrated.”

He shrugged and pulled into the street.

The neighbourhood was quiet, though I could hear loud music from a block over. Rap, if you call it music. Otherwise the place could be a ghost town.

I strolled a little way along the sidewalk, then crossed the street and leaned against a wobbly fence where I had a good view of the house behind the Impala. Whitewashed siding and a lawn that needed cutting. A few pieces of trash lined the front wall like modern art. The Impala’s engine pinged as it cooled.

My phone chimed and I looked to see a familiar number. “Kowalski,” I said.

“Galloway! I don’t see you giving your statement to Sgt. Evans. Where are you?”

“Stuck in traffic,” I said. “Rush hour.”

“It’s not even three in the afternoon!”

“Get out much, Kowalski?”

“You get down here before I put out a warrant for your arrest.”

“Again?”

This time it was Kowalski who hung up. I smiled.

Stakeouts can be boring. I’d done a few as a cop. More as a PI. But none where I stood out in the street in plain sight of the place I was watching. A lot of curtains covered the windows. They could be watching me right back. And in greater comfort.

A few hours went by. Well. It was probably a few minutes. It just felt like hours. Before I knew it, I had walked across the street, up to the front door, and was knocking.

A biker-looking dude answered the door. He wore a skull and crossbones muscle shirt and his face was a rat’s nest of hair. A slight scar across one cheek lent him character. His arms were covered wrist to shoulder with tattoos. One of them said, “MOM.” The guy stared at me like I was a Jehovah Witness selling pamphlets.

Badass came up behind him along with two other guys about the same age. Maybe this was a high school barbershop quartet, graduated and gone bad.

“Tough luck about SpongeBob,” I said.

They all stared at me.

“Who?” asked Biker.

“Your blond friend with the SpongeBob t-shirt.”

Two of the quartet vanished, leaving Biker and Badass in the doorway.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” asked Badass. “You shot Kevin.”

I shook my head. “I was there and saw it go down. I’m helping the police.” It wasn’t a lie. The police didn’t want my help, but I was helping them anyway. “Any idea who would shoot your friend?”

Both of them shook their heads.

“Come on. He had to have enemies. You have enemies. Perhaps someone you were extorting?”

Two jaws dropped.

“You might as well come clean. The cops will be less gentle than me when they show up.”

Two jaws remained dropped.

“How’s this then? You give me the list of businesses you were shaking down and I’ll find out which one of them is gunning for you.” I then gave them my trademark smile.

“Seriously, if I can find you, so can they. And they’ll be no friendlier with you than they were with Kevin.”

Two minutes later the door closed and I had a list of downtown businesses in my hand. This is why Kowalski and I didn’t get along back when I was a cop. Kowalski is a brute force kind of guy. Many cops are. They don’t believe in the soft touch. Seeing it in action is even worse. Kowalski would never simply ask for the list. And watching me do it, he’d be spitting teeth. Maybe it’s some kind of religious thing.

I scanned the list, but nothing stood out. No one puts down front for the mob when registering their business. I’d have to check them out, all twenty shops.

It was then I remembered I’d been dropped off by a taxi and that my Prius was parked downtown. I really didn’t feel like hoofing it down 17th Avenue hailing a cab. I knocked on the door again.

The biker opened it a few inches and glared at me.

“Excuse me, but I don’t suppose I could borrow your car?”

Twenty minutes later I was downtown at the 6th Street Parkade using my credit card to pay for parking.

Fortunately, the biker dude’s list was in extortion order and started three blocks west of Willie’s crime scene. Beginning with a couple of innocuous boutiques in Eighth Avenue Place, a mall I remembered from my youth as Penny Lane, I worked my way east.

Nothing felt out of place at any of the shops. A cop has a nose for these things. You don’t lose it when you leave the service. Then I stood outside a grimy storefront called Archaic Antiques. I didn’t know about the goods inside, but the grime outside the building certainly felt antique. My nose was tingling.

Stepping inside, I found old furniture and shelves filled with brass knick-knacks in desperate need of polish. There was a counter with no one behind it, but as I moved about the place the floor creaked and a curtain moved revealing what looked like a has-been gorilla straight from the WWF, except he wore a shirt and slacks instead of wrestling trunks.

