Lost Feet

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Dieter Gruner

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Titel Seite

Lost Feet

Dieter Gruner

Dieter Gruner

Translated from German by

Ingrid Dubberke (Chicago)

Cover designed by

Julia Gruner (Cologne)

“Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more. Men were

deceivers ever. One foot in the sea and one on shore.

To one thing constant ever.”

William Shakespeare

(“Much Ado about Nothing”)

“What of shoes? What, shoes? Whose are the shoes?

What are they made of? And even, who are they?

Here they are, the questions, that’s all.”

Jacques Derrida

(“Restitutions of the Truth in Pointure”)

Prologue

With all the force he can muster the man brings the baseball bat down on the leg. The breaking bone sounds like a bursting earthenware jug followed by a smacking echo. The victim doesn’t cry out or double up with pain. He doesn’t move at all. The young man is dead. When the bat shatters his shin there is no life left in him.

The corpse is lying on its back on a workbench cleared of debris, fully clothed. Underneath the collar of a grey Gap sweatshirt gleams a white t-shirt. The dark jogging pants end just above the socks peeking out of the sneakers and covering the ankle. The baseball bat made contact with the right leg precisely on the narrow piece of skin showing between pants and socks.

Shuffling steps echo in the tall space. A neon tube is suspended above the workbench by two chains. Its cold light illuminates only the death plank and part of the wall to its side where various tools are arranged: socket and ratchet sets, pliers, screwdrivers, torque wrenches, coil spring compressors, below them an impact wrench in a holder. The background is dark. Blue smoke snakes towards the light. It smells like automobile grease, tires and cigarette smoke.

A large powerful man dressed in greasy overalls is leaning over the body assessing the damaged leg. He takes a last drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the floor. As his huge hands grab the motionless body and turn it on its stomach the hood of his sweatshirt becomes visible. Again he inspects the corpse. With rotating fingers he touches the skin above the right Achilles tendon. Then he grabs the baseball bat with both hands and delivers another powerful blow. As the fibula splinters he emits a satisfied grunt. Visibly excited, he lights another cigarette and puts it in the left corner of his mouth. From a spacious drawer in his workbench he extracts a three-arm battery terminal puller and puts it on the stool next to him. With a rubber sleeve the man in the overalls attaches a thick board to the sole of the jogging shoe, now extending over the edge of the bench. He wraps another rubber sleeve around the corpse’s lower leg. That’s where he places the arms of the tool, then positions its base on the board attached to the shoe. With the first revolution one hears a grinding, crunching noise. He continues cranking. Skin, muscles and tendons around the broken bones are stretched to the breaking point. He helps it along with a piece of broken glass and turns some more. The sharp edge continues to rip into the bloody tissue and suddenly the shoe with the foot breaks loose. Two broken bones protrude from the ripped flesh. The man holds the shoe and its contents in his left hand, the cigarette in his right and swirls them above his head like a trophy. He seems ecstatic.

1.

Georgia Strait is a busy waterway between the Canadian mainland and Vancouver Island – about 150 miles long and up to 35 miles wide. It represents the inside passage to Alaska. Thousands of freighters with all kinds of cargo pass through these straits, which produce a powerful current of about ten knots. All year long tugboats transport huge tree trunks between the Fraser River and the lumber industry’s commercial harbors farther north. Air taxis ferry passengers between Vancouver and the big island to the west. The Pacific looks peaceful.

Such is the case this weekend in August 2007: The family from nearby Washington State enjoys the late summer sun on their boat. Hundreds of white sails glide across the smooth surface. White foam spray glistens in the shimmering light. Innumerable islets line Georgia Strait on both sides. Most of them are covered with evergreens, many uninhabited and reachable only by boat or seaplane. The visitors from the States decide to add on another day in this paradise.

Jedediah Island is an islet squeezed in between two that are a bit larger – Texada and Lasqueti. It lies like a plug right smack in the middle of the current. Rocky outcrops are covered with mosses, trees downed by wind lie where they fell. A few old wooden huts are scattered on the cliffs. The interior consists of a large ancient and totally treeless meadow. A pile of rocks marks the highest elevation, Mount Jibraltar.

It is Monday, August 20 th . The family from Washington State dropped anchor on the northwest side in Deep Bay and spent the night on their boat. Now they are exploring the island. A completely unexpected adventure is awaiting them about which they will talk for the rest of their lives. What has washed up on the beach between the rocks is obviously a running shoe, white with blue markings on the heel, toecap and sides. But when the mother moves in for a closer look she feels her blood turning to ice. She lets out a loud scream.

The police report in the local paper talks about a discovery on Jedediah Island. A running shoe containing not only a sock, but also a foot. No further details are available yet. The matter is being investigated.

Six days later a white Reebok running shoe size 12 washes up on Gabriola Island southwest of Jedediah. On February 8, 2008, a blue and white men’s Nike running shoe size 11 “walks” onto the east side beach of Valdez Island. Nationwide publicity is now assured. All three finds consist of right side men’s feet stuck with their socks inside the shoes.

In the Vancouver daily The Province, founded in 1898, Deputy Police Chief Geoff Nolan is quoted as saying: “The fact that we have discovered three very similar pieces of mortal remains revealed by a particular waterway, is something we have never before encountered.”

The coroner of Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, David Firestone, adds that it is impossible to tell where the feet are coming from – whether from one single source, such as an accident, or from different incidents: “It is, in the true sense of the word, a fluid situation. The shoes may have come from anywhere. They appear because they float along and then land somewhere.”

There is no DNA match between them. So the police handle all three finds as separate cases. But unofficially a different theory is already being weighed. The possibility that three different men who most likely lost their lives could have been separated from their feet by different methods is astronomically unlikely.

The files of missing persons are being scoured and accidents at sea investigated: On November 23, 2003, the rusty refrigerated ship “Black Dragon” sank in Georgia Strait, having transported illegal aliens from China to Vancouver Island as far back as 1999. In the meantime, all of British Columbia is speculating. Violent crime is mentioned as well as mafia murders, a plane crash, Tsunami victims, suicides and fishermen swept overboard in a storm.

On May 22, 2008, a man is walking his dog on uninhabited Kirkland. This island is located in the southern arm of the Fraser just before it empties into Georgia Strait, about 16 miles south of Vancouver and west of the Massey Tunnels. The dog has discovered something and starts to bark. When his master inspects the blue and white sport shoe more closely he immediately drops it in horror.

