Chapter 15

A body is found at the CO camp. Murder, you say? 
Schubert and Peters pay a visit to Kitty Murdoch, later canvassing the less reputable flop-houses, searching for their suspect. A visit to the local American base leaves Schubert fuming.

Chapter 15

Around 10 am that same day, the station received a call from the CO camp—a body had been found. Even thought it was late morning, the deep cold of night was felt across the countryside. The sky was a pale blue; the sun seemed powerless to warm the air. As Peters drove to the CO camp, the sky reminded him of the hope of warmer weather. Only six more months, he thought. 

Schubert, sitting beside him, couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering—he hit the dash, trying to coax more warmth from the heater. He was always cold (he never felt warm during these months) and he was tired. Thoughts of Louise continued to distract him from what he needed to focus on. He didn’t need his failed marriage added to an already overwhelming workload. And then there was Geneviève. She was a distraction he wasn’t willing to ignore, at least, not yet.

Dietrich Friesen stood beside the camp gates, signaling the squad car to stop.

Peters rolled down the window. “Get in. It’ll be faster than walking.”

Friesen slid into the back seat, behind Schubert. 

“Drive to the far end of the camp, the east corner. It is the area where maintenance and construction supplies are stored,” he said, leaning out the window, pointing. 

A group of men were gathered around a building. They parted as the police cruiser neared. Peters noticed John Sawatzky and Abram Funk among them.

“This way,” Abram motioned as the three men left the car. Funk led them around the rear of the building to a sling of rough-cut lumber. He pulled the tarp back.

“Who is it?” Schubert asked.

Funk replied, “Mathias Wall.”

Schubert leaned in closer. Frost had gathered on Wall’s eyelashes. His withered eyes looked upwards. He touched the corpse: the flesh was solid.  Wall’s throat had been cut from side to side.

“Garrote,” Peters said, his voice hoarse with memory. “A deep cut. He’s been here a few days, at least.” 

“Was he killed here, I wonder?”

“Wall is a big man—it would’ve been a helluva struggle. I doubt if the killer could move him very far.”

Peters scanned the ground for drag marks, but too many men had tracked through the area.

Schubert turned to Abram. “When did this visitor we spoke of ask for Siegfried Janzen?”

“It was just over a week ago,” he replied.

Schubert asked Friesen: “I believe Wall and Janzen’s murders are connected. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm Siegfried Janzen? Did he have enemies in camp? I know you’re all supposed pacifists, but hatred has a way of eroding one’s principles, however firmly held.”

Friesen shrugged. “How could he have enemies? He only arrived a few weeks ago.”

Funk added: “And from what I saw, he knew no one here. At least, he never mentioned anyone.”

Schubert said: “I doubt Wall was killed by one of the COs. Mr. Friesen, I’ll wager that when you look at Wall’s file, it’ll be empty.”

He nodded. “I checked his file when the body was discovered,” Friesen replied. “It is as you said: his file is empty. And someone stole Janzen’s file—I don’t understand.”

“Covering his tracks, is what our killer’s doing,” Peters said. “He must have spoken with Wall. Maybe Wall met him. What do you think, Boss, is this Wraith’s doing?”

“Damned if I know but the exchange of Janzen’s file with Wall’s points in that direction. Janzen is murdered and his file goes missing. Wall is murdered and his file is left behind. Someone doesn’t want us to find out anything else about Janzen. The question is, what was Janzen mixed up in? What the bloody hell is going on, Peters? This is Whitehorse, not London’s east end!”

“I don’t know sir but whatever it is we’re in the middle of it.”

“These murders are all strategic. There’s nothing random about them. They point to something but what exactly, I’m not sure.”

“Strategic and reckless at the same time,” Peters added. “Wall shows no sign of defensive injuries. He was taken by surprise.”

“Stealth: we know that’s part of our killer’s modus operandi.”

Peters added: “Wall, garroted from behind; Janzen had no chance to fight back. Stern, shot in the gut and then executed. This killer is experienced. He doesn’t hesitate—he plans ahead. It feels like he’s a soldier.” 

“A soldier? He’s strong. Like you said, there’s no turning back from a garroting. He gains his victim’s trust and uses it to his advantage.”

“It’s almost as if killing comes naturally to him. God, I hope we don’t have a psychopath running around Whitehorse.”