Not wanting to waste time, I moved up to the counter and ran a finger across its surface, collecting dust. “Got anything more recent?” I asked.

He just stared at me. Perhaps he didn’t speak English.

“I’m not really into old stuff,” I said. I winked at him.

“Who referred you?”

So the gorilla did speak English. “Joe,” I said.

“Joe who?”

“Does it matter?”

The gorilla frowned, a straight band of skin and eyebrow running across his forehead. “We’re closed.”

“It’s just past three in the afternoon.”

“Special holiday,” he said.

“Right,” I said. “SpongeBob SquarePants Day.”

The frown became more intense.

“Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said, and left the shop.

Ignoring the other suspects on my list, I walked the remaining block and a half to Willie’s Western Wear. SpongeBob was gone, just a chalk outline to commemorate the lanky youth’s death. Police tape was everywhere and several uniforms were cautioning gawkers away.

“Where have you been?” Kowalski demanded before I was even within proper berating distance.

“Oh, you know,” I said. “Following suspects, generating leads, chatting with a killer.”

“You’re not a cop anymore,” Kowalski growled. “Not that you were much of one when you were.”

“Well, that’s a matter of perspective, I suppose. How are things going here?”

Kowalski snorted. “Mr. Makowchuck is ready to see you hang. When he hired you to chase away protection punks, he didn’t think you’d kill one of them to do it.”

“I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t. Not even you would be that stupid.”

I decided to accept the compliment. “Did you figure out who Kevin is?”

“Who?”

“The kid in the SpongeBob shirt.”

Kowalski didn’t answer, but he scrawled something into his notebook. “I want your webcam recording.”

“Of course you do, but you don’t need it.”

“We need to track down the other guy.”

“He’s at 1579 28th Street in Radisson Heights along with three other gang members. But none of them saw the shooter.”

Kowalski ground his teeth and made another note. “And you did?”

This wasn’t going well, not that I’d expected it to.

“I didn’t see him either. But he may work down the street at Archaic Antiques.”

“And you know this because…”

“Because he doesn’t smell right.”

“Never hold up in court.” Even a brick-head like Kowalski respected a cop’s sense of smell.

“I think I can lure him out,” I said. “All I need is the bullet calibre that killed SpongeBob.”

“I thought you were done with homicide. Couldn’t stomach it anymore.”

“Yeah, well. This thing hit me in the face, and not by my choice. I’m in it now and I may as well finish it.”

Kowalski snickered. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re a civilian.”

“Which is why I can finish it. You try, and it’s entrapment.”

Kowalski shook his head. “Your funeral. Bullet was a .357.”

“Gotcha.”

I turned around and headed back to Archaic Antiques. The gorilla looked more annoyed than surprised to see me.

“What?”

I smiled. “Joe sent me back. He doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

“Get outta here.”

“Joe wants to know if you have anything in a .357.”

“What?”

I pushed myself against the counter and leaned in. You got a .357 handy?”

The gorilla’s right hand dropped beneath the counter. I immediately reached for my holster, which of course wasn’t there. I’d left it behind when I left the police service. I had enough nightmares and didn’t need more by walking around with a widow-maker in my pocket. Gorilla’s hand was coming back up, so I grabbed the nearest thing handy— a green glass brass bankers lamp, pulling it so hard the cord popped from the wall plug and the light went out. Already I could see gun metal in the gorilla’s clenched hand. He was whipping it over the counter.

I heaved the lamp, smashing the brittle end into his face. The gorilla swayed backward, but didn’t let go of the gun. Neither did he fall down. He was a big guy and had taken some hits in his day. Well, that’s what I get for bringing a lamp to a gunfight.

Twisting the lamp in my hand I hit the gorilla again, this time with the heavier brass base. Another sway, but he still didn’t go down, and his gun hand was wavering in my direction. Swinging again, I hit his hand. The gun fired, but it now pointed toward the side of the store. The bullet hit something, but I was too preoccupied to see what.

Shuffling sounds came from behind the curtain. Reinforcements. I was going to have to take the gorilla’s gun away from him. Fast. But how? I’d bit off more than I could chew and I knew it. I raised the lamp again, ready to take another swing, when the street door burst open. Kowalski’s voice shouted, “Stop! Police.” And the pitter-patter of many hard-soled shoes pounded into the shop.