Number 4 is also a right shoe. But today something is different. The dog owner had already noticed that this one was kind of small. It is a woman’s size 7 “New Balance”. With the find of a woman’s foot a series seems to end and another one obviously begins. Press representative Anne Rondeau of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) tells the Associated Press: “This is a mystery for sure, a very unusual one, which we are trying to solve.” In the meantime the top medical examiner of British Columbia, Chief Coroner Perry Myers, has taken over the case. So far he has not found any genetic matches. Next, DNA comparisons of missing persons will be conducted. Also unsolved is whether the shoe floated down the Fraser River or whether the tides washed it back up onto the northern side of Kirkland.

“The first find was something of a curiosity,” writes Gerry Bellett in the Vancouver Sun, “the second was a nasty shock. The third turned it into a mysterious riddle and the fourth moves the whole situation into some sort of a twilight zone. At this point Sherlock Holmes would have said to his faithful Watson: Something is going on here.”

The focus turns to a 2005 plane crash off Quadra Island. The four occupants were never found. Now the family of the victims is putting pressure on authorities. However, they will admit only that two of the found shoes were size 12, the same as one of the crash victim’s shoe size.

Unsolicited, a US expert in ocean currents surfaces and lectures that the parts of human bodies decomposing in water would normally show up together: two arms, two legs, two feet, the head and the torso. Therefore, up to 30 or 40 body parts should have been discovered. But only four feet were found. So where is the rest of the corpses? That is the big question on everyone’s mind.

On Monday, June 16, 2008, two people out for a walk come across a partially decomposed foot in a running shoe on the beach 16 miles south of Vancouver on the island of Westham near Ladner at the mouth of the Fraser – just a few miles from the previous find. The tips of the toes are said to be missing. The brown soles of the Reeboks sprout growths like one finds on mussels. The remains of fly larvae are stuck to the clump of flesh.

Ladner is an idyllic place. The only crime in years involved up-and-coming ice hockey star Harry Scholasky who was sentenced to three years probation for voyeurism. In 2006 he had videotaped a buddy’s girl friend with a hidden camera while she performed oral sex and then posted it on the Internet.

This time around the media attention is global. Again one series seems to end and a new one beginning. For the first time a left foot is found. The small island is scoured meticulously by federal police, forensic specialists, journalists and the merely curious.

The police in the delta are under pressure. There are no leads in the “saga of the lost feet” as the local press dubs the case.

Dark memories of horrific crimes are dragged to the surface again: On December 9, 2007, a jury found serial killer Robert “Willie” Pickton from Port Coquitlam east of Vancouver guilty of the second-degree murder of 6 prostitutes. He was sentenced to life in prison and with no parole for 25 years. During the trial more and more gruesome details about the “piggy palace” of the pig farmer were revealed. One witness saw him skin a victim as the young woman was hanging from a hook. The prosecutor accused the pig breeder of having killed and dismembered a total of 26 prostitutes. Willie Pickton admitted to having killed 49 women. According to police the farmer hired the drug addicted ladies of the night in the red light district of Vancouver and brought them to his farm. There he had them perform sex acts before killing and dismembering them. As one witness claimed, he let them bleed out and then fed them to his pigs. Supposedly he even took some of the body parts to an animal product recycling facility. Later Pickton retracted his confession and filed an appeal. The case provided headlines world-wide.

“Didn’t I say Willie should not be freed?”, one blogger posted on the Internet in reference to the movie “Free Willie”.

“Something out there is producing human feed in alarming quantity”, reads the sarcastic remark in the daily ‘Seattle Times’. Maybe the unusually high number of missing persons in British Columbia has something to do with it: 2,371 people are officially listed as missing by the RCMP as of the end of May 2008. In the meantime, hints are arriving in Canada from around the world. Since 2004 a total of eight feet are supposed to have been discovered along coasts all over the world – one in New Zealand, one stuck in a sport shoe in Ottawa, two at Chesil Beach in the south of England, two in Spain, one in California and another one in British Metropolitan County Merseyside near Liverpool.

The unasked expert chimes in again and announces that he is in the process of writing a book about ocean currents and flotsam in the Pacific along the North American coast. According to him running shoes with air chambers in the sole can float in the water for great distances, up to 1,000 nautical miles. Sneakers hold up particularly well in salt water and protect their contents from disintegrating.

Police spokeswoman Anne Rondeau had asked the public for help. She did not have to wait long for tips. Why don’t you investigate the disappearance of the nine men in the Lower Mainland? After a period of two years these are considered as having disappeared without a trace in the southern part of the province. All of them were close in age, between 18 and 30 years old, and all of similar stature. Those are the kinds of comments being posted on Facebook.

The media are pressing for answers too, but the police are not forthcoming with a lot of new information. The investigations are protracted and complicated. “This is not CSI”, according to the spokeswoman. Chief Coroner Perry Myers is collaborating with forensic specialist Mike Spitz from Simon Fraser University in Burnaby. In addition to preserving DNA it is important to study any distinctive features of the feet. For this purpose they are boiled for hours in order to remove the flesh from the bones. Cartilage, bones and joints offer clues about age and possible accidents.

2.

Sandie Buggs is beside herself. All of a sudden everything in her life is important. What’s more, just a few hours ago she was only responsible for the camping grounds outside the small fishing village of Campbell River. Now everyone is competing for her attention: police, journalists and residents. This Wednesday morning she started out with a short walk during which she found a black Adidas jogging shoe, a right one, with the foot still in it. From her office she alerted the custodians of the law and guided them to her find.

“The foot looked as though it had been sawed off. The two bones were sticking out”, she told one and all, whether they wanted to hear it or not. This seems to end another chapter in the foot saga. Up to now authorities had always stressed that there was no evidence of any tool marks. ”Like it was sawed off,” repeats Sandie Buggs over and over, telling every reporter. Even they are being turned into interrogation subjects. The Australian Broadcasting Corporation drags one of them in front of a camera for a live broadcast. CNN, BBC, the New York Times, The Guardian and other papers from Europe, India and South Africa are asking the crucial questions: Where are the feet coming from and why are they washing up en masse in this particular location?

Myers and Spitz are putting in an overnight shift. The next morning Anne Rondeau announces that obviously some jesters must have played a crude joke. The supposed sixth find turns out to be from an animal cadaver – carefully stuffed into a sock along with some algae and placed on a beach for the fun of it.

Behind the scenes rumors are rampant. The Chief Commissioner of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police from far away Ottawa phones his deputy in Vancouver: “What is going on over there in Division E? Can’t you guys get a handle on this? “

“Sir, this is an infuriating situation. This case has our full attention and we are employing all available resources. There has never been anything remotely like this. We are navigating terra incognita here,” Ball tries to soothe.

