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Authors: Harrison Drake
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Heisenberg’s
take on it, the killer didn’t seem to enjoy his crimes. All that seemed left was
a twisted sense of duty. He was killing for somebody else’s good. But whose?
I was pondering this question when my phone rang. I removed
it from the holster and checked the call display—private caller. Likely another
officer.
“Detective Munroe.”
“Link?” I already knew who it was, only one person still
called me Link. “It’s Chen-Chen.”
“I know. Link’s my son’s name now, Chen.”
“Well aware, don’t care. You’ll always be Link to me. My way
of thanking you for dubbing me Chen-Chen.”
We both laughed. Talking to Chen always brought me back to
our days of training, both at Headquarters in Orillia and at the Ontario Police
College in Aylmer.
Not too far from where many of the killings had taken place.
“Shit.”
“What?” Chen said.
“I just thought of something, Chen. You know the case I’m
on?”
“Everyone does, man. It’s big news.”
“We’ve got nothing, no evidence to link to the killer
whatsoever. Perfectly clean crime scenes. But it just hit me, what if the
killer is a police cadet at Aylmer? They’d know enough about forensics to keep
the scene clean, they’d be able to sneak out at night, kill, and make it back
with plenty of time to get back into bed before their podmates woke up.”
Chen didn’t say anything. I swore I could hear wheels
grinding.
“It’s possible. That would ruin us if it was true. A police
cadet serial killer? Respect for the police would take a nosedive.”
“Yeah, I hope I’m wrong. I probably am.”
“It’s worth checking out though.”
“I guess.” I hesitated, unsure I wanted to ask the question.
“So why did you call?”
Chen and I had become very close friends in the thirteen
weeks we lived at the college. The dorms there are made up of “pods,” a common
living area and bathroom connected to ten small, individual bedrooms. Ten men,
two showers, one television, one toilet, thirteen weeks—it made for intimacy.
Apparently the women’s pods were nicer but I never found a reason to visit one.
Regardless of gender, you either bonded or spent the entire time at each
other’s throats. Chen and I bonded.
Chen was born in nineteen-seventy-six to Chinese immigrants
who had moved to Toronto from Beijing. Chen’s mother was seven months pregnant
when the plane landed. By accident or fate they settled in the Little Italy
area of Toronto and, as is often the case with Chinese families, they gave Chen
two names: a Chinese name, Yu, and what they believed to be a strong English
name given their surroundings—Vincenzo. Growing up, Chen had gone by Vincenzo,
Vincent, Vinny and Vin at various points. By the time police college came
around he had switched back to Vincent in an attempt to appear professional.
Three weeks into college most of us were using last names
for everyone, partly due to the shirts we had to wear in defensive tactics
training: white with our last names on them in large black letters. The Vincent
fell by the way side and Chen became the moniker applied. We were sitting in
the common area watching a football game on the television when I realized if
we dropped the ‘Vin’ and the ‘zo’ our dear friend became Chen Chen. It stuck,
and made its way with him to his new posting up near Algonquin Park.
Chen and I had taken very similar paths, finding ourselves
at homicide desks within a month of each other. We tried to keep in touch, but
we’d been able to do it less than we would have liked. Facebook had changed
that, making it easy to see what the other was up to and giving us a forum to
share photos of our children—another realm in which we showed marked
similarities. Chen’s son was born two months before Link and his daughter a
week and a half after Kasia.
“I need you out here.”
“What for?” I asked.
“What for?” An echo. “Were you even listening last week?”
I scanned through my memories with
take on it, the killer didn’t seem to enjoy his crimes. All that seemed left was
a twisted sense of duty. He was killing for somebody else’s good. But whose?
I was pondering this question when my phone rang. I removed
it from the holster and checked the call display—private caller. Likely another
officer.
“Detective Munroe.”
“Link?” I already knew who it was, only one person still
called me Link. “It’s Chen-Chen.”
“I know. Link’s my son’s name now, Chen.”
“Well aware, don’t care. You’ll always be Link to me. My way
of thanking you for dubbing me Chen-Chen.”
We both laughed. Talking to Chen always brought me back to
our days of training, both at Headquarters in Orillia and at the Ontario Police
College in Aylmer.
Not too far from where many of the killings had taken place.
“Shit.”
“What?” Chen said.
“I just thought of something, Chen. You know the case I’m
on?”
“Everyone does, man. It’s big news.”
“We’ve got nothing, no evidence to link to the killer
whatsoever. Perfectly clean crime scenes. But it just hit me, what if the
killer is a police cadet at Aylmer? They’d know enough about forensics to keep
the scene clean, they’d be able to sneak out at night, kill, and make it back
with plenty of time to get back into bed before their podmates woke up.”
Chen didn’t say anything. I swore I could hear wheels
grinding.
“It’s possible. That would ruin us if it was true. A police
cadet serial killer? Respect for the police would take a nosedive.”
“Yeah, I hope I’m wrong. I probably am.”
“It’s worth checking out though.”
“I guess.” I hesitated, unsure I wanted to ask the question.
“So why did you call?”
Chen and I had become very close friends in the thirteen
weeks we lived at the college. The dorms there are made up of “pods,” a common
living area and bathroom connected to ten small, individual bedrooms. Ten men,
two showers, one television, one toilet, thirteen weeks—it made for intimacy.
Apparently the women’s pods were nicer but I never found a reason to visit one.
Regardless of gender, you either bonded or spent the entire time at each
other’s throats. Chen and I bonded.
Chen was born in nineteen-seventy-six to Chinese immigrants
who had moved to Toronto from Beijing. Chen’s mother was seven months pregnant
when the plane landed. By accident or fate they settled in the Little Italy
area of Toronto and, as is often the case with Chinese families, they gave Chen
two names: a Chinese name, Yu, and what they believed to be a strong English
name given their surroundings—Vincenzo. Growing up, Chen had gone by Vincenzo,
Vincent, Vinny and Vin at various points. By the time police college came
around he had switched back to Vincent in an attempt to appear professional.
Three weeks into college most of us were using last names
for everyone, partly due to the shirts we had to wear in defensive tactics
training: white with our last names on them in large black letters. The Vincent
fell by the way side and Chen became the moniker applied. We were sitting in
the common area watching a football game on the television when I realized if
we dropped the ‘Vin’ and the ‘zo’ our dear friend became Chen Chen. It stuck,
and made its way with him to his new posting up near Algonquin Park.
Chen and I had taken very similar paths, finding ourselves
at homicide desks within a month of each other. We tried to keep in touch, but
we’d been able to do it less than we would have liked. Facebook had changed
that, making it easy to see what the other was up to and giving us a forum to
share photos of our children—another realm in which we showed marked
similarities. Chen’s son was born two months before Link and his daughter a
week and a half after Kasia.
“I need you out here.”
“What for?” I asked.
“What for?” An echo. “Were you even listening last week?”
I scanned through my memories with
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