The sound of the gorilla’s gun hitting the floorboards was barely audible above the thumping of my beating heart.

Then I heard Kowalski laugh. The first time I’d ever heard the calloused cop laugh. “I always said you were trouble, Galloway. But for once it’s paid off.”

“Yeah, well, buy me a cup of joe and we’ll call it even.”

A friend of mine had once said a homicide cop was in it for life; you could leave the job, but the job would never leave you. I’d laughed at the time. I wasn’t laughing now. The nightmares were bad enough, but it looked like the job might still be in my blood. The only bright side was that I’d managed to solve a murder without coming within fifty yards of the corpse. Put that in my file, Kowalski.

Even so, this private investigator gig wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped.

THE END

The Peter Galloway Mystery Series

If you enjoyed Murder on the Mall, check out the Peter Galloway Mystery series, beginning with Murder in Wood Buffalo, where Galloway investigates the death of an oil worker whose corpse is discovered on First Nations land.

Here is an excerpt:

Murder in Wood Buffalo

When ex-homicide detective Peter Galloway is asked to investigate a murder in the Alberta oil sands, he has nothing but misgivings. His better judgment, however, is trumped by the prospect of working with an intriguing RCMP officer. Armed with only his wits and the support of a small-town police service, he is forced to confront not only the dark side of a modern oil boomtown, but his own personal demons. With no shortage of suspects, Galloway must find an elusive killer or risk damaging his hard-won reputation in this seemingly idyllic northern community.

Just another Client

I stood outside the wide, two-storey building, frowning at my watch as the minute hand ticked one notch closer to the top of the hour. Few people wore analog watches these days, and many considered me old-fashioned. I didn’t mind. If I wanted the time in digital, I could retrieve my Samsung S10 from my shirt pocket. Besides doubling as a watch, my smartphone was loaded with more apps than I could use. Old-fashioned only got you so far.

It was almost 1 p.m. on a Wednesday. Anyone with an ounce of sense would be finishing up a nice lunch and debating how late they could arrive back at their daily grind without earning the boss’s ire. My midday respite had consisted of a 7-11 Big Bite mystery dog and coffee to go. Not what I’d call a nice lunch. The empty waxed cup and catsup-smeared wrapper kept company with several past lunches on the floor of my metallic gold Toyota Prius, now parked a few dozen yards away. I’d given up my daily grind a year and a half ago.

A blast of cold air whipped along the side of the building and up my sleeve, sending a shiver down my spine and forcing me to thrust my hands into my trench coat pockets.

How I hated Calgary winters. My only consolation was that Edmonton and Winnipeg winters were worse. There’s a reason U.S. maps of North America show Canada as solid white, or as Bob and Doug Mackenzie called it, the Great White North. That I’d been born in Cowtown, as Calgary is often called, and survived more Canadian winters than I cared to count, didn’t make them feel any warmer.

A shadow image of myself, barely recognizable in the tinted glass of the building’s aluminum-trimmed double door, reflected my sour mood. To the door’s right, giant letters also made of some kind of aluminum alloy, stood out against a dark blue wall: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. Though to be fair, what they really said was Calgary Police Services Headquarters. For me the meaning was the same. Eighteen months ago I’d walked out those doors, swearing never to return unless I was wearing handcuffs. Yet here I was.

I still couldn’t get over how much the building looked like a warehouse. I’d started my career as a cop back when HQ was downtown near City Hall, a majestic, high-ceilinged edifice with granite walls and tiled floors. A building with class. The new headquarters near the airport occupied a remodeled Nortel building, Canada’s one-time leading manufacturer of business telephones. How low the mighty have fallen. The only upside of coming here instead of downtown was that I didn’t have to pay for parking.

The minute hand in my head ticked another notch. If I delayed much longer, I’d be late. Over my careers as a cop and then as a private investigator, I’d earned a reputation for being on time. I wasn’t about to lose that now. Taking a deep breath of crisp air, I took one hesitant step toward the automated door, then stopped.

What the heck was I doing here?

Yes, Chief Harding had been insistent. An opportunity I wouldn’t want to pass up. It sounded great over the phone. It sounded less great a few feet from the Police Chief’s office. Just another client. That was the only way I could look at it and keep my sanity. Just another client.