“I am looking at the translation of an ORF story on my desk in front of me. That must be a station in Vienna. They are accusing us of obviously sloppy work. Isn’t that the same country where a perverse swine imprisoned and raped a girl for eight and a half years? Where a father incarcerated his own daughter in a basement prison and fathered several children with her? How dare they? They claim all the sites were close to each other. I checked the map. The first find on Jedediah Island and the islands in the Fraser are 100 miles apart. That is almost as far as the size of Austria. The nerve! I’m ready to blow my stack. I don’t want to read any more of this kind of garbage. In any case, you have to be more aggressive in handling the media,” the Chief orders, “as soon as you have something concrete, make it public. This is no time to hold back. Is that clear, Ball?”

“Yes Sir, understood!”

A little later Myers and Spitz indeed discover something new and Ball calls a press conference for Thursday, July 10, 2008. The conference room at RCMP headquarters in Vancouver is packed. Camera teams and reporters from all over the world are present. Police spokeswoman Anne Rondeau and constable Peter Eisenhut carry the show and face the shower of flashlights. A map of the Georgia Strait area hangs on the wall behind them. Photos of the five shoes are tacked to the sites where they were found. Rondeau’s petite figure is almost completely hidden by the massive lectern. But she knows how to carry herself. Her uniform is flawless, even the dark tie looks perfect. Her hair is tied back severely. Then she speaks the two key sentences into the microphone:

“It seems that all five feet were disarticulated from their bodies by natural processes. Feet numbers 3 and 5 belong to the same man.”

A murmur goes through the room. In answer to the first questions the pretty policewoman reiterates her replies. There is no evidence of any kind of violent separation of the feet such as by sawing. Everything points to natural decomposition. No traces of any tools or visible injuries were found. DNA comparisons showed without a doubt that the last foot found on Westham and the one found in February on Valdez are a match and therefore belong to the same body.

All five feet are stuck in different makes of running shoes: Adidas, Campus, Reebok, New Balance and Nike. Constable Eisenhut displays enlargements of the different shoes and the photojournalists immediately take pictures of them. Their former contents have been removed. Two of the sneakers are size 12, two are size 11 and one is a 7, Anne Rondeau explains. None of their former owners could be identified so far. DNA tests have excluded 130 of 243 missing persons, but age or race could not be determined as yet. These particular models of shoes were produced between 1999 and 2004 and for the most part marketed globally.

In September a plastic foot in a gym shoe shows up on a beach in eastern Vancouver.

On Wednesday, November 12, 2008, a woman is taking her three dogs for a walk on Lulu Island near Richmond along the banks of the Fraser. They discover a gym shoe, a left one, stuck between two tree trunks. This one too is not empty. It is a huge shock for this passerby and a tragic experience: She had lost her son in this location 20 years before. He drowned in the Fraser. Since this is another “New Balance” model, Anne Rondeau explains to the press that tests will determine whether there is a match with the previously found foot.

Then another find is made public: On Olympic Peninsula in Washington State about 30 miles west of Port Angeles in the Strait of Juan de Fuca a foot in a running shoe is found.

Does that mean that another series is ending? All previous finds were made on islands. Does a peninsula outside of Canada count? Not really.

This development is a catastrophe for the police. Ball is getting an ear full. His boss in Ottawa is not exactly pleased with the state of investigations into the foot saga in Vancouver and takes action:

“This just cannot continue any longer. I’m going to send you my best investigator. Profiler is what these people are called nowadays. He is not one of these psychobabble idiots but someone who goes after the perpetrator tenaciously. He has his own methods and I wish that you give him all possible support. What we need now are results.”

3.

Kevin Conrad is in his early 30’s, about 6’1” in height, slim and athletic, with short dark brown hair and brown eyes which seem to look at the world with a somewhat sad expression. This is the policeman with the nose for the suspect, as one of his bosses once characterized him. He had distanced himself more and more from the usual method of conducting investigations. His career was shaped by various workshops and specialized training courses. Since attending seminars at Scotland Yard in London and the FBI in Seattle he has been in demand across the country to help solve difficult cases. His marriage did not survive such an unsettled lifestyle. A policeman’s fate.

On Monday, November 17, 2008, as requested, Conrad checks in with Deputy Commissioner Larry Ball at RCMP Headquarters in Vancouver, 37 th Street near Queen Elizabeth Park. “So you are the investigative genius, the secret weapon from our capital,” the police chief greets him. “You will enlighten us greenhorns on how to deal with these jogging shoe feet. Well, I’m all ears. You will be assigned to RCMP Division E, Vancouver Island District, Major Crimes Division. You’ll report to me directly. Our media expert, Constable Anne Rondeau, will show you around. Good luck, inspector!”

“Thank you, Sir. Everyone knows that the Mounties have a reputation for being persistent and in the end they always get their man.” Then he adds in a slightly softer tone of voice, “But I have to ask for your indulgence. I have been instructed to always inform Ottawa first.” “Good, then you will inform me immediately after,” Ball mumbles. “One more thing, Sir. I will need an assistant to work with me so I won’t be bogged down by routine tasks.” “I will put Rondeau at your disposal. But she cannot neglect her press duties. You can have the office next to hers.” “I thank you.”

Rondeau and Eisenhut have set up shop for the profiler in the large media room. They have laid out photos of the jogging shoes and maps of the areas where they were found. Conrad takes a deep breath. He had already memorized the maps before his flight to Vancouver.

“What about feet 4 and 7? Do they belong to the same person?” the inspector interrupts.

“The forensic team is still working on it,” Anne answers, “and it’ll be a little while longer.”

“What about specialists? Who is working on the case? We need to consult forensic anthropologists and pathologists, climatologists and oceanographers. Have you contacted the respective experts?” Kevin Conrad asks.

Constable Anne Rondeau is slightly flustered. No, such experts have not been engaged. An oceanographer? “There is this know-it-all ocean researcher who insists on adding his 10 cents worth without being asked. Other than that there’s nobody.” “What’s the name of this ocean researcher?” insists Conrad.

“David Hidden,” answers the charming young lady who is in her late 20s.

“Why didn’t anybody listen to him?”

“Well, even the top brass considered him a blow-hard who is only interested in publicly polishing his ego.”

“Is there any reason he should not be trusted or has he had any run-ins with law enforcement?”

“No.”

“I want an appointment with this guy,” orders Conrad.

“No problem. We’ll issue a summons,” the policewoman agrees.

“Not a summons, an invitation.”

“Understood, Sir.”

It seems that first of all Ottawa and Vancouver have to get used to each other. The Canadian capital of Ottawa is a long, long way from the Pacific coast of British Columbia – in people’s minds as well. Here they are used to solving their own problems. Interference and instructions are considered an imposition.