Schubert’s gut tightened at Peters’s last words. 

“Johnson and I discussed that possibility in Blue River. At the time, I disagreed with him. Now, I’m not sure. This feels like Wraith.”

“Whoever he is, he’s leaving a trail of bodies across the Territory.”

Abram covered the body and the policemen returned to the car. Peters fired it up. Schubert climbed into the front seat. Friesen leaned in through the window, waiting for instructions. 

“We’ll send an ambulance. Don’t move the body until they arrive. I’ll call if I have further questions.” He tapped Peters on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Peters gunned the engine, spinning the tires on the frozen ground. Maybe this is what the killer wants, Schubert thought. Scattered priorities, multiple casualties, and as Peters had intimated, multiple methods of execution. Schubert stopped at his last thought, execution, but that made even less sense. The distance between murders, the men who were killed, none of it added up.

Peters fiddled with the radio. He knew enough to keep quiet when Schubert’s frustration rose. 

A song began hammering deep in Schubert’s subconscious. Gradually it surfaced and then the music to Aufenthalt (My Refuge) came to the fore. It was his voice he heard, singing something his ancestor had written.

Thundering torrent, roaring forest, stony crag, my resting place. Just as the waves roll one after one my tears flow eternally. My tears, billowing high in the treetops, while just as unceasingly beats my heart. And like the mountain’s ancient core so remains my pain.

Back at the station, Schubert grabbed a cup of coffee before retreating to his office. The thermometer outside his office window seemed to show less mercury each day. Winter had closed its fist upon the Territory. He rubbed the ice from the window pane to get a better look. Well, it’s not all bad, he thought. It gives us an advantage—if Wraith is in Whitehorse he’ll need shelter. 

“Bart,” Schubert called, “how many flophouses have we canvassed so far?”

“We have two left. There’s Jake Doherty’s place and Madam Tussaud’s. And we should check Murdoch’s once more.”

The flop houses were the natural choice for someone trying to remain anonymous. Even though the clientele at Murdoch’s tended to be better off financially—some, even wealthy—(that is until gambling started, liquor flowed and Kitty’s women began their subtle art of distraction) their suspect may have chosen Murdoch’s to hide in plain sight. 

By the time Schubert and Peters arrived, Kitty’s saloon was nearly empty, the breakfast crowd come and gone. A handful of men sat reading the few pages offered by the local paper. Kitty’s girls were nowhere to be seen—most likely sleeping off the previous evening’s bacchanal. 

“Morning Miss Murdoch,” Peters said. “Two coffees if you don’t mind.”

Schubert was already at table when Peters joined him. He stared absently at the saloon’s decor: it wasn’t his style but was well built: mahogany paneling, a curved staircase to the second level complete with a brass handrail. It seemed pretentious for Whitehorse, an opinion he kept to himself.

“Your coffees,” Kitty said, placing cream and sugar alongside. “A social visit from the local constabulary?” 

Schubert couldn’t discern if her tone of voice was meant to convey exasperation or something else. He knew he wasn’t popular where gambling, liquor and women were concerned.

“Please join us,” Schubert invited. She heard it as more of a command than request, but sat down.

“Unfortunately not, Miss Murdoch,” Schubert continued. “You’ve no doubt heard about the recent murders in Whitehorse.”

She nodded. 

“We’re checking all local establishments that have guests. Have you any patrons from overseas? Any foreigners at all?”

She shook her head. “None this week. All Canadians and here on business.”

“Nevertheless, I need to check your guest book.”

The unspoken order was issued. As she left to retrieve the book, Peters said, “She replied a little too quickly for my liking.”

“Perhaps,” was all Schubert said.

Kitty returned with the thick, leather-bound ledger. 

Schubert rifled through the pages. He stopped, and then flipped back a page. 

“Peters, what do you make of this?”

Peters leaned in, one eye on Kitty. “Siegfried Janzen booked a room here? Makes no sense—he’s a CO.”

“How long was Janzen staying here?” Schubert asked her.

“He wasn’t.”

Schubert waited. Loquaciousness was not one of Kitty’s stronger attributes.

“Explain.” 

She gathered the book to herself and closed it. “He came in a few days ago and booked a room but he never showed.”