Sucking a second lungful of chill air in through my nose, I blew it out my mouth and took another step. My heart almost stopped when the doors slid open and what I assumed was a woman, wrapped head to toe in raggedy sweaters and scarves against the cold, barrelled through the opening and brushed past me, almost knocking me off my feet. She, he, it, said not a word and didn’t turn around or pause to apologise, but hustled away toward the parking lot. Yeah, well, police stations had that effect on some people.

The doors remained open as I stood there blocking the sensors. I had to either move forward or step back. I knew if I let the doors close without entering, that I would climb back into my Prius and never return. I’d never know if I had made the right decision or simply been a coward. The notion of cowardice didn’t appeal to me, so I forced myself to step forward.

The lobby hadn’t changed one iota since I’d left. It still had industrial-green carpet with matching sick-green walls. That’s a real shade. Sick-green. Designed to inspire moroseness. The single dark brown wall near the security counter offered even less cheer. To the right, green and brown metal-frame visitor chairs sat in orderly rows like a departure lounge at an airport. If not for the thirty-foot ceiling punctuated by a giant nose-cone skylight, the CPS HQ lobby would be a contender for the most oppressive public space in the city.

No one sat waiting for service, which happens occasionally. I had always taken an empty waiting room as a sign that we, the police, were doing some good in the world. All too often, though, the waiting area was standing room only. Well, I was no longer a cop. Not my problem.

I recognized the tall, shaved-headed man standing behind the security counter. Officer Willis. We called him Bruce. That wasn’t his name. He gave me a curt nod and wagged his chin toward the lane of service counters. Had the place been busy, he’d have given me a number, just like at a registry office or medi-centre. I threw Bruce a small salute.

There were nine help stations along the left wall, each with its own plate-glass protective barrier and digital sign announcing what number they were serving. Despite the lull in business, six of the stations were staffed.

When I left CPS, my co-workers hadn’t thrown me a party. Most felt I had copped out, literally, when I turned in my badge to join the private sector. The rest just plain never liked me. The idea of dealing with one of them now, at a help counter, was almost more than I could bear.

A young woman I didn’t recognize stood behind the leftmost station, so I made my way toward her. With luck, I could find my way to the Chief’s office without anyone recognizing me. Well, maybe I needed more than luck. She smiled when I stepped up to her window. Yup, fresh out of training.

“How can we help you today?” the rookie asked, cheerful as a WestJet flight attendant.

I leaned in and kept my voice low. “I have a 1 p.m. appointment with Chief Harding.”

Before she could ask my name, a loud, grating voice thundered across the waiting room. “Well look who’s back. If it isn’t Peter Puking Galloway.”

I turned my head toward the security door marked Authorized Personnel Only, and saw Detective Kevin Kowalski swaggering toward me, his gut hanging out over his belt and a jumbo-sized coffee cup clutched in his hand. My ex-partner sported a cruel smirk on his lips, and his eyes danced as he pondered his next insult.

I tried to head him off. “Kowalski, shouldn’t you be out solving a crime somewhere? Or at least wolfing down donuts at Tim Horton’s.”

By now everyone behind the service counter had turned toward me, some enjoying Kowalski’s wisecrack, others wondering why the ex-star of Calgary Police Service’s Homicide Unit was in the building.

“No better place to be,” Kowalski answered, “than right here, right now, watching Peter Puking Galloway report the theft of a garden gnome, or whatever lame excuse brought you in. Isn’t the Rosscarrock office closer to your place? Or did you move to somewhere decent? Couldn’t keep away, huh?”

“Harding called me in,” I admitted.

That leached the smile from Kowalski’s face.

I let him stew in potential implications for a moment before resuming. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m not coming back to work. The Chief has a potential client he wants me to meet.”

“Oh, well,” Kowalski said, trying to climb back aboard the insult train.

The rookie had the balls to interrupt the senior detective. “Chief Harding is waiting for you in his office, Mr. Galloway. Head over to security and I’ll show you the way.”

Dismissing my ex-partner from my thoughts, I smiled at the young officer. “Unless the old man has given up his corner office in the past two years, I know the way.”

“Someone still has to escort you,” she said, then disappeared from behind the counter.