Three days after the meeting in the media room David Hidden takes a seat in the profiler’s office. He is a short chubby man between 65 and 70 years old with hardly a hair left on his pate and a mischievous grin.

“I thank you, professor that you could come at such short notice. An expert of your standing is surely busy with conferences and invitations from all over the world,” Conrad flatters. He is eager to put himself in the good graces of his visitor since he is not sure of the reason for his colleagues’ negative attitude towards him. “Needless to say we are going to cover your travel expenses.”

“Well, since my retirement there are fewer invitations,” the scientist answers modestly. “But there are advantages. I enjoy taking my boat out for a spin and to fish; the joys of an old man.”

“You couldn’t be that old,” Conrad interjects. “But fishing, is the operative word that brings us to the point. What do you think of these mysterious finds of feet? What is their source?”

“If I knew that you could close the case file and return to Ottawa. But seriously, that is the crucial question, though one that is not so easy to answer. The fact is that all the feet were stuck in jogging shoes. That is an important clue. Feet in leather shoes would have sunk. Running shoes, on the other hand, have air chambers in their soles so that the foot is cushioned during the jogging action. Therefore these sneakers swim and that can take its time. The cold salt water preserves the feet while they glide across the surface like buoys. They are also largely protected from carrion eating wildlife. This is really crazy. Such a shoe could have traveled thousands of miles and, as an example, could be from the Tsunami in the Indian Ocean Christmas 2004.”

“Excuse me, professor,” interrupts Conrad. “Why are these shoes landing here of all places and not all over Africa’s east, Australia’s north and America’s west coasts?”

“You are correct. I’ll get to that in a minute. First I wanted to explain to you that ocean currents could indeed transport these items around the globe. That is something I have studied all my life. I am the ocean current guru, if you will. And this is how that happened. In May 1990 the container ship “Hansa Carrier” was on its way from Korea to America when it was hit by a storm about 1,000 nautical miles south of Alaska. Of the containers 21 were swept overboard. Five of them were loaded with 80,000 Nike sneakers with identical serial numbers. My mother gave me the idea to follow the shoes. All I had to do was inform my colleagues. With help from the media a network of beachcombers was set up who soon began notifying me. With their help I was able to create a computer simulation, which illustrated exactly the direction of ocean currents. The first finds were reported along the northern coast of Washington State. A little later came the first discoveries on Vancouver Island, then Queen Charlotte Sound. This proves there is a strong south to north current along that coast. People established an exchange back then to match single finds, left or right, with the corresponding size shoe for the opposite foot so they could use them, you know? They were still in tiptop condition. Years later the Nikes showed up on the beaches of Hawaii, then the Philippines and Japan – proving a circular pattern. Then came rubber duckies, you know, those squeaky little yellow things. After those it was ice hockey gloves. My predictions became more and more precise. Those were exciting times. In the spring of 2000 I was able to solidify my theory with dolls heads which likewise were swept overboard on the way from Asia and first showed up in Oregon, Washington State and Canada. So you see, it is definitely possible that the feet in the jogging shoes could have come from victims of the Tsunami. “

The professor stops and sighs. Conrad had hunched far forward in his chair and was on the verge of nodding off.

“Dear Professor, I had no doubt that the feet in the sneakers could have swum across the Pacific from Asia to North America” the profiler summarizes. “However, the critical question is, why in the world this foot gear should have landed here and nowhere else in the world?”

“You are correct, of course. I am not going to evade the answer any longer even though this is not exactly my field of expertise.”

“So you have an answer? Are you nuts? Here they’ve been working for months without a glimmer of an idea and you know something we don’t?” Conrad is beside himself.

“It’s just an opinion and not supported by ocean current research.”

“Let’s have it!”

“We have to start with the locations of the finds. Seven feet in this vast area between Jedediah Island and the Olympic Peninsula points to an actual number of victims of probably 10.”

“Even if it were 5 we would have a huge problem,” the profiler agrees.

“Let’s take a look at the locations. The first three are in Georgia Strait north or northwest of Vancouver. Those are followed by finds in the Fraser River, on islands in the river just before it empties into the ocean. The Fraser splits into a northern and a southern arm in the Vancouver Delta. So therefore the source must be in the area before the river forks. The shoes, which did not wash up on one of the small islands continued on either north to the islands in the Strait, Jedediah, Gabriola and Valdez or south toward Washington State. My working hypothesis is supported by the finds. If all the feet floated down the river the pattern of the locations becomes obvious.”

“In other words, we are not dealing with an ocean current at all, but with a river?” the policeman reiterates.

“The Fraser flows into the ocean here,” smiles the oceanographer.

Conrad is struggling with his composure: “If all we were interested in were to find out where these shoes were put into the river, would it be correct to assume then that they came from upriver?”

“That’s exactly how I see it.”

“In other words no dead bodies stuck on the ocean floor that were rattled loose during an earthquake and floated to the top,” completes Conrad. “I really don’t know what people will come up with next given half a chance. Yesterday I was told of a theory that the Mafia might be behind this. You know the classic modus operandi. A dead body must be gotten rid of. So it is encased in cement and dropped into the ocean. But have you ever heard that the Mafia or whoever encases the body in cement but not the feet? They rot off and float to the top? Isn’t it mostly that the feet are encased in cement?”

The professor smiles, but then becomes unusually serious: “You know something, Conrad, for me too these lost feet are one of the biggest puzzles of my research career. I am writing a book about the relationship of ocean currents and the flotsam and jetsam along the Pacific coast of the North American mainland. The rate at which the feet are deposited is alarmingly high. The victims represent different people. Maybe we are dealing with a serial killer? Something is happening out there that is beyond our imagination.”

4.

Myers and Spitz are waiting in the section room. Displayed on the table are the remains of two human feet and two running shoes of the same make – a right one and a left one. When Conrad enters the two forensic specialists look at him expectantly.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for having informed me,” mumbles Conrad. He hates such blasted formality, “What’s new?”

“These shoes of the make New Balance contained feet belonging to the same male individual. After checking DNA samples of missing persons this turns out to be a match with a mentally challenged man who has not been seen since July of 2007. The details about him are contained in this file,” Spitz explains and hands Conrad the folder. “Our reports will follow.”

“This means that you have overstepped your area of responsibility by contacting local police without informing me first. Is that the case?” thunders the profiler.

“We had to compare the DNA with that of missing persons which inevitably led us to the identity of this individual. Delta area police merely provided us with the file,” Spitz emphasizes pointedly and in a cutting tone.