“Was he alone?” 

Kitty wasn’t naive. She understood his question.

“I poured him two whiskeys, one for him and his friend. We had a full house that night so ‘no,’ I didn’t get a good look at the other man, if that’s what you’re meant to ask.” 

Schubert understood, to a degree. Unlike Unwin’s bar in Blue Rive, Kitty’s saloon was Whitehorse’s largest and with that many guests, a positive identification of Janzen’s associate would’ve been nothing short of miraculous.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ve work to attend to.” Kitty stood before Schubert could object and excused herself from the table.

In a bit of a hurry, Schubert thought as Kitty retreated to the kitchen.

Peters remembered his conversation with John Sawatzky. “For a CO to pick up a woman and get pissed doesn’t make sense. He’d be hauled back to camp as soon as his presence was missed. You can’t keep that kind of a secret in a town as small as this.”

Schubert nodded.

Peters continued. “Wraith? It’s got to be. Question is why didn’t Janzen show?”

“Most likely because he was dead. Maybe the reservation was a red herring. This does seem to corroborate the theory that Janzen had become a liability.”

“So he reserved the room for someone else and was too stupid to use a different name,” Peters said. “Not very subtle.”

“She forges names?” Schubert seemed surprised.

“They all do, boss. Saves on taxes and questions. Should we bring Miss Murdoch down to the station for questioning?”

“As of yet, there’s no point. We’ve got nothing except a booked room with a client who never showed. On the surface, there’s nothing suspicious about it. A little odd, maybe, but we can’t arrest folk on that account. Most of the town would be incarcerated, at that rate. Since we’ve nothing here, we might as well hit the bunk houses on the other side of town.”

The hotel popularly referred to a “Madam Tussaud’s,” was actually called “The Lucky Strike.” It was owned Erica von Stade, and so named by the locals because she wore enough make-up to make her face appear waxen. Her establishment catered to the lower strata of society, namely those with nearly no money to their names. The gray, weathered clapboards, nearly worn through, the building a dilapidated look. As Schubert opened the door, he thought that at least von Stade’s place looked the part for a fugitive’s refuge: it was seedy enough not to arouse suspicion. The barroom was thick with smoke and smelled of sweat and grime, the perfect place, he reasoned, where anonymity would be guaranteed.

“Is von Stade in today?” Schubert asked the barkeeper.

The man shook his head. “Town—gettin’ supplies.” 

“Mind if I speak to the men?”

“You won’ git nothin’ from ‘em,” the bartender said, unimpressed by either policeman’s presence in his bar.

“That was a rhetorical question.” 

Schubert doubted the man could discern the difference between a rhetorical question and a rhinoceros, however similar their pronunciation. He pulled a chair over and stood on it. The regulars took no notice and continued talking amongst themselves, playing cards and reading old newspapers. 

“Gentlemen!” he said, loud enough to fill a three-hundred seat recital hall. “My name’s Inspector Schubert but most of you already know that. We’re looking for a fugitive wanted for murder. He’s killed at least two people here, including a policeman in Blue River. We want this man, preferably alive. Anyone with a solid lead gets a case of whisky.” 

He scanned the men, looking for a taker, anyone who might have a shred of a lead. 

“Come on, people. Whose tongues have been wagging?” He gestured to the crowd like a ringmaster. “Anyone?”

“Wô minute, là! Tu me niaises,” old Jean Chevalier roared through his thick French-Canadian accent.

“No, Jean, I’m not kidding. In fact, rather the opposite.”

“Tempting a Frenchman with a case of whisky? I tell you j’taime for that case of whisky! Which of these guys I need to kiss?” 

The old-timers laughed but none were forthcoming. Chevalier shrugged his shoulders. 

“I can’t speak fer everybody here but…” he said, standing next to Schubert. “Forget about the whisky. We don’ always obey the law, but Schubért here,” Chevalier said, pointing, “he’s a good guy. He’s got our back, vous comprends?” 

Some of the old men shook their heads; a few shrugged their shoulders but no one spoke. 

“Sorry, Schubér, but don’t you worry. We’ll be lookin’ an’ listenin.’”

“Thanks, Jean. That’s all I can ask.” 

Schubert left the men and resumed speaking with the barkeeper. “And what have your heard? What’s the word around town?” 