“Of course,” I mumbled to the vacated space.

Kowalski wasn’t finished, however. “Must be a cat up a tree somewhere,” my ex-partner suggested with a wave of his coffee as I brushed past him. “Harding can’t be bothered to send out a real cop.”

I shook my head, feigning sadness. “Too bad real cops are so hard to come by these days.”

A smattering of laughter rolled along the counter area, then quieted as the duty officers realized the comment could equally refer to them.

Bruce Willis gave me a visitor badge and a tight smile after I signed my name on his clipboard. He then flashed an access card across the RFID reader and I was through the Authorized Personnel Only door, leaving Kowalski in the waiting area sputtering for a comeback.

As the door closed on my ex-partner’s snarling face, I kicked myself for not pulling out my phone and taking a picture. It was classic Kowalski and would have looked great on my call display.

“The detective must really like you,” the rookie said, half laughing as she led me past the staircase to a pair of elevators. The door of the leftmost elevator opened right away, but the six by six by eight box made a slow ascent to the second and highest floor.

That’s right. An elevator in a two-storey building full of men and women who were required to pass an annual physical. Accessibility requirement? Or did the brass balk at the idea of going downstairs to meet with anyone for whom stairs were a challenge. That would mean abandoning their intimidating offices and rubbing shoulders with the rank and file. Not on their watch.

Responding to the rookie’s comment, I muttered, “Kowalski? I guess he didn’t like the Christmas card I sent him.” Telling her the real reasons behind my ex-partner’s antagonism would take more time than a stroll through police headquarters would allow.

“I know who you are,” the rookie said, raising one brow. “You’re famous around here. I’m sure half of what they say about you isn’t true.”

I grinned at her. “And the other half?”

“Likely not true, either.”

“Well, that’s fame for you.” I suppressed a laugh.

The elevator opened onto a maze of hallways and offices. No cube farm for the brass. The rookie led me to a corner suite sporting a frosted glass door and stainless steel nameplate. Embossed lettering heralded the office of the City of Calgary Chief of Police, arguably the highest rank a cop could hold without leaving the province. Arguably because Archibald Harding and Edmonton Chief of Police Sally Petoskey carried an ongoing debate as to which of them was senior. As if there wasn’t enough crime to keep them busy. I had long since thrown my vote to Petoskey.

The rookie knocked on the door, then opened it partway when Harding’s deep voice grunted, “Enter.”

“Mr. Peter Galloway to see you, sir,” she announced through the opening in a firm yet subservient voice. Yup, nothing had changed since I’d left.

“Send him in,” Harding rumbled.

The rookie pushed the door the rest of the way open before fading back into the corridor. As I stepped inside, I waggled my eyebrows at her as if to say here goes nothing.

“Galloway!” Harding growled. The Police Chief, standing six foot four and as wide as a Stampeders linebacker, loomed behind an intimidating brass-inlaid oak desk. His hair was a bit thinner and greyer than I remembered, and an uncharacteristic smile marred his stony face. Not a good sign; Harding never smiled. The unnatural expression twisted awkwardly as his lips moved. “I’d like you to meet Sergeant Ford. The sergeant is down from the Wood Buffalo RCMP detachment in Fort McMurray.”

RCMP? And not even a local. Why would a cop from up north be interested in me?

I turned my head as a thirtysomething woman, sharply dressed in red serge, rose from a chair and offered me a stunning smile. It took my gaze a moment to escape that smile and move up to startling blue eyes beneath stylish auburn hair that was probably shoulder-length when she let it down. A quick glance at her left hand revealed the absence of a wedding ring. I had to admit that, as a fledgling PI, I had dreamed of a lady in red sauntering into my office in need of my services. Those dreams had never started out quite this way, but I was willing to see how things played out.

A closer look at the dress uniform revealed the crown and three downward pointing chevrons of a sergeant decorating her right forearm. A beige Stetson hat rested on a chair beside her.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, filling the silence before it grew uncomfortable. “It’s always nice to see RCMP in the city. Especially when you’re on horseback making CPS look second-rate.”

The RCMP sergeant returned my smile while Harding emitted an unamused grunt.