“That means you received investigative records from the police.”

“No. We did not receive investigative records, only missing persons files. If you are trying to insinuate some conflict between police investigations and the search for missing persons, then that is your problem. And if you ask me that is pure hair splitting. We do our job just like the police do theirs. That has always been recognized around here. Other than you nobody seems to have a problem with our work.”

“Undoubtedly you got the information from the Delta police. But the fact that I now receive a file enhanced by your findings not from the police but from the forensic lab doesn’t just disturb me, it makes me very suspicious. The best results are achieved when responsibilities are clearly defined. Here everything seems to be much too interwoven.”

“Are you seriously implying that we are engaging in some sort of shady wheeling and dealing?” Myers cuts in.

“I am not talking about anything shady,” Conrad utters defensively, “I am merely talking about separation of responsibilities. But let’s skip that for the moment. I do have a technical question, though: What date of death did you come up with based on these body parts?”

“Unfortunately we cannot make a determination with any certainty since forensic science is not yet advanced enough in the case of waterlogged bodies,” Spitz regrets.

“Does that mean that you have no idea what happens to bodies out there in the ocean?” laments Conrad.

“Sorry, but that is mostly terra incognita,” Myers adds.

“Well, gentlemen, I thank you for the work performed. All the same, I still have a case to solve. Therefore I would be extremely grateful if you could find me an expert on the subject of waterlogged bodies,” Kevin asks.

“My colleague, Sarah Penn, is a renowned professor at Burnaby University. She is working on new methods in this field and may be able to help you,” Dr. Spitz recommends.

“Great. Thank you for the information. I will go through the file and contact Professor Penn.

Anne Rondeau manages to get Sarah Penn to agree to a visit to Vancouver Police Headquarters just before Christmas. Right now she is waiting in Conrad’s office, a fresh cup of coffee in front of her when the expert from Ottawa bursts in through the door. He seems a bit awkward greeting the scientist effusively while trying to reach the chair behind his desk. Conrad seems more than nervous. Upon closer observation it becomes clear it is not because he is unprepared for her visit, but more due to the attractiveness of his thirty something guest.

“We are in need of your assistance”, the profiler begins, obviously satisfied to have gained a handle on a difficult situation instantly. “It’s about the feet. I’ve already heard”, the forensic scientist smiles.

“Exactly. Particularly about everything we don’t know.”

“And that would be?”

“Well, you may have heard there are difficulties with identification: age, race. Obviously very important is the time frame when the feet were severed from the body, the how and why. That is what we have to determine. Our own forensic specialists have great difficulty answering these questions since we are dealing with waterlogged body parts.”

The professor nods: “That is a problem. We find few clues on or in waterlogged bodies, which could tell us about the time or cause of death. That’s totally different on dry land. In a recently deceased we can determine the time of death fairly accurately by the remaining body temperature. If the person has been dead for a while larvae or flies on the body give us crucial clues. In addition, an analysis of pollen found around the body provides insight. But in water none of those apply.”

“I recently had a conversation with Professor David Hidden, the oceanographer from neighboring Washington State. He hinted at a hot trail involving the Fraser River without committing himself, of course,” Conrad shrugs. “Can’t we determine whether these feet are coming from the ocean or from a fresh water river?”

“In theory yes. If we didn’t have to consider the enormous problem of the Fraser Delta all around Vancouver mixing with salt water during every high tide. Of course, I consulted with my colleague Dr. Spitz in preparation for this meeting. I am aware, therefore, that the tissue of all found feet contained some salt water.”

“So that doesn’t mean anything then?”

“Precisely, the amount of sodium chloride tells us very little. Moreover, a body in the ocean changes its temperature and PH value very rapidly, making it impossible to pinpoint the time of death.”

“What do you think of statements in the press, claiming the feet were not forcibly removed from the bodies?”

“I definitely do not agree with that at all. It is practically impossible to tell from a wound whether it was caused by a killer’s attack or by the body rubbing against rocks.”

“That must be very frustrating for you and your colleagues”, Conrad concedes.

“You can say that again”, Penn agrees, “I can still hear my ex husband, a policeman, when he couldn’t give the bereaved any concrete answers as to cause of death, time of death, location, absolutely nothing at all because their loved one was found in or at the edge of a body of water. That’s when I decided to work at improving investigative methods.”

“Yes, I’ve heard you submerge pigs in water and then document their decomposition. A strange way to spend your working hours, don’t you agree?”

“Yes indeed, I’ve been doing this since 2000 and institutions from around the world are involved as well. Only yesterday I received a nice compliment from the director of the Center for Forensics at the University of Frankfurt, Germany. He said that our work here is extremely valuable. At any rate, we now know when and how fast marine life such as shrimp attack dead bodies.”

“Congratulations! Do you think you can help me as well with my problem of the lost feet?” Conrad now asks the professor directly.

“Probably not at the present moment,” admits the attractive scientist, “The complicating factor is that these feet were totally enclosed in gym shoes and therefore inaccessible for most marine life. But we should stay in touch and keep the lines of communication open.”

“So I may phone you and bother you with my questions any time?”

“Of course,” smiles Sarah Penn.

Through the window in the office door Anne Rondeau observes that Conrad and the professor have gotten up and are obviously joking with each other. Or is the usually grumpy profiler actually flirting with the blond lady?

By now their working relationship has improved. Rondeau gathered additional information and added it to the file on the one identified missing person. Conrad made a lot of phone calls, moved into a service apartment and visited all the locations where feet were found by boat. But even during his absence he always checked in with Anne in order to discuss the latest with her.

5.

“Well, how was it, Sir?” Anne Rondeau greets the profiler.

“Cold, miserably cold. It’s not a good idea to take a boat tour of Georgia Strait this time of year,” Conrad answers while hanging up his coat. “But in summer it must be spectacular. This wild, fascinating piece of nature – really fantastic.”

“More beautiful than Ottawa. Right?”

“Different, unspoiled, remote. No, you are right, more beautiful as well.”

“Were you able to gain any new insights?”

“The locations where the feet were found are not where the deeds were committed,” the inspector observes as he sits down behind his desk. “These islands tend to be in the middle of the current and, in a manner of speaking, act like a colander. What really scares me is to think how many shoes may have simply floated by the islands. That really weighs on me.”

“Would you like some coffee, Sir?”

“Yes, please.”

Rondeau goes into her office and returns with an insulated silver coffee pot and two cups. She unscrews the top and fills both of them with the hot liquid. Conrad thanks her.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas, Sir?” the policewoman ventures.

“I’m going to fly back to Ottawa to visit my mother and stay with her for the holidays. She’s always so happy when I spend Christmas with her.”

