Glen Hoggarth

GLEN HOGGARTH

  By P. E. Rempel

  Copyright 2013 Paul Edward Rempel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  They had parked the cruiser directly in front of the seven-foot metal gate which led onto the Hoggarth property. Sergeant Murphy and two RCMP officers were waiting for a second car to arrive with a lock cutter and reinforcements. Murphy sat at the wheel, Constable Lin beside him up front, while Turnbull had the back seat to himself. The screen of Murphy’s laptop dimly lit up the cab. He was reading a report emailed to him earlier by the detectives handling what had been a missing persons case but was now homicide.

  Russell Jason Clooney had been missing for roughly eighteen days. It was his father who originally alerted the police, after losing phone contact with his son, then discovering Russell hadn't returned to his apartment either. By then considerable time had passed.

  Initially, the investigation centered around a phone call Russell’s friend Glen Hoggarth had made to Mr. Clooney one morning, enquiring about his Russell’s whereabouts. The call had seemed significant in light of the fact that when the father called Glen back later, to ask if Russell had been in touch, nobody answered. In fact, nobody answered more than a dozen times.

  So now Glen Hoggarth was also missing.

  Two friends vanishing one after the other. Strange? Maybe. Vancouver City Police visited Glen's house several times, but nobody was ever home. The neighbors were subsequently canvassed and one of them provided an intriguing clue. On the same morning that Glen had phoned Russell's father, asking where Russell was, a blonde woman showed up at Glen's front door, knocking loudly for what seemed like five or ten minutes, then entering. The two events occurred close together and appeared somehow linked.

  Police checked a number Glen had called the morning after the blonde woman’s visit, that of Doris Anne Kepplar—no criminal record, not even a motor vehicle infraction. The photograph on her province I.D. matched the description of the woman who had appeared on Glen's doorstep. Interestingly, Russell Clooney had made a series of calls to the same number, the last time being several days prior, so officers then paid Doris a visit.

  Nobody answered the door but once again a neighbor provided some useful information. About a week before, a man in his forties had parked opposite Doris’s house just after dawn one morning. He had waited in his car until Doris arrived on foot—but from where the neighbor said she couldn’t begin to imagine. Doris appeared disheveled and was wearing a bathrobe and pajamas, as if she had been out sleepwalking in the streets.

  But the man in the car was identified as Glen Hoggarth.

  Everyone on Doris's block knew who Doris Kepplar was. Although none had ever spoken to her, they knew Doris because of her celebrity and, out of sympathy for the tremendous ordeal she had endured, tried to keep an eye on her. Soon the police realized who they were dealing with, too: Doris’s abduction as a little girl, her long captivity and subsequent rescue had made national headlines six years before. For one whole summer her story had trumped news about a political scandal, a Stanley Cup playoff series, and a controversial referendum.

  In any case, it was believed Doris might be involved in Russell Clooney and Glen Hoggarth’s disappearance. As such, a judge issued a warrant to search her house and property. Soon Russell’s body was uncovered in a deep freeze—his skull brutally crushed with a blunt object. Later, the weapon itself was dug out of a compost heap. A rolling-pin smeared on one end with blood and brain matter.

  The case became a homicide investigation. Detectives now took over. Doris Kepplar was their primary suspect and Glen Hoggarth either another victim or an accomplice. In an effort to track Glen down, the detectives called long-distance to his mother in Regina. Nobody answered any of the calls, however, prompting Regina RCMP to dispatch officers to her home, but no one was there—so now there were three empty houses and three missing people, in addition to one murder victim. According to an older brother, Martha Hoggarth was supposed to be out on the coast visiting Glen, her one and only child.

  Flight records indicated that Martha Hoggarth had arrived in Vancouver a day and a half after Glen’s phone call to Doris Kepplar. But she didn't check into her hotel downtown. The detectives judged it unlikely that the elderly mother had had a hand in a murder, so for the time being they treated her as a victim. Standard procedure dictated an examination of her bank records, and the detectives were startled to learn about the eight million dollars in four different accounts. That was a lot of motive, they observed: the dynamics of the case were starting to tell a familiar story. But, and this was also surprising, not a penny of Martha’s money had been touched.

  In concluding the report, the chief detective on the case proposed a working theory about what had happened. It was a story resonating with avarice and lust, those timeless drivers. Doris’s original romantic interest, Russell Clooney, had been murdered to make way for Glen Hoggarth, who was wealthy through his mother and indirectly owned several valuable properties in the Fraser Valley. Glen and Doris subsequently murdered Martha in an attempt to access the money right away, only for some unknown reason they hadn’t got around to making off with any of it yet. Of course, now they never would.

  From the back of the patrol car, Constable Turnbull said, “I remember the news about Doris Kepplar. It was the only news on the TV and radio for weeks on end but then the media just dropped her. The story kind of came and went.”

  Lin replied, “I remember hearing she didn’t want to do a major interview or write a book about her experience, which explains the way her story fizzled out. That’s what happens if you're not going to help the corporations make some money.”

  “Big mistake not doing a book deal.”

  “You earn as much doing TV.”