It occurred to me there was a third high-ranking cop in the province, RCMP Deputy Commissioner Allison Garfield, who without doubt outranked both Harding and Petoskey. I guessed the joke was on them.

The RCMP officer immediately in front of me, however, allowed her smile to fade. “While I always enjoy visits to Calgary, I’m here to see you, Mr. Galloway.”

My eyes dropped to the holster at her waist belt that I knew held a regulation Smith and Wesson 5946. “I hope I’m not in any trouble.”

Harding coughed and Ford said, “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Actually, we need your help.”

My help? Why would the RCMP need help from the likes of me?

“Please,” Sergeant Ford said, gesturing toward a chair. “Take a seat.”

I stepped toward the indicated chair and waited for the lady to sit before doing so myself. I noted that Harding also waited before lowering his bulk back down behind his imposing desk.

“We have a complex situation,” Ford said, getting straight to business. “Are you familiar with the Chipewyan Clearwater Nation?”

I could tell she was referring to First Nations, but unlike the Tsuu T'ina Nation, whose lands abutted Calgary or the Chiniki First Nation out toward Banff, I had never heard of them. I said so.

“It’s a small band outside Fort McMurray,” the sergeant said. “Though part of the larger Chipewyan Nation, they keep to themselves citing other Chipewyan bands as becoming too modern.”

I had never heard of the larger Chipewyan Nation either, but didn’t bother mentioning it. “How can I help?” I asked instead.

Sergeant Ford leaned forward a little in her seat. “A Chipewyan band member hunting coyotes discovered the corpse of what they say is an oil worker.”

“They say?” I echoed. “You haven’t made a determination?”

Ford leaned back in her chair. “That’s where it gets complicated. The Clearwater Chipewyan have no love for the RCMP and are pushing back on giving us access to remove the body.”

“And you can’t… force the issue?” I asked.

The sergeant let out an almost-sigh. “Given no other choice, but the RCMP is in the middle of a national initiative to improve relations with First Nations. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. We’re looking for a less confrontational solution.”

“I see. I imagine they’ve offered to bring you the body.”

“Yes, and in the process destroy any forensic evidence.”

In my four years as a patrol officer and six years as a homicide detective, I’d never come across a problem even remotely similar. “Do you need forensic evidence? Could the death be natural causes?”

“We can’t make a determination without an autopsy,” Ford said, “but the Chipewyan have suggested the corpse was repeatedly stabbed.”

I smiled. “Suggested?”

“As in definitely repeatedly stabbed.”

“I see.” There was no question where this was going, but I asked anyway. “And where do I fit in?”

Ford visibly relaxed, her shoulders easing and the tension lines in her face softening. “The Chipewyan band chief has requested an independent third party to escort our FIS unit to process the scene and remove the body. This happens more often than you’d think.”

I knew that FIS stood for Forensic Identification Section, the RCMP equivalent of CPS’s FCSU, the Forensic Crime Scene Unit. Or CBS’s old CSI series, although television’s crime scene investigators made the job look laughably easier while at the same time more dangerous than it really was.

“And I’m that independent third party,” I said. “Why me?”

The sergeant lifted her right hand to fidget with the white lanyard that looped under the epaulettes of her uniform and connected to the magazine of her pistol, an unconscious act. “The Chipewyan refuse to entertain anyone employed by a government. No RCMP, city police, or military. That leaves the private sector.”

“Which is slim pickings,” I suggested. “I know my competition.”

“You’re an ex-homicide detective,” Ford said, lowering her hand. “And a good one according to Chief Harding. Your close rate was one of the highest in the country. Frankly, I’m surprised you threw it all in.”

“I’ve got my reasons,” I said. “And I’m sure Chief Harding already told you that I’m out of the homicide business.”

“He did and I can respect your decision.” Ford’s expression suggested that she meant it. “We just need you for escort duty. Our Forensic Identification Section will handle the crime scene.”

“Escort huh? So there’ll be someone from your homicide unit directing FIS?”

An uneasy smile worked its way across the intriguing RCMP officer’s lips. “Wood Buffalo is fortunate in that we don’t have enough homicides to justify a dedicated unit. Detectives from our General Investigative Section usually handle homicides, but they are exactly who the Chipewyan don’t want involved.”

I wondered what the GIS guys had done to annoy the locals, or was it all police in general who were in the Chipewyan’s bad books?