“And New Year’s Eve?”

“I’ll be back here.”

“Any plans?”

“No, and you?”

“I get together with a few colleagues and we celebrate at the Sylvia Hotel. That’s an old hangout in the West End. It’s a bit long in the tooth, nothing fancy, but very nice. If you like, why don’t you join us?” Rondeau asks with a seductive smile.

“Oh, thanks very much for the invitation,” Conrad feels like he’s been ambushed. “You caught me by surprise. So far I have no plans. May not be a bad idea. I’ll think it over and let you know. Okay?”

“Fine, that would be great.”

Vancouver in winter. A cold drizzle and 40ºF. Conrad visited his mother and also checked in at RCMP Headquarters in Ottawa and made his report. Christmas is over. Now he is strolling from his small service apartment near the Dunbar Library to the bus stop. Evening is creeping across the mountains. It is the last day of the year – New Year’s Eve. Almost everywhere else around the globe the New Year has already been greeted with noisemakers and fireworks. That is not permitted here, everything is quiet.

Vancouver has really grown on him. This mix of world-class city nestled in the mountains and also right by the ocean, ski slopes with theater listings and direct access to the Pacific. People settle here from all corners of the world and seem very friendly. One could get used to life in this hilly metropolis of British Columbia, framed by a breathtaking panorama: the mountain ranges on Vancouver Island to the west, the snow covered Coast Mountains to the north and during fair weather the awe inspiring summit of 10,781 ft. Mount Baker Volcano to the southeast on the US side of the border. Add to that the gleaming skyscrapers of downtown, the docks and bridges, the youthfulness of a vibrant university town, one of the most varied gastronomic offerings and the vast forests. Truly amazing! If only it weren’t for this constant rain …

The sparsely occupied bus rumbles down MacDonald Street, Cornwall Avenue, then Burrard Street and across the imposing bridge by the same name with its two mighty gates embellished by window openings and figures carved in stone. During the ride various pictures from his new assignment flash in front of his mind’s eye: the feet, the water, the islands, the city, police headquarters, Rondeau, Ball, Spitz, Myers, Hidden, Penn. And when he looks out the window at this dark rain-soaked desolate landscape it is as if the phantom of a grotesque face is staring back at him from somewhere. It’s way in the distance and as yet invisible to him. But there is something out there that is awaiting him and he has to find it.

Conrad gets off at the Aquatic Center and opens his black umbrella. He is a little early. It can’t be a bad idea to stretch one’s legs a bit and get some fresh air before attending a New Year’s Eve party. He tramps up Beach Avenue heading northwest. To his right are high-rise apartment buildings, to his left trees, lawn and beach. On the opposite shore a small pier and yacht harbor come into view. Everything seemed a lot larger on the map. But this must be correct, thinks the fellow from Ottawa. Stay close to the water. Rondeau had urged him on the phone that under no circumstances should he forget to bring his swim trunks. Does the hotel have a swimming pool? Do the colleagues intend to greet the New Year in the pool? Crazy! Conrad shakes his head and smiles. They are full of ideas, he thinks. In any case, he prepares himself for some surprises.

Below at the water’s edge a young couple sits on some logs looking across at the big ships tied up at the docks or beginning their journey into the Pacific. One of the trees still has twinkling Christmas lights on it. The policeman strolling by notices a sculpture made out of stones, but its meaning escapes him. On its top sits a bird, a pigeon or a seagull. He can’t quite make it out. The mountain ranges descending towards the ocean are barely visible anymore against the evening sky. To his right Conrad sees a sign reading “Beach Towers”. The light at the pedestrian crossing features an acoustical signal mimicking a cuckoo. Now as the bay opens up, there is a relatively wide sandy beach. This must already be English Bay. Definitely on the right track, Conrad notices with pleasure. He is looking forward to the evening’s get-together. After a few minutes there beyond a landscaped traffic divider on his right is the Sylvia Hotel. It looks indeed like a fossil of a structure he muses.

The entrance is not on the front, but on the side of the building. The huge door is decorated with inserts of colored leaded glass depicting knights in armor and above that a decorative frieze. Grey and white marble tiles are lining the entrance. Inside various coats of arms carved in wood are displayed along the walls giving the place a medieval ambience. The party in the lobby is in full swing. The coffered ceiling, framed with wood beams, features chandeliers that look like originals and are probably as old as the building itself. Today they are decorated with gaudy paper garlands for tonight’s celebrations, totally incongruous with the warm, understated elegance of the house. The smell of polished wood hangs in the air. A DJ behind the reception desk puts “YMCA” by the “Village People” on the turntable and the first guests are rushing the dance floor. Conrad squeezes by them and heads for a passage. On his right he passes the men’s, then the ladies’ bathrooms. On the left wall are two telephones. The passageway opens into a larger room with tables and chairs. An impressive wall of windows faces the street. There are lots of people everywhere who look at Conrad as he enters, but whom he has never seen before. On the left is another room, which is sub-divided. To the right it leads to an outside terrace and to the left three steps lead up to more seating arrangements. There – surrounded by the colorful goings-on – the new arrival stops and looks around. About 50 happy partygoers are filling these two adjoining rooms talking animatedly while the music is playing. At one table a lady waves and gets up. Could that be Rondeau? Indeed it is.

“You look so different”, the new arrival manages to stammer.

“So? Are you disappointed? Do I look better in uniform?” Rondeau asks him a bit annoyed.

She seems slightly tipsy. At any rate Conrad is totally flabbergasted. Her medium long brunette hair is open and frames her delicate features. The slightest touch of make-up, wine-red lipstick and a dark green satin dress complete the look.

“No, no”, Conrad hastens to tell her, “You look stunning.”

Then he is lost for words. The other colleagues have also gotten up to greet the man from Ottawa. One of them is Eisenhut. Conrad knows the other three only slightly from the office. While “I said, young man, what do you want to be?” is blasting from the loudspeakers the new arrival cuts a rather awkward figure. He is still wearing his dripping raincoat, holding the closed umbrella in his right hand and a plastic bag in his left. Rondeau points to it: “Ah, your swim trunks!”

She grabs the left sleeve of the embarrassed profiler and drags him over to the coat racks.

“It’s fun to stay at the YMCA”, the whole room sings along “YMCA”. From the coat racks it’s over to the bar. Rondeau orders a cosmopolitan, Conrad a beer.

“I’m very glad you decided to come after all, Sir”, his charming colleague whispers, “Cheers!”

“Cheers! Thanks for the invitation.”

“New Year’s Eve can be very depressing when you are alone, don’t you agree?”