  To facilitate conversation, Constable Lin shifted sideways to allow his fellow officer to lean forward. “So she was a kind of sex slave?” Lin asked, addressing Turnbull as much as the sergeant sitting beside him. “Is that what happened?”

  “Use your imagination,” Turnbull replied.

  “No, you’re getting your victims mixed up,” Sergeant Murphy said. “If you recall, Doris Kepplar was found at the same time as two other women, one here and one across the border. So there was quite a lot of overlapping coverage for a while. Unlike those other two, though, Doris wasn’t held captive primarily for that kind of abuse.”

  “So what was it?” Turnbull asked.

  “Some cult business. Quite harrowing.”

  “Really? That's awful.”

  “I’ve come to know quite a bit about Doris,” Murphy went on. “My mother used to cut out every newspaper article she could find on her and stick them the clippings on the fridge door. For years I saw Doris Kepplar’s face in the kitchen whenever I went to visit.”

  Lin said, “She was the one found—where again?”

  “On the Island. Near Port Hardy.”

  “All the way up there. The middle of nowhere.”

  “Hours from anywhere, although that didn’t make any difference to her. She lived all that time inside a compound with a fence she couldn’t see over. As a result, she didn’t know where she was. Could've been in a suburban backyard for all she knew.”

  “Really.”

  “And getting back to what you were just talking about, she didn’t do any TV because she didn't want to and she didn’t have to. Doris inherited something from her mother’s side. Both her parents died weeks before she was rescued—that’s what I understand, anyway.”

  All of a sudden Murph
y had a thought. Doesn't an inheritance damage the detectives' theory about motive? If Doris already has money why kill to get at Martha Hoggarth's? He fished for the memo pad in his coat pocket and flipped it open. He jotted the point down to remind himself to tell the detectives. Obviously, Doris might simply want more money. She might feel money protects her from a cruel and unfair world.

  “Well, it shows a lot of anger,” Turnbull said. “What she did to that Clooney guy.”

  “She finally just snapped,” Lin said.

  “Years of pent-up rage. That’s what you get.”

  “Now this Hoggarth fellow, he better watch his step.”

  “He’s dead already. No doubt about it.”

  “What about his money?”

  “The guy didn’t get it when he had the chance.”

  “I don't know. Unless she’s a killer by nature, it’s hard to believe Doris would just keep on murdering people. She probably got rid of all her rage doing what she did to the first guy.”

  “You never know about people.”

  “That argument works both ways.”

  “But there are other angles. She might not have killed purely out of blind anger.”

  “That's right,” Murphy said, “but it's not for us to try to figure out.”

  He saw headlights in the rearview mirror—it was the other patrol car. He turned to his subordinates. “Alright, they’re here. Now let's clear our heads. We have a job to do, which is apprehend Kepplar and the man if they happen to be on the property. So focus.”

  “Got it,” Turnbull said.

  Lin nodded, “Right, Sergeant.”

  They stepped out of the car. Turnbull unlocked and opened the trunk as the second car pulled up behind them. “Shotgun?” he wondered aloud.

  “No indication of firearms,” Lin replied. "I'd say it isn't necessary."

  Each of them grabbed a flashlight. Meanwhile, the two other officers walked up. “Okay, there’s a lot of ground to cover,” Murphy said. “It’s a twenty-acre plot of land. So be ready to do some chasing if we spot them and they take off. First we clear the buildings.”

  The officers nodded. Turnbull murmured, "All right."

  “They’ve known all along we’re coming. So if they’re down there, one way or another they’ll be ready for us. Keep talking down to a minimum.”

  One of the men from the second car cut the lock on the gate, and the group made its way down the steep dirt and gravel driveway. Dime-sized drops of rain water fell from the tree branches and splattered their caps and coats. Their breath trailed behind them in thin veils. In some places the puddles and slippery ground made for tricky walking.

  In minutes Officer Lin had discovered an immolated corpse at the bottom of the swimming pool, which was near a pool house near the foot of the driveway. All five officers drew their handguns and swept the area with their flashlights, so as not to give anyone a chance to creep up unseen. Murphy and Turnbull then aimed their flashlights at the pool floor—the skull, ribs and other bones hadn’t been fully incinerated. The fire hadn’t been hot enough and not lasted long enough, and the skeleton lay in a bed of soot-black clumps.

  “A second body.” Murphy said. Eyeballing the size the corpse, he guessed it to be that of Martha Hoggarth. The lady with all those bags of money.

  “It’s pretty quiet here,” one officer remarked.

  “Maybe they did this and took off,” Lin said.

  “If they have any brains, they’re not gonna hunker down here.”

  The pool house was empty. The officers fanned out over the clearing and moved in on the ranch house, aiming their light on the building's brown wooden siding. In one of the windows, Murphy spotted a blur of skin tone and quick movement. A narrow crack in the curtains was hastily pulled shut and the face vanished.

  A female. Doris Kepplar.

  “Okay, someone's here!” Murphy shouted. He directed two men to cover the back door and cursed inwardly: five officers wasn't enough. A lot of land, including dense woods and underbrush, surrounded the house. It would be easy for the suspects to slip away into the night.

