Fall from Grace Read Free

people say that I’m the one with mental problems, but you, my friend, should get yourself looked at.”
    Whitford kept his hands in his pockets and offered a sad smile. “See you around, Leo,” he said, and then turned to head back to the tent. I watched him for a few seconds and walked toward my car. I was parked behind a series of police vehicles, a couple of cruisers, Whitford’s unmarked car, and the Forensics van. The buffalo emblem on the first cruiser showed me it was from the RCMP, not the local Edmonton Police Service. In it sat a lone Mountie, sipping from a Timmie’s cup and writing in his notebook. I walked over to him—slowly, so he would see me coming. He set down his pen and notebook when he noticed me and rolled down his window.
    “May I help you?” he asked, in that polite and efficient police voice that they probably teach all police at the academy.
    I first introduced myself, name and media affiliation, and then asked if he was the first on the scene. He nodded.
    “Did you find the body?” I asked, quietly noting his name on the badge above his right pocket.
    He shook his head. “Farmer did. He made the mistake of calling us.”
    “Mistake?”
    “Yeah. You see that range road back there?” He gestured with his paper cup to the gravel road behind us. “That is the proverbial county line. City’s on this side, county of Strathcona’s on the other.”
    “Right,” I said, drawing out the word. “Out of your jurisdiction.”
    “You bet. As soon as I saw that, I called the EPS boys, so they could handle it.”
    “So you didn’t see the body or touch it.”
    “Didn’t even step into the field once I realized where it was, thank God.”
    “Why thank God ?”
    He paused, his face showing concern. “You’re not going to quote me, are ya? I mean, if you want to know something about the case, you should talk to your friends in the tent.” This was his way of saying he had seen everything that had transpired.
    “Naw, the EPS guys gave me all the information. I’m just naturally curious. Can’t help it, comes with the job description. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.” I let the sentence fall but didn’t move. I waited to see if he would answer. He might have, but since he was a cop, he would realize what I was doing and wish me a good morning, in that nice polite and efficient way the Mounties have of saying, ‘It’s time for you to get the fuck out of here now.’ All other cops try to emulate that tone, and while a few can do it pretty well, only a Mountie can pull it off with such ease.
    But it didn’t come. “ Thank God means I get to go home and watch the hockey game after my shift is done today instead of filing the paperwork on another one of these.”
    “You mean there have been others?” I said, smelling a bigger story than just a body in a field.
    “Only a few in the last bunch of years since I’ve been stationed here. Three, four tops.”
    Three or four could be a lot or not much, depending on how long this Mountie had been stationed in Strathcona. If it had been just a couple of years, it was a lot; if it was five to ten, it was pretty average. “So you’ve been here long?”
    He shrugged. “Five years, I guess. But this is my second time. My first happened right out of the Depot and that was, what, fifteen years ago, so I’m including that in there as well.”
    I deflated, realizing that three to four dead bodies in a field over a twenty-year period was nothing; there was no larger story, just the one I had written in my head.
    “Oh, well, thanks for your time. I better head back to the city and file my story.”
    “You have yourself a nice morning,” the Mountie said, without any hidden meaning.

3
     
    I was expected back at the paper, but instead of heading into downtown, I took a left on Fiftieth Street and followed it until the industrial zone faded into residential. I trolled through the neighborhood until I found a 1960s-style strip mall