“You could be right about that.”

“Should we not drop the formality? We’ve been working together for a while now. My name is Anne”, Rondeau suggests and raises her glass.

“Kevin”, he answers a bit sheepishly and they clink glasses.

“Shall we dance?”

“Sure.”

The room is filling up more and more. It turns into a merry evening with cool cocktails, hot dances and somewhat boring conversations with colleagues, but with lots of fun too. Just before midnight everyone storms outside holding a paper cup with coffee. Consuming alcohol outdoors is against the law in Vancouver just as much as fireworks to ring in the New Year. After the collective countdown on the beach they all raise their coffee cups and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”

Here and there a few rockets are exploding into the nocturnal sky after all.

Anne looks at Kevin expectantly, wide-eyed. He is beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, then declares somewhat sheepishly that it is time for him to call a taxi. As he begins to thank her for the nice evening she cuts him off abruptly saying:

“Not a chance! We have to go swimming yet.”

“Swimming? But I didn’t see a swimming pool.”

“Pool? We don’t need one. We have that”, and with her right arm Anne points through two trees at the edge of the road to the beach and the open water beyond.

“You can’t mean you want to go swimming in the ocean right now in this cold? “, Kevin asks incredulously.

“Not now, but tomorrow afternoon”, Anne corrects him, “Then you’ll understand. It’s a tradition around here. Come, let’s go back into the hotel. I’ll explain everything to you.”

On New Year’s Day roughly an hour after the middle of the day: a cold drizzle. Occasionally the sun peeks through. Conrad, Rondeau and about a dozen colleagues from the police department have spent the night at the Sylvia Hotel and enjoyed an ample breakfast. Outside the seawall and beach at English Bay are crawling with people, all in a carnival mood.

The previous night Anne had explained to Kevin that the Sylvia Hotel, built in 1912, had been the traditional organizational headquarters for the annual “Polar Bear” swim which was started in 1920. The hotel lost that distinction at some point due to the increasing number of participants. But the police department still reserves a good number rooms out of a total of about 120 for New Year’s Eve. And Conrad also learned this: what started with a handful of swimmers 89 years ago grew into a big event over the years, even earning a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records. By the year 2000 the number of fearless souls who jumped into the cold water to cover the 100 yards in the shortest possible time had grown to 2128.

Now the “Police Polar Bear Support Team” is leaving the Sylvia Hotel and walks across the seawall. Except for Anne and Kevin they are all wearing their blue uniforms plus, in some cases, their yellow jackets with the reflective stripes. Color is king. There are all kinds of fantastic costumes: girls sporting the sailor look, pirates with skull-and-cross-bone flags draped across their shoulders, all kinds of clowns, penguins, ice hockey fans, sombreros, ladies in corsets and garters.

Registration started at 12:30 p.m. An announcer provides general information and updates about the number of participants over the loudspeakers. The air is about 39ºF and the water 43º. The surrounding mountains are hung with clouds and there is snow on the ground, some of it even on the lawns around English Bay. Nevertheless, the carnival atmosphere prevails. Local radio station “99.3 the FOX” is represented and provides hot rhythms. There are numerous boats in the water. This job carries a lot of responsibility for the rescue teams.

“Are we really going to go through with it?” Anne asks Kevin who looks rather skeptical.

“I guess.”

They register with the swim club and proceed to the changing cabins at the beach. It’s 2:30 p.m. – the point of no return. All 1588 participants gather behind the yellow tape and watch the starter’s red flag come down. With an earsplitting yell everyone charges across the sand and into the water. After a few yards Conrad realizes just how cold that water really is. He has lost sight of Anne in the crowd. Nothing doing. With death defying determination the man from Ottawa swims toward the Pacific. In no time dozens of other swimmers have passed him by. After 100 yards the red buoys are reached. Turn around quickly! During the last few strokes Conrad is numb all over. Dazed, he staggers onto dry land. His colleagues are joking around, but quickly hand him a towel and drape a blanket around his shoulders. That’s when he catches sight of Anne in her red bikini. She beams, smiling from ear to ear, obviously very proud of herself.

“Well, how was it?”

“Great!” Kevin manages through blue lips.

“Trev Olsen won again.”

“No idea who he is. I’m heading home now.”

6.

Wild rumors are circulating. On January 15, 2009, one Vancouver newspaper features the headline “Police Are Not Disclosing Everything” on the local page. This article speculates, or rather claims indirectly, that the status of the investigation into the case of the “lost feet” differs from what the public has been told, insinuating that the authorities are holding something back. The article ends with the question: “Are the identities of murderer or victims already known?”

Conrad realizes immediately that some windbag from their own ranks couldn’t keep his big mouth shut and blabbed. Larry Ball calls the profiler and Rondeau into his office.

“What are we going to do now?”

“We are going to go on the offensive”, Conrad answers decisively, and “We are going to contradict the press as to the question of murder. At this point nobody can say whether a murder or several may have been committed. Next we’ll ask the public to help with the investigation. We’ll give a photo of the one identified man to the press without mentioning his name. We’ll tell them that in the course of the investigation this man popped up and the police are looking for him as a witness or person of interest. Therefore the question now is: Who knows this man?”

“Rondeau, what do you think?” the Deputy Commissioner turns to the press officer.

“That sounds like a good approach. Maybe we’ll gain actionable information which will eventually lead to the source of this evil.”

“What if it gets out that we have already identified the man and know that he is dead?” Ball argues.

“If we publicize those details at this point in time, we’ll lose any chance of Rondeau’s approach being successful. When all is said and done the press will have to have understanding for that”, Kevin Conrad counters.

“Good. Then we’ll go ahead with that plan. Shall we let them know that we have engaged a profiler?”

“No, Sir. I would like to continue working under the radar. My identity should not be made public.”

“Agreed.”

Thursday afternoon Anne steps in front of the press. The picture of the identified man appears on TV newscasts that evening and the following morning in the papers. But if anyone had thought police phones would ring off the hook as a result, he was sadly mistaken. It is not until the middle of the following week that Charles White calls in. He had registered his brother Barney as a missing person the summer of 2007.

“Of course he wants to know whether we have found his brother,” Rondeau reports dejectedly.

“That should not cause us any headaches”, Conrad interjects, “We’ll tell him something about routine investigations. I’ll take care of it. Where does this guy live?”

“On Powell Street, not far from our Police Museum actually. By the way, you should really check that out some day. Very interesting. How drugs entered the city, weapons, counterfeit money, prostitution, gambling - everything is documented. Really impressive exhibits.”

“Okay. Please write down the address for me and let him know I’m coming! I will visit this White personally.”