  Murphy raised his pistol—a flash had popped in the same window Doris had just peered out of. A gunshot, two gunshots. But fuck, shooting at who? No bullets whizzing by. Murphy tightened his grip on his automatic and steadied that hand with his other.

  The front door flew open. A figure ran out holding a rifle.

  Murphy and Turnbull fired. Five rounds.

  The man spun and fell.

  Chapter 2

  Five callers eager to view the apartment. A basement suite in a quiet residential area with good connections to the university—both the bus and a more roundabout Skytrain line. All but one call had come from a young couple, making it four student couples desperate to find a place before classes started and thrilled to find something available.

  Glen skipped down the rickety backstairs of the house. He cast a satisfied glance over his own private patch in the world. The neighbors' yards bookended his own; a paved alley marked the northernmost boundary. Earlier on, he had left the basement door ajar to let a breeze in, but the pungent odor of paint still assailed his nostrils as he entered—the fresh coat of ivory white rolled onto the walls and ceiling. Glen neatly set the tenancy form on the kitchen counter.

  There was a gentle rap on the door. A tall young man stood inside the threshold. He was clean-shaven and wore a pinstripe shirt and rather stylish cream tie: presentable to the world. It was as if he had shown up for a job interview, Glen mused.

  “Justin Wheeler,” the young man said.

  “You sure got here early,” Glen replied. “You beat the crowd.”

  “I'm lucky I heard about this place.”

  Both stepped forward to shake hands.

  Justin praised the neighborhood—a bit ethnic and low-key, down-to-earth. He had actually passed through the area the previous year searching for somewhere to rent, before finally deciding on an apartment nearer the campus. What an unpleasant experience that had been.

  “The house was full of old ex-hippies.”

  “Wow. Really?”

  “It was a dingy room with a shared bathroom upstairs. I had to beat everyone to the shower in the morning.”

  Insert an interesting remark into the conversation, Glen told himself.

  “This is a different part of town.”

  Fucking twaddle! You dimwit!

  “I can pay cash,” Justin said. “Got it right here.”

  Glen slid the tenancy form across the shiny enamel counter. Now, honestly, that had been way too easy. Instant tenant, the very first person to come along.

  Yes, and a resounding victory over his mother’s incessant goading. Martha’s needling “Just do it right the first time, will you?” Her nagging “I can see your face screwing up from where I’m sitting.” And the nail in the coffin: “Run it by me before you decide on anyone definite, or is that too much to ask?” The woman loved to poke holes in his morale.

  Glen asked Justin, “Can I help you move? We could pile your stuff in my car.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of troubling you.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble. Then you’d be all set to start fixing up the apartment.”

  “That’s okay, it’s only a couple of boxes.”

  Justin gladly answered Glen’s slew of questions. The new tenant had included some curious information on the application form. How interesting to have lived in Asia for so many years, on the teardrop island of Taiwan. And how fascinating that Justin had learned to speak and read Mandarin Chinese, with its beautiful but impenetrable picture-like script.

  “Chinese might replace English as the international language one day,” Glen said. “Global economics will decide how things go, as far as that's concerned.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “You’ll be ready.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Later, Glen bounded back up the steps. He lunged at the phone.

  “Done! He
’s a cool guy, actually.”

  “Wait a moment,” Martha said. “What's this about?”

  “My new tenant for the basement.”

  “Okay, back up. Tell me everything.”

  Glen dutifully related the event, detail by detail.

  “Don’t rain on my parade,” he said. “Come on, I did okay.”

  “Well, you certainly got off easy the first time around,” Martha replied. “But don’t worry, you’ll do. We’ll keep you.”

  “So how is the weather out where you are?”

  “Nicer than Vancouver, I bet.”

  “I don’t know. We've got sunny skies this morning.”

  “My, things really are going your way today.”

  Glen had to hang up then. Two people were climbing out of a van in the back alley. Through the kitchen window Glen watched them, blond, long-legged, and outdoorsy. They were the postdoc oceanography students who had said they would be arriving from the Interior this morning. The couple smoothed down their fleeces and jeans; whisked their hair with their fingertips. The husband rubbed his sleepy eyes and smiled at his wife.

  But Glen had heeded his mother's advice and not given any of the callers a guarantee. It had to be first come, first serve. That was just the nature of the business and that was just being prudent and fair. Callers often promised to come check out your apartment at such and such a time, then failed to show up. Meanwhile, you might have turned away other prospective tenants.

  Glen saw himself gushing sympathy and offering the couple a conciliatory cup of coffee. A kind gesture after their long drive. No, forget it: that would only come across as weird.

  Up the walk they came, Glen dreading the sight of them.

  Chapter 3

  The Pee Panic at the Party dream had returned. A golden oldie served up by a farce-loving subconscious—Glen knew he was meant to laugh along. In the past, his anxiety had often generated disturbing dreams, even nightmares. But where was the anxiety coming from now?

  “Pee Panic what? No, you never told me,” Russell said.

  “Really? That’s surprising.”

  “Not that I’d necessarily remember.”

  They were seated in Glen’s living room. Glen had paused the DVD twenty minutes into the movie. “The dream must have something to do with my new tenant in the basement.”