The bartender poured a shot of whisky. His hostility towards Schubert was hardly subtle.

“Not buyin’ what your sellin’,” he said. “Von Stade’ll put my ballzinavice.”

“I could do worse. Think of me more as a wholesaler—someone who can shut you down by cutting off your supplies, instead of your balls. Which of your rooms are booked? How many single lodgers do you have registered?” 

The man snorted. “Registered?” 

He emphasized each syllable, something Schubert reckoned he’d not done for some time. 

“Fuckin’ ya think this is?” he slurred. “Hotel Vancouver? Folk come-‘n-go as they please. See for yourself.” He motioned upstairs, nonplussed by Schubert’s threat. 

Schubert pushed off the bar and ascended the stairs to the second floor. He got no response from the first room. The second room was occupied by an old grizzled grey-bearded man whose voice barely rose above a whisper. The lodger in room three was so rotund, Schubert was amazed the man had walked the stairs and fit through the door. 

He knocked on room four. The door opened, slowly, revealing a lone occupant.

“My name is Inspector Schubert. I’m with the RCMP. Your identification, now.” 

Schubert was  in no mood for pleasantries. 

“Of course, sir,” the man said. His voice had a pleasant tenor ring to it. 

“Gerhard Müller,” Schubert said, examining the document. “Landed Alien to Canada, 1923; from Grindelwald, Switzerland.” Schubert rifled through the papers, looking for possible CO identification. No was to be found.

“What brings you to Whitehorse? Your passport says your temporary residence is Vancouver.” 

Müller retrieved another document from a leather satchel. 

“I am prospecting for minerals, specifically copper. I am a mineralogical engineer for Lord Crofton. His business is headquartered in Vancouver.”

Schubert returned the documents. “If you’re employed by a bloody Lord, what are you doing in this dive?”

Müller smiled. “It is a consignment contract. He will pay a percentage of an active claim, should I find one.”

Schubert pushed past the man, walking into the room. 

“Where are your tools?” 

“I arrived by air from Vancouver. Some of the tools are too heavy for air transport: they are being shipped by freighter to Haines, Alaska after which they will be put on the White Pass & Yukon Rail for pick up here.”

“You’ll be waiting until the war is over if your tools are shipped to Haines, friend. The White Pass begins in Skagway.”

“My mistake, yes you are correct. Skagway—Haines is further south. To the Southeast, I believe.” He shrugged. “This is a big country.”

“Right you are there. When are your tools scheduled to arrive?” 

Müller leafed through the same pouch. “Here is the Bill of Lading. My supplies are scheduled to arrive next week.”

 “Arriving by freighter on the HMS Galliano,” Schubert scanned the document, speaking to himself. “Next Monday…Skagway…shipment on the White Pass & Yukon the following morning.” 

He copied the reference number on the bill of lading and returned the document. 

“Right,” he said, leaving the room. “Thanks for your time. Pleasant hunting.” 

Now Schubert returned outside. Peters was waiting in the patrol car. 

“Nothing much here except an illiterate bartender,” Schubert said, as Peters fired up the cruiser and pulled away from the board walk. “There was one international registered, a Swiss fellow now a Landed Alien, a mineralogical engineer employed out of Vancouver. Let’s head over to Doherty’s. After that, I say we call it a day.”

“‘Mineralogical engineer.’ Sounds like a fancy name for a prospector.”

“Agreed, but probably with more science and education behind them.”

Doherty’s bar was situated on the far end of town, near the Irish tent camp. From the outside, it had nothing to distinguish it from Tussaud’s. Its exterior was covered in the same weathered, grey boards, but with a deeper coating of mud. The paint peeling around the sign made the name appear as “D’herty’s.”

Inside, a few men sat at the bar, some broken in body and spirit, others slouched at tables, smoking. At one table, a deck of cards lay at the ready, bookmarked by empty bottles of hard liquor. The men paid Schubert no notice. He could have been Death walking by. The clientele here was definitely a step below Tussaud’s.

Doherty stood behind the bar. He was a short man, with wiry hair, unkempt and cut like a mop. His jaw appeared crooked, like he had scrapped one too many times. The few hairs above his lip qualified as a mustache, Schubert reasoned. Between his thin lips, resembling something from a withered corpse, he rolled a cigarette from side to side. Unlike von Stade’s barman, Doherty could speak a coherent sentence.