“If I agree,” I said, “tell me what happens next.”

Ford glanced at her watch. “We catch the 2:05 flight to Fort McMurray. That will place us at the crime scene by 4 p.m. The sun will be down by then, so FIS will have to bring the big lights. They hate working under nighttime conditions, but would rather not wait for daylight. We don’t know how long the corpse has been out there.”

“2:05?” I said. “What are we flying? WestJet? I thought you federal police had your own planes?”

“Cutbacks,” Ford said in an offhand way that indicated resignation rather than agreement. “We have access to a few aircraft, but commercial airlines are usually faster turnaround.”

Even though I knew it was only a few minutes past one o’clock, I glanced at my watch. “I won’t have time to pack. Or go home for a warmer coat.”

December in Calgary had been relatively mild so far, enjoying a Chinook warm front that put us several degrees above freezing. The wind had shifted from the west to the north overnight, dropping the temperature, so I’d left home that morning wearing my fleece-lined London Fog trench coat. It did the job on all but the bitterest of winter days. I had no idea what December in Fort McMurray would be like, but bitter seemed a likely adjective.

Ford appeared unmoved by my circumstances. “We’ll have a department issue winter parka waiting for you when we land. You won’t need anything else; you’ll return to Calgary on an evening flight.”

I pursed my lips and asked myself the question that had been stirring at the back of my mind. If all they needed was someone for escort duty, why did they need an experienced homicide investigator? Any clown would fit the bill. There was more to the story than Sergeant Ford was telling me.

I glanced at Chief Harding. He sat rigid behind his desk, quieter and more stone-faced than usual. Then returned my gaze to Sergeant Ford whose smile, though friendly, appeared agitated with nervous expectation. She needed me to say yes. A no meant she would have to do her song and dance again with the next luckless tomfool on her list. That would take time and a corpse could spend an extra day exposed to the elements.

The ex-cop in me said we needed to get that crime scene nailed down. I couldn’t blame the RCMP for wanting to hustle me onto a plane before the other shoe fell.

I made my decision. “You’re not being upfront with me.”

Sergeant Ford attempted to speak, but I stalled her with a wave of my hand.

“That said, I understand the urgency. Sure, I’ll be your monkey on a string. Under one condition. I want to hear the whole story on the plane. Can you give me that?”

“Of course,” Ford said, her face flushing a mild pink.

Chief Harding stood. “A constable will drive you to the airport. Plane tickets will be waiting.”

I allowed a small laugh to escape my lips. “I’ve always wanted to visit the province’s north. Mind you, a trip in December wouldn’t have been my first choice.”

<|>

Find out what happens next in Murder in Wood Buffalo, the first book in the Peter Galloway Mystery series.

DEDICATION

This work is dedicated to my friend Axel Howerton of Coffin Hop Press, whose invitation to contribute to the AB Negative crime anthology inspired me to create Peter Galloway.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special thanks to those writers and readers who provided feedback on various drafts, making this a much stronger work than it would be otherwise. Any errors or omissions are entirely the author’s own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Randy McCharles is a full-time author of speculative and crime fiction, and is the recipient of several Aurora Awards (Canada's most prestigious award for speculative fiction).

Randy's most recent publications include the 2016 shortlisted novel Much Ado about Macbeth from Tyche Books, and 2017 shortlisted Young Adult novel The Day of the Demon.

In addition to writing, Randy chairs the award-winning When Words Collide Festival for Readers and Writers held in Calgary, Alberta.

Visit Randy at: www.randymccharles.com

Books in the Peter Galloway mystery series:

Murder on the Mall (short story)

Murder in Wood Buffalo

The Christmas Carol Murders

Murder in Mazatlán

The Bridal Veil Murders

The Deadliest Outdoor Show on Earth

Additional books by the author:

The Day of the Demon

Much Ado about Macbeth

Capone’s Chicago

The Necromancer Candle (collection of 3 novellas)

Ghost-B-Gone Incorporated (short story)

Links to books & reviews:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3233617.Randy_McCharles

https://www.amazon.com/author/randymccharles/

https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/search?query=randy%20mccharles&fcsearchfield=Author

If you enjoy Randy’s books, please leave a review.