Charles White, in his mid thirties, dressed in an undershirt and jeans, opens the door to his apartment and asks the profiler to enter after the latter has shown him his badge.

“Any news about Barney?” he asks his guest as he leads him into the living room and, with a wave of his hand, invites him to sit down on the sofa. He himself drops down into an overstuffed chair that must date back to the 70s.

“No, not really. We are reviewing old missing person’s cases. I have just a few questions, purely routine,” Conrad fibs, “What kind of a person was your brother?”

“Why ‘was’? Is he dead?”

“So far we have not found his body. He was mentally challenged, correct? If someone with that kind of a handicap is not heard from for a year and a half, we have to assume the worst,” the investigator tries to extricate himself from an awkward situation, “I’ll rephrase my question. How would you describe your brother?”

“Well, he was never mentally challenged exactly. He gets a little confused sometimes. Then he forgets everything and talks nonsense. He spent too much time on Hastings, you know.”

“Sorry about that, but I don’t understand. I’ve only recently been transferred to Vancouver.”

“I can’t believe it. Here they send me this total novice. Where are you from?” White, getting hot under the collar, lights a cigarette.

“Ottawa.”

“Oh crap! And you think you can bring law and order to BC? I was wondering why you weren’t wearing a uniform.”

“Up to now the people of British Columbia have struck me as very cooperative and friendly. May I repeat my question?”

“Never mind. So Barney used to hang out with the people on East Hastings. You should really go around that block. It’s not far from here. Then you’ll understand what I’m talking about.”

“Thanks for the tip. You can show me how to get there. Then I’ll be able to draw my own conclusions. But first another question about Barney. What did he live off of?”

“Once a week he would come here. Always on Sundays. I could rely on that. The rest of the week he would be where they all spend their time, on the street, at the soup kitchen, the social service agency, the Franciscan nuns, the clothing center and so on.”

“Didn’t he have an apartment?”

“He lost it. Didn’t have money to pay the rent, you know? I offered him to come live with me, but he didn’t want that.”

“What are you living off of?”

“Now, just a minute. I thought we were talking about Barney.”

“Oh of course we are, never mind,” Conrad tries to calm him down, “It interests me because you wanted to have your brother come live with you.”

“I work in the harbor. Unloading and odd jobs.”

“That’s no longer what it used to be years ago, right?”
“It’s been dramatically reduced. But what‘s a fellow to do?”

White shrugs his shoulders.

“Hopefully it’ll get better. Are there any other family members or people I could talk to?”

“No. Our parents are deceased. Traffic accident. That really unsettled Barney. The two of us are the only children. Barney is my baby brother. I don’t want to lose him too,” Charles White sighs and extinguishes his cigarette. “I just remembered. There is someone you may want to talk to, a social worker at the social service office on Hastings. Jimmy is his name, just Jimmy. That’s all I know.”

As instructed, Conrad heads east on Powell, then turns right. Dunley Avenue goes uphill. On his left he notices the green and white building of the Franciscan nuns. He crosses Cordova at the pedestrian crosswalk, which again features a cuckoo signal. At the top he reaches East Hastings Street. On his left is a hotel, on his right a bus stop.

Despite the cold winter temperatures the profiler can’t help but notice the many odd figures populating the sidewalks, unwashed, uncombed, dressed in ripped clothing. Conrad is looking at empty faces, no expression, sometimes crazed or dead eyes. There are whites, dark-skinned, a few Natives but almost no Asians, even though he is at the edge of China Town.

When the traffic light changes to green Conrad crosses the broad street. After a few paces toward downtown he reaches the social service agency described to him. He climbs the few steps to the entrance. Inside people seeking assistance are crowded together, trying to get warm. The air is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“Can someone please tell me where I can find Jimmy?” the policeman asks in a loud voice.

Several fingers point to a door. Conrad knocks and enters. A man in his mid twenties, sitting on his desk is talking to a woman who looks like someone down on her luck and who is obviously drunk. When the man looks up the profiler introduces himself and asks: “Are you Jimmy?”

“That’s me. Suzanne, please wait outside. I will take care of you in a minute”, the social worker tells her and leads her to the door. “What can I do for you?”

“You seem to have a lot of work ahead of you prior to the Olympics next year,” his guest suggests.

Jimmy looks annoyed. He seems to reflect on how to answer but can’t quite find the right words.

“I mean, it’s about image, isn’t it? With the Winter Games just around the corner Vancouver will want to present its best side to the world”, Conrad tries to explain.

“And so the homeless, the freaks, junkies and zombies don’t fit that image? Is that what you are trying to say?”

“I really can’t judge that since I’m probably too far on the other side of this issue, the police side. Please don’t get the wrong impression. I’m not criticizing your work in any way. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that about the Olympics. The reason for my visit is actually completely different. Do you know …”.

“No, no. I understand you only too well. That’s nothing new. City Hall and the Tourist Office play the same tune. The streets have to be cleaned up. What are the international press and the many guests from all corners of the globe going to say when they see this misery in one of the richest countries in the world, a member of the Commonwealth, a G8 and NATO member? That’s impossible”, Jimmy vents his anger.

“Please, I’m very sorry to even have mentioned it. I just wanted to ask you about Barney White …”

“Barney White is a perfect example for everything that can go wrong. Let me tell you, I’ll be happy to discuss Barney White. It’s always the same story. But first of all we should talk about community history, how what we encounter today all got started. You know? Do you have any idea what started it all?”

“No, I have only recently been assigned to this position,” Conrad replies in a subdued tone of voice.

“Where are you from?”

“Ottawa.”

“Well, Ottawa. But our problems are no secret even in our capital. Vancouver Downtown Eastside has gained a certain reputation in the whole country and not just as the poorest zip code in all of Canada. Maybe you don’t know that. But anyone who deals with social issues and every kind of addiction is well aware.”

Without asking, Conrad sits down on the chair behind the desk and decides to listen to the social worker. Jimmy walks back and forth in his office, gesticulating and explains: “Here are the origins of Vancouver. The success of the sawmills down there in Gas Town at the harbor made it possible to establish a business zone along Hastings Street. After the stores came banks, theaters and headquarters of companies, hotels and warehouses. This is where the public library and city hall were located. Hastings Street was known as the traffic hub of the city and not just because the streetcar terminal was here. In 1958 streetcars were eliminated. That also meant the end of the daily torrent of humanity coming through the area. Not long after that the public library moved to the corner of Burrard and Robson, today’s city center. That was the death knell for the Eastside. Everything that had made its home here for all those years followed the example of the library. As a result we had many vacancies in this area, which were then