“Afternoon, Doherty,” Schubert said. 

“Inspector,” he nodded. “Not sure I want to know what brings you here.”

“Rest easy, Jake. I’m not here to check your liquor sales—couldn’t give a damn about them, if you want to know. What I want is to speak with your lodgers.”

“Who you looking for? I’ve heard rumors. Is it true? A cop killer?”

Schubert nodded. “Yes, he killed a policeman in Blue River, but he’s also killed others  and for no apparent reason, at least none that I can discern.”

“Well, you’re in luck—all my guests are here. Waiting for supper, I guess.”

“Any unfamiliar faces?” 

“I’ve got a Swede in Room Five. The rest are regulars—prospectors in for a bath and a hot meal.”

Schubert walked the hallway, knocking at the last door.

“Yes? Who is it?” 

The man’s voice caught Schubert’s ear. It was deep and cavernous, but rough, like a load of gravel sat on the bottom of his throat. 

“Police. May I have a word?”

“What is the problem?” 

“I never said there was one. Open the door.”

The door opened, revealing the occupant—in clean clothes as far as Schubert could tell.

“I’m told you’re from Sweden.”

“Yes.”

“Your documents please—passport first.”

The man handed Schubert his papers. Schubert scanned the photo, then read the information. “Mr. Sven Nilsson,” he began. “You’re a Swedish national—a long way from home, aren’t we?”

The man’s face told Schubert nothing, nor could he guess what he might be thinking. Like his country of origin, his mien was also neutral.

“Aren’t we?” Schubert repeated. 

Schubert met the man’s gaze, second for second. Was it contempt he saw in the man’s face? 

“State your business in Whitehorse.”

“I am here to assist in the building of the highway. I am an engineer.” He passed his work visa over. “We are familiar with permafrost in our country. Roads like this so-called Alaska Highway are nothing new to us.”

The man’s English was better than average to Schubert’s ear, but something about the cadence of his speech sounded odd. Probably because his first language is Swedish, Schubert thought.

“Your visa names your employer as Lang Engineering, based in Omaha, Nebraska. Explain.”

“Lang is a European company based in Stockholm. Nebraska is the American arm. Are we done?” Nilsson asked.

“In a bit of a rush, aren’t we?” He returned the documents to Nilsson. “For now, yes, Mr. Nilsson, we’re done.” 

Schubert returned to the car. A cloud of exhaust had pooled in the air around it. Peters sat dozing in the front.

“Wake up, man,” Schubert said, closing the door. “Our day isn’t over yet. We’ve got some legwork to do.”

Peters woke with a start. “Possible lead, sir?” 

“One international,” Schubert began. “A Swedish engineering firm with a subsidiary in Nebraska has sent an engineer to assist the Yanks with the highway—he’s in room five.”

“Right,” Peters said. “Two neutrals in town. Could be one helluva coincidence. We don’t get too many visitors from other countries—and the Yanks don’t count. But, engineers keep arriving for mining and the highway. Could be nothing.”

“A coincidence or nothing? You’re sounding quite neutral yourself, Peters. Nevertheless, I want to check up on both these men. First, Nilsson. He said the American’s hired him. Let’s check his bona fides with the base commander.”

They drove to the American base in silence, the thud of tires over snow filling the space between their thoughts. 

Peters said: “What else are you thinking, sir? I can hear your wheels spinning.”

“Nilsson—there was something about him. I just can’t put my finger on what it was.”

“Dodgy papers?”

“No—well, damned if I know. They looked in order but I’m not confident I could spot a forgery. No, it was something in his voice—the accent. I’ve sung in a lot of different languages all over Europe. Wigmore Hall in London, Staats Halle in Berlin, Royal Opera in Stockholm, to name a few. I’ve lived in these places for weeks on end, preparing roles or recital programs, coached by locals fluent in their native tongue. He claimed to be a native Swede…”

“Or so his passport claimed,” Peters interrupted.

“His accent was damn good, as was his English.” He shrugged. “Maybe he is a Swede. I’ve no reason to believe otherwise.” 

“Hate to say it sir, but you’re paid to be suspicious. If you think this is a possible lead, let’s work it until we’re satisfied.”

“You’re right. And one more thing,” Schubert added. “When we return to the office, telex the Port Authority in Vancouver and confirm a shipment of mining tools on the HMS Galliano, bound for Skagway. Müller seemed legitimate but it’s too early to commit to one line of enquiry.”

Peters signaled onto Rosevelt Road, leading to the American engineers’ camp. A lone sentry stood guard at the gate.

“Inspector Schubert here to see Commander Flowers.” Peters handed over their IDs. 

The guard gave each of them a cursory glance and returned their papers. 

“Always good to see local law enforcement,” he said amiably. “Straight ahead, then your first left. Look for a sign marked ‘Administration.’” 

Peters nodded. “Much appreciated.” The guard lifted security barrier and Peters pulled ahead.

Peters waited in the patrol car while Schubert went to meet the base commander. The office building was an olive green quonset hut, an uglier building Schubert had never seen. Once inside, he was led to a waiting room, its purpose, Schubert could only deduce, to overwhelm (or bore, depending upon one’s perspective) visitors with photos of American generals and Presidents, the former festooned in more medals than he could count while the latter, although more powerful, relied on good looks and slim-fitting suits. If it was meant to create an air of intimidation, it failed to affect Schubert.

“Sir,” a voice called, interrupting his thoughts. “Commander Flowers will see you.”

Schubert entered the office, extending his hand. 

“Commander—thanks for your time.”

“Not at all. How can I help?” he said, shaking Schubert’s hand.

Flowers didn’t do justice to his own name. A more homely man, Schubert couldn’t remember seeing. He had a reasonable handshake but the hand was cold. His nails were bitten to the quick. Whatever hair remained on the man’s head was combed over, as if trying to camouflage or dull the sheen beneath. He was much smaller than Schubert, with sunken eyes. The accent suggested the deep south, perhaps Georgia, but it had softened, either through practice or with the passage of time.

“We’re in the middle of a murder investigation. I’m checking the bona fides of a of foreign national, a Swede, contracted by your government to aid in construction of the highway. His name is Sven Nilsson, employed by Lang Engineering out of Omaha, Nebraska.”

Flowers nodded. “I’m familiar with Lang. We use a lot of their people.” He punched the intercom button. “Corporal, bring me the Lang Engineering employee file.”

A few seconds elapsed and the corporal was knocking at the door. Unlike the CO camp, these files must have been organized and within easy reach. The aide-de-camp saluted neatly and passed over the file.

Flowers ran his finger down a list of names. “OK, we’ve got a Niklasson, a Nyström and a Norling.” He closed the jacket. “No Nilsson,” Flowers clarified. “You’re sure you’ve got the correct name?”

“Without a doubt. I just spoke with him, less than an hour ago. Is there any chance his bona fides haven’t arrived from Lang’s head office?”

“Typically, they first go through the Swedish Consulate, then are vetted by our consulate in Stockholm. His documents may be in transit.” 

“Well, he’s already here and ready to work,” Schubert added.

Flowers addressed his corporal. “Anything come through on the telex this morning?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you contact your embassy in Vancouver and request the relevant information?” 

Based on the commander’s tone of voice, Schubert could guess the answer.

“We’re building a goddamned highway here, Schubert. I don’t have the time or manpower to find out of if an employee, contracted by the American office of a foreign company, may be en route sitting on some bloody barge in the Atlantic or stuck in Butt-fuck, Nebraska, waiting for a flight!”

The assistant, still standing at attention coughed, albeit quietly. 

Schubert eyed the man, his temper threatening to blow. He resisted, knowing he might need Flowers’s help on another matter in the future.

“Thanks. I’ll see myself out.” He didn’t bother to shake Flower’s hand. 

Meanwhile, the corporal remained at attention, waiting to be dismissed. Flowers nodded. 

“At ease, soldier.” He reached for a cigar. “These damn Canadians,” he groused, “like we give a Honolulu-horse-shit about some cheesehead dyin’ in this shit patch of tundra. Fuckssake!” He handed the file over. “OK then, now that that’s out of the way we can get back to work.” 

The corporal saluted and turned on his heel.

“And wipe that goddamned smile for your face, soldier!” Flowers hollered.

“Yessir!” he replied, closing the door.